A New Shade of Summer Page 8

  He smirked.

  “Okay, then. I’ll see you when I get home. Gotta run.” I clicked off without a formal goodbye and tucked my phone into the back pocket of my well-loved capris. If not for Clem and the kids, I wouldn’t even own a blasted phone. But when a package showed up at my PO box in New Mexico two years ago—with a note from my brother-in-law that read, Callie, this is so we know you’re not dead. Use it—I had little choice but to concede. With poetry like that, I couldn’t exactly stamp it with Return to Sender.

  The door to the patio slid open, and Davis slipped back into the kitchen.

  “Oh, good. You’re off the phone. Where’s your Parmesan?” Shep asked.

  “Try the side door in the fridge.” Davis shut the glass slider behind him.

  “If you’re referring to this green plastic container of white powdery garbage, we might need to reconsider this dinner arrangement.”

  “That Parmesan is just fine.” Davis placed a stack of napkins into the holder on the table.

  “This coming from the guy who doesn’t think there’s ‘that big a difference between homemade and instant mashed potatoes.’” Shep’s complaint came complete with finger quotes.

  “That was one time.”

  “It was Thanksgiving. Everybody knows you don’t show up to a holiday meal offering the host a bowl of rehydrated food.” Shep gestured toward me. “Tell him, Callie.”

  “Oh no.” I held up my hands. “I’m not getting involved in this. I’m just the dinner guest.”

  “Guest or not, you need to get involved. Please. I need backup here,” Shep pleaded.

  Davis’s silent stare was a challenge.

  Okay, fine. “Well, Shep, while I understand your passion for fluffy homemade potatoes, there are plenty of times I’ve given in to the pull of those three magical words.” I paused for effect and then winked at Brandon. “Just. Add. Water.”

  With that, Shep threw his towel down. “No way! I thought you were a foodie!”

  I plucked an olive from the antipasti tray and popped it into my mouth. “A common misconception, I’m afraid. I may look the part of a bohemian foodie,” I said, performing a quick hip shimmy, the loose fabric of my peasant top swishing. “But I assure you, I’m far too minimalistic to claim such a title. My entire kitchen could probably fit inside your spice cupboard.”

  Shep placed the tray of steaming, cheesy goodness on a trivet in the center of the table and gestured for me to take a seat. “I doubt that.”

  Brandon sat in the chair across from mine. “She’s not lying. I’ve seen her house. It’s small.”

  Surprise crossed Davis’s features as he looked at his son before pulling out the captain’s chair at the end of the table to my right. “You mentioned the size of your house earlier today, but I figured your description was an exaggeration.”

  I crossed my heart with my finger. “Nope. No exaggeration. My entire house is two hundred and twenty-two square feet.”

  “I’m pretty sure my mother watches a show about those houses. She’s threatened to sell her place of thirty years and buy one of those so she can spend more time and money on her landscaping.”

  I smiled, not because I’d seen the show myself, but because something about Davis knowing what his mother enjoyed watching on television made me feel unreasonably delighted. “Yes, Tiny Houses have become quite popular in recent years. I’d be happy to conduct a tour anytime. It only takes about three blinks and you’ve seen it all.”

  Brandon laughed, and Davis grinned.

  Shep cleared his throat. “Well, while the discussion of your floor plan is riveting and all”—Shep glanced between us—“I’m starving. Let’s pray so we can get on with the eating part of this meal, shall we?”

  My gaze traveled around the table, taking in the bowed heads and closed eyes—the same posture Clem and Chris always practiced at mealtime. Only at my sister’s table, I couldn’t escape the sharp pang every time one of her kids prayed aloud. It wasn’t the words they spoke, so much as the tender expressions they held. A no-fail trigger to a childlike faith I’d outgrown sometime after my twelfth birthday.

  Naturally, Davis was the praying type. The kind with strong values and unmovable convictions. Just like Clementine. No second-guessing or wandering for those two.

  His prayer was thankful but brief, followed by a firm amen. And then we were back at it again, dishing up food that looked far too glorious for a greasy-spoon joint. The rich aroma of basil and oregano and Gorgonzola cheese made my mouth water.

  I stabbed at a particularly drool-worthy piece of risotto-covered chicken and waited for it to cool enough to ingest. “This looks amazing, but I can’t quite imagine it on a diner menu.”

  Brandon shot me a conflicted look that said, You do not want to get him started on that.

  Shep’s fork stilled midair. “That’s only because the definition of the word diner has been dumbed down on most menus to mean hamburgers, hot dogs, and milk shakes.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Is there some other definition? Because that’s the only one I know.”

  Shep shook his head, took a bite of his recipe, and moaned in satisfaction. “Perfecto.” He leaned forward a bit and stared at me head-on. “Comfort food, Callie. That’s my definition.” He pointed at me. “Close your eyes.”

  “Shep.” Davis sounded annoyed. “Don’t make her do this.”

  Shep ignored him. “Close ’em.”

  I set my fork down and obeyed, lifting my chin and breathing out through my nose as if preparing for yoga.

  “Okay, good. Now this is a little game I’d like to call Food Memory. Whatever I say, you name the first food that comes to mind.”

  My cheeks grew warm from the focused attention. “All right.”

  “You’re at home on a stormy fall afternoon—thunder’s rolling in, and there’s a chill in the air.”

  I licked my lips, an image coming to mind immediately. “Clam chowder, corn bread, and a melty chocolate chip cookie.”

  Shep chuckled. “Good. What about your first day at a brand-new job?”

  Easy. I was an expert at first days. “Something light—like an Asian chicken salad topped with mandarin oranges and those crunchy noodles.”

  “Hmm. You’re better at this than my usual participants.”

  A faint touch on my arm followed by Davis’s voice in my ear sent an unexpected zing through my abdomen. “Don’t let him fool you. He means victims.”

  I laughed.

  “Let’s see . . .” Shep started again. “How ’bout when your crazy ex shows up on your doorstep and begs you for another chance—”

  “Which is a picture of how Shep spends nearly every Saturday night,” Davis interjected.

  “Wait—seriously?” My eyes popped open, my gaze swinging from Davis to Shep, who spat a vehement “No, not seriously.”

  Brandon glanced skyward and shoveled another bite of risotto into his mouth.

  “This is Callie’s Food Memory game,” Shep said to Davis. “Not mine. Or yours. So butt out.”

  Shep focused on me again. “So what’s your go-to food after a bad breakup?”

  I gave a light shrug and lifted my fork once again. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a bad breakup.”

  Raised eyebrows from around the table called me a liar.

  “Never?” Shep examined my left hand with the intensity of an X-ray machine. He could pry all he wanted. There were no ex-husbands hanging out in my proverbial closet. Sure, I’d fallen in love. Dozens of times, even. But there was no reason why a relationship needed to end poorly, why a friendship couldn’t outlast the fizzle of a short-lived romance.

  “That’s right, never. I have friends. Not exes.” I tipped my glass back until ice cubes tapped against my top lip.

  But instead of Shep, it was Davis who responded. “Friends.” Not a question. A statement. One drenched in cynicism.

  “What’s that face for? You don’t believe a romantic relationship can end in friendship?” I
dabbed the corners of my mouth with my napkin, and Davis watched every minute movement with a focus that unnerved me.

  “I’m with him on this one,” Shep said.

  “An invested, romantic relationship of equal commitment can’t go back to a platonic state. It’s not possible,” Davis said.

  Shep watched us through keen eyes. “In layman’s terms, Davis is of the belief that dating is a waste of time if there’s no big-picture plan.”

  Even though I’d pegged Davis as the conventional type the first time I met him, something inside me deflated at the confirmation.

  “I’m afraid I must respectfully disagree with you both,” I said, “because I do believe that every relationship can serve a meaningful purpose, and end amicably, as long as both parties share a mutual understanding from the start.” One glance at Brandon’s kill-me-now expression told me it was time to move off this topic. “But let’s get back to the game. I, for one, think this town could use a diner full of unique and personal comfort foods. Great business plan, Shep.”

  “Not just mine.” Shep tilted his head suggestively toward Davis. “Ours. The diner would still be a dream floating around in my head without Davis’s good business sense and investment help.”

  Davis dismissed the praise with a wave of his hand, but I couldn’t let it go quite as easily. He’d helped his friend’s vision become a reality. That was no small gift. “Wow. That’s . . .” Generous. Kind. Risky. “Really nice of you.”

  His gaze shifted to mine, and for the first time in years, I wished my personal policy about not getting involved with men like Davis could be abolished. Or at least amended.

  “It’s like you said, Callie. This town is in need of a good diner.” Yet Davis’s eyes expressed something more, a loyalty to Shep that impressed me.

  “As long as you make sure to add a club sandwich with herbed mayo, extra-crunchy bacon, and half an avocado to the menu, I’ll be a regular customer.” At least when I visited Lenox.

  “Will do.” Shep beamed and saluted me with his ice water. “Too bad I need a new subfloor before I can write up an official menu. You don’t happen to be skilled with a tile saw, do you?”

  “She’s an artist,” Brandon said. The pride in that pubescent voice across the table made me ridiculously happy.

  “An artist?” Shep’s gaze drifted over me and landed square on Davis. “Well, now, that’s interesting.”

  I opened my mouth to offer further explanation, but Brandon wasn’t finished. “I’ve seen pictures of her work—Collin showed me. She’s a muralist.”

  The title surprised me. “I’ve done some large-scale work, yes. But I’m not a single-focus artist, really. I like to keep my options and choices open as I travel the country.” I peered out the window at the beautifully landscaped yard behind Davis’s chair and waved my hand like the stroke of an imaginary paintbrush. “I wait for inspiration to find me.”

  Davis shifted in his seat, pushing his chair away from the table just enough to position his elbow on the captain’s armrest. “And does it find you often?”

  “It does. I sell pieces here and there and accept larger contracts when and where I choose, but that said, I don’t attach a price tag to my creativity.” I leaned against the high-backed seat, choosing my next words carefully, as my lifestyle was not easily understood by the traditionally minded. “My paychecks and my passions are two separate entities.”

  “Wait—so you travel the country and create art where and when you want to, but you don’t make a consistent paycheck? How in the world does that work?” Shep asked.

  “I’ve never had a problem finding work when I needed it. There’s an online community of artists and vendors I’ve plugged into. Past customers can leave reviews and post images of an artist’s work—and it’s also a great place to ask questions and check out portfolios before requesting a quote. I’ve been offered some amazing opportunities.” I shrugged as my father’s words slipped off my tongue with learned ease. “But it’s the freedom of the work I crave more than anything.”

  “She’s like a real-life traveling gypsy,” Brandon mused.

  I winked at his assessment. “Not the first time I’ve been called that.”

  His gaze remained rapt with interest. “How many jobs have you had?”

  “I have more offers for mural work now than I used to, but before I had an actual portfolio, well, hmm . . .” I glanced up at the ceiling. “You want to know some of the strangest jobs I’ve taken while between artist gigs?” I laughed at the boy’s enthusiastic nod and didn’t miss the way Davis glanced between us, his expression unreadable.

  “Let’s see . . . I once took a seasonal job as a tour guide.”

  “That’s not too weird,” Brandon replied coolly.

  “At an almost mile-long cave in the Indiana Caverns.”

  “A cave, really?”

  I nodded, remembering every step of that daily trek in the dark. “Yep. We wore hard hats and headlamps, and honestly, apart from the bats and bugs, it was a lot of fun.”

  “You lost me at cave,” Shep said, crossing his beefy arms across his chest.

  “Shep’s claustrophobic,” Brandon added cheekily. “Won’t even go in our attic.”

  “God didn’t make my body for tight spaces.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, you’re not alone in your fear, Shep. Almost every trip through the cave there’d be someone who’d beg to turn around due to an oncoming panic attack. Although one time”—I laughed at the mental playback of a scene I’d almost forgotten—“I’d just calmed a nearly hysterical woman down, got her to take a few deep breaths, when an enormous wolf spider used her boot as a crosswalk. She passed out and took me down with her. That was pretty exciting.”

  Amusement lit Davis’s face. “That’s one word for it.”

  “What else?” Brandon asked, leaning forward, elbows on the table.

  I ticked my fingers off one by one as I searched my memory. “I’ve worked the cotton candy booth at the state fair, been a sample girl at a supermarket for coconut milk ice cream, staged furniture for a Realtor friend, performed dramatic readings for a children’s library in Texas and—”

  “Dramatic readings? As in . . . you read books dramatically?” Davis asked.

  I nodded. “Yep, exactly. I’d be happy to demonstrate.” I focused in on the highbrowed vet holding my gaze while Shep and Brandon pleaded for me to read something in an accent. Davis simply continued to stare, as if weighing my answer—and possibly my sanity.

  I took his silence as a personal challenge.

  I pointed to Shep, who’d already taken out his phone and was scrolling with supernatural speed.

  He showed me the screen. “Here you go.”

  I laughed. He’d selected a nursery rhyme.

  I pushed my chair away from the table and stood, clearing my throat and stretching my neck side to side as if preparing for my Broadway debut. Brandon covered his mouth, fighting off that rarely viewed smile of his. And then I began. In my favorite Old English accent, complete with an elderly wobble for extra flair.

  “There was an old woman who lived in a shoe . . .”

  At the end of my performance, I curtsied to my gracious audience. They all applauded. Even Davis.

  “Encore! Encore!” Shep demanded.

  I dipped my head in mock humility. “Thank you, thank you. But while I’d love to stay for an encore, I promised a sweet little redheaded girl that I’d paint her nails tonight before our sleepover.” And also because it was always better to leave a party on a high note. Since Davis had fixed up my rescue dog, written off the vet bill, taken him home, and then fed me dinner at his table . . . it was probably time for me to bow out.

  “I’ll just help clear the plates and take the dog to the yard before I—”

  “I’ll help,” Brandon said, stacking his dishes as he stood. “With the plates and with the dog.”

  I sought approval from Davis before responding, but his gaze was fixed on his
son. “How about I get the plates tonight.” Davis stood and reached for the dishes in his son’s hands. “You go ahead and take care of the dog. He’s probably ready for some fresh air. Just make sure to mind his splint.”

  Brandon paused momentarily, as if unsure what to make of the civil exchange, and promptly exited the room.

  Davis tipped his head in my direction. “Leave those, really. You don’t need to help clean up. That’s my end of the bargain. Shep cooks; I clean.”

  “And Callie entertains,” Shep added, shoving his dirty dishes toward Davis. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome back here every Tuesday night. This was the liveliest dinner conversation we’ve had in”—Shep looked to the ceiling—“well, ever. How long are you in Lenox for, anyway?”

  Davis paused his plate gathering, and my cheeks tingled at his focused interest. “A couple months, I think. I try to spend my summers with my niece and nephew and offer my sister and Chris a bit of a parenting reprieve while I get my aunting on.”

  Shep stretched his arms high and crossed them behind his head, slumping a bit lower in the chair. “And what kid wouldn’t want a cave-touring, cotton-candy-making, dramatic-reading artist for an aunt?”

  “Believe me,” I said, pushing my chair in and patting the back of it. “I’m the one who lucked out, not them.”

  I caught Davis’s eye as he set a serving bowl on the counter and wondered at his odd expression. “Thanks again for . . . well, everything. I gave Brandon my number earlier in case I can be of help with the dog and—oh!” I halted my reverse walk. “Please make sure to keep me posted about those fostering possibilities. I’m planning to ask around my sister’s neighborhood tomorrow. I took some pictures of him with my phone, and I’m positive his sweet face can win over at least one kindhearted person.”

  A series of squeaks cut through the quiet, and I turned to look out the kitchen window. Brandon was lying on his back in the grass laughing up at the sky as the dog gnawed on a rubber hot dog tucked inside the boy’s hand.

  “Sure, I’ll keep you updated,” Davis said softly, studying the jovial scene outside intently.

  Elation lifted my spirit at the sight. I may not have known how to help the unspoken tension in my sister’s home this summer . . . but maybe I’d be able to make a small difference in the rift separating Davis and his son—even if it lasted only forty-eight hours.