“So Connor did okay,” I say when my son takes a breath, and Sam, his mouth full of lasagna, nods, chews, and swallows.
“Connor’s a natural,” he says. “Great work today, pal.” He offers a hand, and Connor high-fives it. “Next time, we tackle the other side. Barring wind or rain, we should be done in a few more days.”
Connor’s face falls a little at that. “But—what about the wood? Mom? The wood on the side of the house where it’s rotted?”
“He’s right,” I say. “We’ve got some rot. Probably need to replace trim that’s gone bad, too.”
“Okay. Three days.” Sam forks up another healthy mouthful of lasagna, dangling strings of cheese. “Might be a whole week if you want to spring for that deck on the back.”
“Yes! Mom, please? Can we do the deck?” Connor’s look is so earnest that it hits me like a tide, and washes away any last, lingering disquiet I have. I’ll still trade Javi for the van, but if I was looking for a reason to stay, it’s here. Here in my son’s eyes. I’ve been worrying about his introspection, his solitary nature, his silent anger. For the first time I’m seeing him open up, and it would be cruel and wrong to cut that off purely for a what if.
“A deck would be nice,” I say, and Connor raises both arms in a victory pose. “Sam? Would you mind doing the work late, after Connor gets off school?”
Sam shrugs. “I don’t mind, but it’ll go slower. Might take a month if we only put in half days.”
“That’s okay,” Connor rushes to say. “I only have another week of school. Then we can work all day!”
Sam Cade lifts his eyebrows and sends me an amused look, and I raise my own and take a bite of my food. “Sure,” Sam says. “If your mom says it’s okay. But only when she’s here.”
Sam’s not a stupid man. He knows how touchy I am, how guarded. And he knows a single dude barging into a family is likely to be suspect of many unpleasant things. I can read it in his face that he’s well aware, and has no trouble playing by whatever rules I set up.
I have to admit: it’s to his credit.
Dinner’s a complete success, and while the kids are happily clearing up the mess, Sam and I take our beers out to the porch. The heat of the day is finally giving way to a cooling breeze coming off the lake, but the humidity’s something I might never quite get used to. The beer delivers a crisp, autumnal note, even though we’re not even to deep summer yet. A few boats are skimming the lake as the orange sunset fades out—a four-person sculling craft, a fancy cabin cruiser, and two rowboats. Everyone’s heading for shore.
Sam says, “You do a background check on me?”
It’s a surprise, and I pause, beer bottle halfway to my lips, and shoot him a look. “Why would you say that?”
“Because you seem like a woman who does background checks.”
I laugh, because it’s true. “Yes.”
“How’s my credit rating?”
“Pretty solid.”
“That’s good. I really ought to check that more often.”
“You’re not angry?”
He takes a pull on his drink. He isn’t looking at me at all. His attention seems completely on the boats out in the water. “No,” he finally says. “A little disappointed, maybe. I mean, I think of myself as a really trustworthy sort of guy.”
“Let’s just say I’ve trusted the wrong people before.” I can’t help but think of the difference between how Sam Cade just reacted, and how I imagine Melvin would have reacted if he’d been sitting here, having just met me. Mel would be angry. Offended. He’d blame me for not automatically trusting him. Oh, he’d have covered it up, but I’d have felt the stiffness in his manner.
There isn’t any in Sam. He’s just saying what he means. “Reasonable,” he says. “I’m an employee. You have a right to check up on me, especially since I’m going to be around your kids and in your house. Probably the smartest thing you could do, to be honest.”
“Did you check up on me?” I ask.
That surprises him. He sits back a little and glances my way. Shrugs. “I asked around,” he says. “I mean, in the does-she-pay-her-bills kind of way. If you mean did I Google you, no. When women do that to men, I assume it’s a precaution. When men do it to women, it looks . . .”
“Stalkery,” I finish for him. “Yes. So what was the word about town about me, then?”
“Like I said: standoffish,” he says with a laugh. “Same as me, actually.”
I offer my beer bottle, and we clink glass. For a moment we just drink. The scullers reach the far dock. The rowboats have already made port. The fancy cabin cruiser is the last one out on the water, and across the still air I can hear laughter. The lights come on in the boat and reveal four people. A snippet of faint music drifts to me. Three of them are dancing as the pilot heads the cruiser in to a private dock on the other side of the lake. Lifestyles of the rich and bored.
“Think they’re drinking champagne?” Sam asks me, straight-faced.
“Dom Pérignon. With caviar.”
“Savages. I like mine with smoked-salmon toast. But only on days ending with a y.”
“Mustn’t overindulge,” I agree, in my best posh New England accent. I have a pretty good one, from Mother. “So common to be intoxicated on good champagne.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know, because I’ve never had the good stuff. I think I had a glass of cheap shit at a wedding once.” He holds up his beer. “This is my version.”
“Hear, hear.”
“Your son’s pretty great, you know.”
“I know.” I smile into the growing evening, not quite at him. “I know.”
We finish our beer, and I collect the empties. I pay Sam his day’s wages and watch as he walks the short distance up the hill to his cabin. I watch the lights come on inside his front room, glowing red through the curtains.
I go back inside to put the glass in the recycling, and I find the kitchen quiet and clean. The kids are off to their neutral corners, as they so often are.
It’s a nice, quiet evening, and all I can think of, as I lock up and set the alarms, is that it can’t possibly last.
But it does. It surprises me more than anything that the next day—Saturday—goes smoothly. Fewer alerts on Sicko Patrol. No visits from the police. I get more work. Sunday, too. Monday the kids are back in school, and at promptly 4:00 p.m., Connor and Sam Cade are up on the roof, hammering away. Lanny gripes that it’s driving her crazy, but turning up her headphones solves that minor issue.
A good day slips into another good day, then a week. School lets out, much to the delight of my kids, and Cade becomes a fixture, joining us for breakfast, then taking Connor up to finish the roof. Once that project is complete, they start on replacing the rotten wood trim around the windows and doors. I retire to the office for work and Sicko Patrol, and it feels . . . almost comfortable, having someone around I can trust, at least a little.
By Sunday, there’s a new coat of paint on the exterior of the house, and a lot for me to clean up after, but I’m not displeased. Far from it. I’m breathless, paint-spattered, and happier than I’ve been in a while, because Lanny, Connor, and Cade are just as dirty and tired, and we’ve accomplished something real together. It feels good.