5. Cliff
Chapter 5
Cliff
I don’t have eyes on Brittany, but I’d recognize my daughter’s cries anywhere.
“You forgot your change, Cliff!” Betty calls as both I and my buddy Lars bolt from her stand, empty-handed, apple cider abandoned.
I don’t turn around. I’m already hopping over the fence toward the pumpkin patch, where I left Brittany with Emily.
I dart around the low, wired fence housing the fishing booth, sidestep the pony for children horseback rides, and pivot through a crowd, where Winston chortles from his face-painting booth, “Whoa, Cliff!” and, “Got somewhere to be?”
Skidding around the corner of the haystacks, Lars points. “Cliff, there.”
I finally spot Brittany.
On the ground.
Crying.
I rush over, crouch down, and inspect her from head to toe for injuries. I swipe a thumb across her cheek, wiping away a single tear. My heart aches. Something about when kids cry a single tear makes it infinitely sadder. And it’s worse when it’s my daughter.
“Britt, hey, look at me.”
Another tear falls.
“Britt Britt. Hey.”
I continue checking over her arms and knees for bruises, and once I realize she’s fine, the ridiculousness of this scene finally washes over me. Brittany is plopped on the ground beside a pumpkin—like she’s a Cabbage Patch Kid emerging from the vegetable birth canal.
I chuckle. “You all right?”
Brittany tries to smile through her choked tears.
That’s the secret thing about raising a kid—if it doesn’t look like a big deal to you, it’s not a big deal to them.
Lars chuckles beside me. He’s standing, hands tucked into his pockets and shaking his head. “You gave this guy a fright, little lady.”
Lars has been my best friend since high school. He’s had a mustache since the ’80s, when he adored Magnum, P.I. , and his pizzeria is so good that his belt notches have steadily risen since then as well.
From behind me, I hear a nasally, “She pushed me first!”
Lars and I turn our heads and find some kid standing a few feet away, pointing his finger accusingly at my little girl.
I close my eyes and sigh, barely managing a, “Where are your parents?”
At the same moment I ask, there’s a bark across the street. A flash of black-and-white fur zooms under the park’s iron archway. As of a week ago, there’s only one border collie in our town, which means a stern woman is close behind.
And there she is.
Michelle crosses the street in a half jog. She looks intense. Her brown hair is a teased mess, and that maroon lipstick of hers could kill a man. Or a child, in this case.
The kid freezes on the spot as Rocket leaps over the pumpkin patch fence and beelines to Brittany.
“Hey, hey, hey.” I leap to grab his collar, but Brittany scoots closer and wraps her arms around his neck, burying her cheek into his fur. My anxiety skips to my throat. “Britt, let’s back up. We still don’t know this dog that well, all right?”
Rocket’s head jerks toward the boy, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say his eyes narrow.
“Hey,” Michelle says through heavy breaths, her slender hand splayed over her ribs. “How’s everything going over here?” It’s not a question though.
My lips tip up at her authoritative tone. The kind that says, I know everything is not okay, but I’m asking to be polite .
“Mostly all right,” I answer, watching as her eyes dart between Brittany and her dog.
Lars’s eyebrows rise as he gives her a sly grin. “Don’t think we’ve met.” He reaches out to shake her hand. “I’m Lars.”
“Michelle,” she answers, now focused on the boy and missing my buddy’s extended hand.
Lars tongues his cheek with a grin, running his eyes up and down her figure. He likes out-of-towners, and they like the mysterious local reminiscence of Tom Selleck. The moment he finds out she’s living here, his interest will flitter away.
I jerk my chin at the boy. “Hey, kid. Parents? Are they here?”
Brittany rubs the back of her fingers across her snotty nose. “He’s grounded.”
“I am not ,” he retorts, taking a step closer.
“Watch it,” I warn at the same time Michelle takes a tentative step forward. My eyes roam over her. I can’t help but grin at her bulldog nature, which is, surprisingly, not the actual dog in this situation.
“ Are you grounded?” I ask the boy.
His lips curl in as his cheeks redden.
I sigh again, exhausted by this whole event. “Fantastic. Then, why are you here?”
He opens his mouth and closes it.
In the silence, Brittany yells, “He’s mad Steve won!”
Oh. That’s when I finally recognize him. Luke . Steve Austin–hating Luke. Luke, who finally got that mop of his cut. His mom has been pushing for a haircut for months now. I barely recognized him.
Lars snorts and shakes his head. “Oh jeez …”
“He didn’t deserve to win!” Luke snaps back.
I grip my nose between my thumb and forefinger. “Christ almighty.”
“Who is Steve?” Michelle asks.
“Steve Austin,” I clarify, but the little scrunch above her eyebrow says this explanation means nothing. “A wrestler. Eh, never mind.”
This situation must seem ridiculous to her. It’s ridiculous to me . Two elementary-aged children, fighting over a grown man’s winning streak.
Sighing, I say, “Go home, Luke.”
“But—”
“And, yes, I’m calling your parents when we get home to let them know you were out while grounded.”
His face is red, but at least the boy has enough sense not to shout back. Surprisingly.
Michelle’s eyes slowly grow wider. “Cliff, she’s bleeding.
“She’s what ?” I roam my hand over Brittany’s legs once more, panic rising. I look at her calf, and sure enough, there’s a small scratch along the back.
How did I miss that?
I gather Brittany in my arms. My daughter is all that matters right now. And potentially killing that other kid, but I’ll leave that for another day.
“I can get Band-Aids at the corner store,” Michelle offers.
“Nah, we’ll go to the shop,” I say. “I’ve got first aid there.”
“But she’s fine!” Luke pleads.
In that moment, Brittany’s bottom lip sticks out, and another tear trickles down one of her flushed cheeks.
I tilt my head toward Luke. “Listen here. If I see my girl on the ground in front of you again, I’ll be having a more serious talk with someone. Your mom. The mayor. Bill Clinton. And next time Steve wins—which he will—and you get upset about it, know that I’m training her to wrestle.”
“You are?” he stammers.
“You are?” Lars asks, an eyebrow raised.
“Uh-huh,” I confirm.
“Oh,” Luke breathes.
“Yeah, oh . Now, go home.”
I don’t stick around to see if he does. I turn on the spot and stride across the street.
“Mind finding Emily for me?” I ask Lars.
He salutes and jogs off, back into the hay-riding, pumpkin-filled fray of the Harvest Festival.
“Are we really gonna wrestle, Daddy?” Brittany whispers through sniffles.
“When you can bicep-curl one hundred pounds, sure.”
“Yes,” she says on a silent celebration.
Behind us, Michelle follows, clenching and unclenching her fists, heavy sighs rushing out of her nose. If she could breathe fire, I might see plumes of smoke.
“You all right back there?” I call to her.
She blinks up at me, as if broken from a trance, shaking out her hands and nodding.
The jangling of a collar alerts me to her dog, now loyally following by my side. Well, not my side. Brittany’s.
Our little crew continues down the block until we reach the bakery door. I jangle the door and exhale. Carol must have closed for the day. I knock on the glass, praying she’s still inside, but after a couple of seconds, with Brittany continuing to sniffle in my arms, my patience wears thin quickly.
I shift on the spot, trying to pat for keys in my pocket, but Brittany is too heavy in my arms. I move to set her down, but she whines pitifully.
“Can you stand for me, Britt?”
She fervently shakes her head and whines, “No.”
I sigh. “Okay, well, can you?—”
“What do you need?” Michelle asks, stepping forward.
I blink. “My keys. They’re in my pocket.”
To my surprise, Michelle says, “I don’t have a problem getting them for you.”
My beautiful new neighbor—a woman who seems to roll her eyes at most things I do—is offering to dig around in my pocket. I lean my head back and blink at the sky. The big man upstairs really decided to test me today.
“Front left pocket,” I instruct.
I bounce Brittany higher in my arms to give Michelle room.
Michelle’s shoes snap on the sidewalk as she gets closer. She smells like amber and cloves, like she did the other night. No, it’s not crème br?lée. Maybe a coffee cake.
Slowly, gently, Michelle sneaks her hand into my pocket. I hiss as her cold fingers radiate across my thigh.
“Your hand is like ice.”
She pauses. “Sorry, is my help too inconvenient for you?”
I bite my lip to stifle a laugh. She’s funny. “Worried about your blood flow, is all.”
I can’t see her expression, but she doesn’t respond.
Michelle tucks her fingers closer to the outside, probably making sure to not brush against my inner thigh. Each movement zips through my veins. I haven’t had a hand … well, that close in years. I try to think of anything else. Dennis Rodman kicking that cameraman in the balls. That pig in Toy Story. “Candle in the Wind.”
I’m almost at peace, but as Michelle finally grips the key ring and tugs, the sharp ends of keys trail over me anyway.
I clear my throat and shake my head.
Getting action with my own keys. Pathetic.
“Which one?” she asks.
“The bronze one with the dent on the top,” I say on a strained breath.
She strides to the front door, inserts the correct key, and twists the lock, pushing the door open.
I nudge my shoulder on the light switch, turning the main lights on, then place Brittany on the front counter. Her legs dangle and kick the counter. I observe the back of her calf with the cut that’s very surface level, but probably enough to be shocking for a kid. Can’t blame her for crying.
I turn and find Michelle lingering in the corner of the shop, arms crossed as she observes the cupcake frame on the wall. I wonder if she also sees how crookedly hung it is. I smile to myself. At least she’s not saying it out loud, and thankfully, Carol isn’t here to notice either.
“I’m gonna get the first aid kit,” I say. “Mind watching her?”
“Of course not.”
I journey to my office, grab my kit buried under a stack of paperwork, and walk back. I catch the tail end of a conversation.
“He can sit too,” Michelle says. “Try it.”
“Sit,” Brittany whispers.
“More intention. Rocket, sit. ”
“Rocket, sit,” Brittany echoes, and, boy, does that dog drop on the ground quickly.
I grin right as the bell above the door dings. Lars holds the door open, and Emily ducks under his arm, rushing through the threshold with her eyes the size of dinner plates.
She gasps, palms covering her mouth. “Oh my God, Dad, I couldn’t find you.”
“Where were you?”
“I … I was going to be right back. But Josh …”
Yeah, good mood gone.
Lars slowly, awkwardly, walks back out the door.
“You were supposed to be watching your sister,” I say to Emily. “And you went off with that boy?”
I pop open the kit and shake my head.
“It was only two seconds,” Emily stammers out.
I crouch in front of Brittany with a cotton ball and antiseptic.
“You don’t leave Brittany like that.” I tip the bottle upside down on the cotton ball. I hold up the soaked cotton to Brittany. “Big-girl time, all right?”
She nods, gripping the counter harder as I press it against the scratch. She wails. Fixing wounds are the worst part of this whole dad thing.
“Dad, I’m so sorry,” Emily pleads again.
“Em—” The phone starts to ring, and I swear it’s like nails on a chalkboard in this moment. “I don’t have time for this right now. Just—” The phone rings again. “Can you get the phone?”
She doesn’t budge.
I know she feels bad. And of course, I was a teenager before. I snuck around with my crush, like she did. But that’s the problem. That crush resulted in a fourteen-year marriage. I won’t allow Emily to get in the same trouble her mom and I did. I can guarantee the last thing she wants is to be tied to freakin’ Josh forever.
Michelle strides to the phone on the wall. “I’ve got it.” She lifts it to her ear. “This is the… uh… local… bakery? How can I help you?”
I hold up a Band-Aid in each hand to Brittany. “Unicorn or dog?” I wave the rainbow-colored bandages back and forth.
Brittany cuts her eyes to Rocket, then back up. “Dog.”
I sigh. If I gotta worry about Emily with boys, then I’ll need to worry about Brittany with dogs.
“Dog it is,” I say, fastening it to her skin and pulling each side to stick it down. “And, hey, next time you wanna play between pumpkins, let me know, and we’ll work it out. And maybe we’ll even throw your sister in there too.”
That gets me both a giggle from her and a slight twitch at the edge of Emily’s mouth.
I reach out for Emily’s hand. “It’s fine, kiddo. We’ll talk about it later, okay?”
“Okay,” she murmurs.
“Nothing a good ol’ yelling match can’t solve,” I tease.
“Can I throw a pillow at your head?”
“Only if I do it first. We’ll put on Metallica.”
Emily grins. “Cool.”
“Cliff?” Michelle asks, covering the phone with her palm. “Someone named Tracy wants to talk to you.”
Almost instantly, it’s like a bucket of cold water empties over my head.
“Mommy!” Brittany calls, swinging her feet back and forth more.
I stand, walking over to the phone. Michelle places the receiver in my hand. Her fingers graze mine, and my chest tightens. Her hand is so soft compared to my callous ones. But any fire I feel disappears when I raise the phone to my ear.
“Cliff?”
“Hey, Trace.”
“I called the house, and you weren’t there.”
No niceties today. Got it.
“We were at the Harvest Festival,” I explain. Then, I turn the corner and murmur, “You’re a few days late. Everything okay?”
“I’ve been busy,” she says. Then, with slight hesitation, she adds, “Thanks for asking.”
There’s a moment of silence between us—a moment that didn’t exist until a few years ago. After she permanently moved away, her feelings toward me oscillate between irritation and guilt.
I respond with a sigh. “It’s all right.”
“Can I talk to Britt?”
“Sure.” I hold the phone out. “Hey, Britt Britt. Wanna talk to Mom?”
She hops off the counter easily, like the cut never happened—sly girl—and snatches the phone.
“Hi, Mommy!” she says, rising onto the balls of her feet and back down.
Emily leans against the counter with her arms crossed, pulling in a deep inhale. I clap my palm onto her shoulder. Tracy always wants to talk to Brittany first.
Emily shrugs my hand off her shoulder and walks to the kitchen, whispering to Brittany in passing, “Let me know when she deigns to talk to me.”
Brittany scrunches her nose. “What’s dang mean?”
“Never mind.”
Brittany throws me a confused look, but I give an assuring thumbs-up. She smiles and goes back to talking with Tracy.
Michelle stands in the corner with her arms crossed, eyeing the empty display cases and the chalkboard menu over the counter. I finally catch her gaze and raise my eyebrows. I feel bad she’s here for this, so I throw her a lopsided smile. She lifts a single eyebrow in question. Chuckling, I nod my chin toward the door. In unspoken agreement, we both walk outside. Lars is nowhere to be seen. He’ll call later to ask how everything went. He doesn’t like to interfere with family things. Michelle, on the other hand …
Leaning against the lamppost, I run a palm through my hair. Neither of us says anything, and I almost appreciate the silence after the last ten minutes. Almost.
“Thank you,” I finally say, “for helping. You didn’t have to.”
She shrugs. “I don’t like seeing people get bullied and hurt.”
A smile slides over my face as I nod to myself.
Inside the shop, Rocket sits stiffly beside Brittany as she swings side to side, getting out energy.
“He makes a decent guard dog,” I observe.
Michelle sighs. “He has a mind of his own.”
“He seems well trained enough.”
“Because he likes Brittany,” she responds with a shake of her head. “He only listened to my ex. He prefers anyone but me.”
“The ex or the dog?”
She snorts. “Both.”
“How do you know Rocket doesn’t like you?” I ask.
“The same way I know he’s not a drug dog.”
I smile even wider when her full lips tug in the corners.
I click my tongue. “So, you can joke around.”
“Sometimes.”
“What times?”
She checks her watch. “Two o’clock on Sundays.”
Her smile rises a little, and I can’t help but grin in return.
But then her smile fades. “Do people normally sign guest books?”
Taken aback, I run a palm through my hair again. “Uh, sure, I would imagine.”
“Hmm.” She stares off in the distance.
I hesitate to respond. It’s the first time I’ve seen a crack in her doorway, almost like she’s letting me slip a foot through the threshold.
“Daddy!” Brittany yells, standing in the bakery’s threshold. “Mommy wants to talk to you!”
I look from Michelle to the open bakery door and back again. I point a finger at her. “Talk later?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks again.”
She nods and pats her thigh, calling out, “Come on, Rocket.”
And as Michelle predicted, he barely listens to her. She repeats herself, and after a lingering moment, the dog finally saunters out of the shop, like some reluctant adolescent. Maybe she’s onto something.
I walk inside and take the phone from Brittany. “Hey, Trace.”
“I don’t talk to her for a week, and this happens?”
It’s funny; both Michelle and Tracy get straight to the point. But the difference between their tones is so distinct, like Tracy is a viper and Michelle is a garden snake that wants peace. I can’t help but laugh a little.
“Cliff, this isn’t funny. She said some boy pushed her.”
“I’m working on kicking his ass; don’t worry.”
“I swear, if?—”
“Everything is fine over here. I promise. Kids get knocked down. It happens.”
“Maybe … maybe I should visit more.”
My chest tightens. Every time anything dangerous happens with the girls, she second-guesses her decision to leave. And I get it—I do. But moving was the best decision for Tracy and us. She’d been in Copper Run her entire life, glued to me since we were sixteen and through a teen pregnancy neither of us could have predicted. Six years ago, she insisted we should try for another child. That maybe a planned pregnancy would be different. But in the end, when she grew distant, irritated with us, when I ended up on the couch each night, I wasn’t surprised she had drawn up divorce papers.
A few months after that, she wanted to go start a career in the city. She considered bringing the kids, but after I argued that they were settled here—that Copper Run was a good community—she left. I encouraged her to go. I had my bakery; she needed to find her dreams too. Unfortunately, it didn’t take much convincing.
“You’re fine, Trace,” I reassure her.
“She said Emily left her alone. She should at least try to be a good role model.”
I grit my teeth as a spark of irritation skitters through me. “She is.”
“Not good enough. Listen, if something like this happens again, I want to consider … I don’t know … something.”
The sudden tension in my chest almost cuts off air. “Something? What do you mean?”
“Maybe Brittany can … I don’t know … stay with me.”
Tracy does this every so often. She feels guilty and considers adjusting our custody agreement. It scares me every time. She makes good money. It would be too easy for her to change her mind.
I force a laugh. “Trace?—”
“The schools here are good. I think.”
“The schools here are good too. They’re settled here. She likes it.”
“Being raised there and liking it are two totally different things.”
The words feel like a knife stabbing through my chest. First, my parents moved, then hers, then Tracy. Some people view Copper Run as a prison. I can’t understand why.
I bite my lip and nod to myself. “Yeah, well, let’s put a pin in that thought. School just started back.”
She sighs. “Fine. But … I’m serious,” she repeats, but it’s hesitant, as if maybe she didn’t convince herself the first time. “I’ll call next week.”
“Can’t wait.” It’s probably more sarcastic than it should be because Tracy doesn’t say goodbye; I only hear a click and then the dull dial tone moaning back at me. I slowly place the phone back.
Emily strolls out from the kitchen, arms folded over her chest and staring at a blank spot on the wall. “She didn’t ask to talk to me,” she murmurs.
My heart sinks, plummeting deeper and deeper with each passing second.
“She was running behind, kiddo,” I manage to say. “I think she’s been really busy out there with work.”
“Sure,” she mumbles.
I squeeze her shoulder. “She didn’t forget.”
Emily nods, then strides right past me, taking Brittany’s hand and walking her back to the Harvest Festival.
It infuriates me how Tracy treats Emily. I try as hard as I can to shield Emily from her mother’s resentment. It’s not Emily’s fault we didn’t use protection at sixteen. But Tracy plays favorites, and it sends my blood pressure skyrocketing every time.
Deep down, Tracy didn’t want a family. She was forced into that role, and being a mom felt like a burden. I was a burden with my stupid jokes and sarcastic comments—an enlightening statement that came out in the divorce proceedings, which I’ll be mulling over for years.
But while I understand her motivation to leave, I can’t fathom genuinely wanting to.
I love my girls so much; it hurts. The idea of leaving them would never cross my mind. But that was Tracy’s prerogative. Not mine.
Through the bakery windows, I spot Michelle leaving the corner store across the street and untying Rocket’s leash from the light pole. I’ll need to properly thank her for her help today. I’m just not sure how.