Chapter 4 Ilsa
Ilsa
My fridge was nearly empty. I had a block of mild cheddar cheese and a roll of Ritz next to my gallon of milk and jar of salsa. The tortilla chips, also something I’d kept in the refrigerator with the crackers, were long gone.
I closed the door and surveyed the freezer next. One turkey pot pie and a Banquet TV dinner—Salisbury steak. None of those options were particularly mouthwatering, but my stomach growled, so I went back for the crackers, opening the sleeve and popping one in my mouth.
Rather than venture into town and hit IGA today, I’d chickened out and stayed at the cabin. Hiding on a Saturday seemed safer than risking an encounter with an angry parent in a grocery store aisle.
It had been a miserable week at school. Sexy Sheriff Raynes was one of many parents who’d visited my classroom in the past five days. Though unlike my other visitors, Sheriff Raynes was the only guest who’d been respectful. Everyone else had been pissed at me over what was now a practice test.
My intelligence had been called into question. One father had demanded to see my résumé. And Principal Harlan had made three additional visits with veiled threats about my employment.
I suspected the only reason he hadn’t fired me yet was because he didn’t want to teach math. Otherwise, I’d be history.
Yesterday, I’d overheard Mrs. McNally in the teachers’ lounge say that Harlan was hoping to convince Mrs. Riley to shorten her extended maternity leave and return before the semester was over.
The lounge truly was a miserable place.
So much of me wanted to quit. To force Harlan to take over math education and say screw you to Dalton High. But I was too stubborn to walk away now. Besides, these kids needed me.
One of my sophomores wanted to become a pilot. A junior had told me her dream was to be a doctor. For the safety of his future passengers and her future patients, I’d do my best to impart any and all mathematical wisdom possible for as long as I had the chance.
Why was this so hard? I’d known coming to Montana wouldn’t be easy, but this was more than I’d bargained for. So much more.
This was a solitude I’d never felt before. No family. No friends. Not even a kind smile when I crossed paths with the other teachers in the hallways.
Was this what Dad’s life had been like? Isolated and lonely?
I put the crackers in the fridge and closed the door, moving to the cupboard where Dad had kept his jars. As I filled a clear Mason jar with Ball written on the side with water from the tap, I stared out through the window above the sink.
Afternoon sunlight spilled through the spotless, clear glass.
Of all the cleaning projects that this cabin needed, washing windows shouldn’t have been at the top of the list, but after last weekend’s masked visitor—or my grand delusion of a voyeur—I’d made the windows a priority, and every pane in this cabin gleamed.
Well, almost every pane. I hadn’t gone into Dad’s bedroom yet, so only the outside of those windows was sparkling.
Sipping my water, I stared over the snow-covered yard to the dock. Where was Dad’s fishing boat? I assumed the police had taken it for evidence. But where was it now? As far as I was concerned, they could keep the damn thing.
I turned away from the window and leaned against the counter, assessing the living room. There were still boxes pushed into the corner, but I’d made a dent in Dad’s mess. Five more boxes and I’d actually be able to sit on the brown upholstered couch.
Finishing the last of my water, I set the jar down, about to get to work, when the phone rang.
I gave it a sideways glance as the trill filled the cabin, sharp and piercing. Not many people had the number to the cabin, but one of those people was Principal Harlan.
Was this the call when he told me not to bother coming to work Monday?
I plucked the handle from the cradle, pressing the tan plastic to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hey.” The man’s voice didn’t immediately register.
“Who—” I blinked. Wait. “Troy?”
“Yeah, it’s Troy.” He chuckled. “Is there another guy who calls you every week?”
“No. But it’s Saturday.” It was Saturday, right? Or had I blacked out from too much ammonia in the glass cleaner and missed a day this weekend?
“Am I not allowed to call you on Saturdays?”
“No, you just normally call me on Sundays.” Even when we lived in the same city, even when we’d see each other for dinner or drinks during the week, Troy always called me on Sundays.
Troy and I had met at the Italian restaurant where we’d both worked during college. I’d been a freshman, he’d been a senior, and our friendship had sparked over a love for pasta and garlic bread. One late night, while I was rolling silverware and he was sweeping the floors, I told him about Dad.
How when I was a kid, my dad had called me on Sundays. Every Sunday until I was seventeen.
The Sunday calls had stopped when I’d told him I couldn’t come to Montana that summer. I’d gotten a summer job in Phoenix at a movie theater to save up for college and a car. That, and I hadn’t wanted to leave my friends.
Dad and I had gotten into a fight. It was the one and only argument I could ever remember having with my father.
He’d told me I had no choice, that I was coming to Montana. I’d told him he’d have to come get me—he hadn’t.
After that, the Sunday calls had changed. They’d become tense and awkward, dwindling to weeks, then months in between. Until they’d stopped altogether by the end of my senior year.
When I told Troy that I missed those phone calls, he took over Sundays. Even when he spent three years in Nashville for law school and I stayed in Phoenix to finish college, he always called, no matter what.
“I know we normally talk on Sundays, but I wanted to tell you, I won’t have time to call tomorrow.”
“Oh.” The disappointment was instant, like being shoved to the ground. Even though I’d known, deep down, these calls would eventually end, even though I’d known it was better for my heart to let him go, it stung. “Is, um . . . is everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s great. I’m meeting Lori’s parents. We’re spending the day and night at their place in Scottsdale.”
He’d never not made a Sunday call, no matter who he was dating. No matter who I was dating.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” The endearment was salt on an open wound.
“It’s fine.” I made myself smile in the hope that some cheer seeped into my voice. “How is Lori?”
“Good. Excited for tomorrow. She’s very close with her parents, especially her mom.”
“That’s great. Are you nervous?”
“A little.” He laughed. “Can you believe it? Twenty-nine years old, and I’m nervous to meet my girlfriend’s parents.”
“They’ll love you. I’m sure of it.” I swallowed hard, my grip on the phone tightening as I squeezed my eyes shut.
I refused to let myself cry, not over a silly phone call. Troy was happy, and that’s all I’d ever wanted, right? Sure, I’d assumed that eventually, when the timing was right for us, I’d be the woman who made him happy, but I guess that was Lori.
“I miss you,” he said. “It’s not the same here without you.”
“Miss you too.” It wasn’t a lie and it wasn’t the truth.
Did I miss Troy? Yes. But not as much as I’d thought I would. Mostly, I missed that he was a person I could talk to. No one talked to me in Dalton.
“How are things in Montana?” he asked.
“Still a mess. But I’m sorting through it. Box by box.”
“What if I came out in a few weeks? I’m almost finished with this case I’ve been assisting on for months.
The jury is going into deliberations soon.
Once it’s over, the whole team is taking a break.
I could drive up in February. Help with whatever you need.
Give you a hug. Sounds like you might need one. ”
“It takes two whole days to get here, Troy. It’s twelve hundred miles. That’s a long drive.”
“And I’d make that drive for you.”
Yes, I wanted some help. Yes, I needed a hug. But what I wanted more than anything else was to let these feelings go. To go back to the beginning and simply be his friend. And for that, for now, I needed those miles between us.
“I appreciate the offer. Truly. But I need to do this on my own.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s more than me cleaning out boxes and sorting through Dad’s belongings. This is my chance to know him. My last chance.”
“And you can’t do that if I’m there?”
“It’s not . . .” I sighed. “It’s not pretty, Troy. You know the last few times I talked to him, he sounded different. Now that I’m here, it’s worse than I realized. I don’t want you to think badly of him.”
“Too late,” he muttered.
Troy had never met Dad, never spoken to him, but he had nothing but anger and bitterness where my father was concerned. Emotions I’d harbored once too. I’d spent years nursing resentment for Dad’s absence in my life.
But at some point in the past few years, those hard feelings had softened. Dad had made an effort to call from time to time. To send birthday and Christmas cards. And I’d accepted the fact that my father wouldn’t leave Montana.
This was his home.
I hoped that someday, I’d find the place where my heart belonged too.
“How about we talk about a visit in a couple of weeks?” I asked. “Finish your case. And then we can decide.”
“All right. Talk next week?”
“Sure.”
Except before I could hang up, he stopped me, a seriousness in his voice.
“Hey, Ilsa? I, um . . . about tomorrow. And Lori. I’ve never met a girlfriend’s parents before.”
“You’ll be great.”
“Yeah, it’s not that. The only mom I’ve met before is yours.”
“And she loves you to pieces. So no need to be nervous.”
He sighed. “It’s a big step. Meeting the parents. It’s serious.”
“It is.”
“Lori and I. We’re not . . .”
I waited, hanging on every passing second, hoping he’d say something—anything—that would make the pining stop.
Either tell me he loved me.
Or that he never would.
“What?” I whispered.
“Nothing.”
Was that what we were destined to become? Nothing?