The wind chimes swayed overhead as I took another sip from my steaming coffee, knowing Loralee would be there with the pot to refill my cup before it even had a chance to grow cool. I knew I should get up and get it myself before she came out again, but I was reluctant to leave. There was something about the light there, the soft brightness that made it seem as if I were looking at everything through a snow globe where nothing was quite real. I’d even begun leaving my curtains open at night so that I’d awaken to the morning light streaming into my room, something Cal never would have allowed. I wondered whether that was the real reason I did it now.
I thought of Cal, of him sitting in this very spot, thinking of leaving and not coming back, and I wondered again why. There was something otherworldly about the air, about the river, about the way the waiflike Spanish moss dripped from the oak trees at the water’s edge, their placement almost intentionally geared toward a perfect reflection in the water, two sets of arms reaching toward each other to form an oval. In places it seemed these were the openings to secret caves beneath the water, an invitation to dive inside. I wondered, if I weren’t afraid of the water, what it would be like to dive between the wavering arms to find the other end of the cave. It would be reckless and silly, two things my young self had been full of—two things my married self hadn’t allowed me to be.
The front door opened and I braced myself, expecting to see Loralee again, creeping around silently so that I wouldn’t notice her. I turned around to tell her it was okay, that she didn’t need to tiptoe, when I spotted the familiar dark head of my brother peering around the open door.
“Is it okay if I come out here? I promise I won’t bother you.”
I felt as if I’d had that promise made to me more times in the last week than I’d had in a lifetime.
“Of course. And you’re not bothering me.” I wanted to tell him that my distance had nothing to do with him, and how it had been so much easier to dislike the idea of him before I’d even met him, and that now all I could feel were the cold fingers of regret. But I couldn’t. Not because I thought he was too young to understand, but because I was afraid he might.
My brother was ten years old and I’d never seen him before, and I wanted to explain to him that now was just the wrong time. Not that there’d ever been a right time, not while Cal was alive, but not now, when I’d begun to reclaim my life—a life I had no intention of sharing with anyone, especially not a stepmother and little brother I only occasionally thought about, like half-forgotten characters from a book I’d read long ago.
Owen sat down in the rocker next to me, holding a mug identical to mine. “Is that coffee?” I asked.
“No, ma’am. Hot chocolate.” He screwed up his face. “Mama says coffee will stunt my growth, so she’s making me wait until I’m eighteen. I figure if I’m old enough to vote, I should be old enough to drink coffee.”
“That’s for sure,” I agreed, wondering whether Owen was what I’d heard some people call an “old soul.” I glanced at his pressed jeans and clean boat shoes, and another polo shirt—this one striped—with a pressed collar. He was sipping his hot chocolate from a coffee mug—steaming despite the temperature outside—and looking like a miniature man. “Do you own a pair of shorts, Owen?”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I had some but they got too short, so Mama gave them away. She says she keeps meaning to buy me more, but forgets.”
I smiled at him, remembering what Loralee had said about her lack of funds. “I’m sure there are malls near here, and everybody always runs sales around Memorial Day. I’ve been wanting to go to get a few new things myself. Maybe you’d like to come with me?”
He stopped mid-sip and his eyes widened. “Yes, ma’am. That would be nice. I’d like a pair of skater shorts.”
I didn’t know what those were, but I had a feeling they weren’t the kind of shorts worn with a pleated crease and pulled tight with a belt. “And you don’t have to call me ma’am. My name’s Merritt.”
Owen stared into his mug for a moment. “Okay. And you can call me Rocky.”
I hid my grin. “I’ll try to remember. It’s just that I think you look more like an Owen than a Rocky.”
He frowned. “I know.”
“It’s a good thing. Owen is a fine, strong name. It’s a smart name for a smart boy. Why try to hide that behind a name like Rocky? There’s about one hundred IQ points between those two names.”
He was still frowning, making me realize that I was no good talking with children. I was way out of my league. I leaned back in my chair with a sigh, remembering watching the movie Rocky on TV with my father. I didn’t remember much about it except for Sylvester Stallone’s almost unintelligible dialogue. “Yo, Adrian,” I muttered under my breath.
Owen snorted, then choked and coughed on his hot chocolate before turning to me with a wide grin. “That was funny.”