Chapter 10
Caleb settles Mom into the Eames chair near the fireplace, propping her injured leg on the ottoman and draping an afghan over her lap. He squats near the chair, fussing over her and ignoring the pack of people clamoring to greet her.
And then it’s pandemonium. The work party scrambles to finish, and Mom is brought three glasses of water, ice for her wrist, a heating pad, two more blankets, and a neck pillow.
But after an hour of the meet and greet, I can sense Mom’s physical discomfort. I’m just about to call an end to the impromptu party, but Caleb beats me to it.
“Thanks so much for all the help, everyone, but Nicolette needs her rest. I’ll send out the schedule tonight.”
I don’t know why it irritates me that Caleb takes charge, but it does. Apparently, I am petty when it comes to Caleb Connell.
His words are a decree, and everyone scatters, collecting their belongings, saying their goodbyes, giving kisses, and promising to visit.
I commit to calling if I need help or more food, which, by the looks of it, will be two years from now.
I accept hugs from strangers and practice their names to commit them to memory.
Lina and her family are the last to leave.
And when they do, Caleb walks them to the door, chuckling with Ian, heads bowed as if they are old friends.
Their blended family strikes me as rather cozy.
Perhaps Caleb’s not bitter like I am. While I lament the life I lost, Caleb’s slipping lollipops to his ex-wife’s new children and hugging her goodbye.
Abby leaves with her mom, taking all the noise with her. It’s utterly silent as soon as Caleb and I are alone.
Mom is asleep in the chair, but her face is pinched in a tight scowl as if the pain is following her into slumber. I stand at her side, lost in thought and inwardly panicking about whether I’m cut out to be a caretaker. I know more about being cared for.
“Let her sleep.” The edge in his voice is back, apparently reserved for me.
Caleb heads into the kitchen, and I sigh and follow him. He’s rinsing glasses at the sink with his back to me, his broad shoulders bunching under the thin cotton of his T-shirt as he moves.
When I’ve been staring too long, he glances over his shoulder at me with the briefest, barest hint of irritation.
“You don’t need to babysit me. I got it,” I say.
The house is already clean, thanks to the Grand Trees community.
But I grab a rag and run it across the kitchen island anyway.
It’s a solid slab of honed marble, the same hunter green as the pine tree growing through the house.
Everything in here is an extension of the outdoors.
The cabinets are a rich cherry, the walls are covered in raw-wood siding, and generous windows bring the outside in.
It’s gorgeous today—sunny, bright, with crisp cerulean skies.
It coats the kitchen in joy, starkly contrasting the tense mood in here.
“I have to give you all the discharge instructions,” Caleb mumbles into the sink.
Right. I should have thought of that.
“But I have to get back to Houdini, so you’ll get rid of me soon enough.” His voice is so low I have to strain to hear him. Perhaps his volume is purely considerate—Mom is asleep, after all—but it seems like a power move on his part.
I step beside him to dry the glasses he’s washed and move to the cabinet to put them away. Take that, Caleb. I know my way around here now. I’m not entirely useless.
When he finishes the last dish, he leans against the counter, watching me, his arms folded across his chest. I wish he’d stop doing that. His biceps taunt me from that position. And I don’t know what he’s thinking with that murderous smolder on his face.
“How long have you been divorced?” The question comes at me while I’m on my tiptoes, reaching into an upper cabinet.
I freeze, forcing my fingers to push the glass until it’s steady, and take a deep breath before answering.
I want to tell him it’s none of his business, but I don’t want to reveal it matters to me.
“It was finalized a couple of weeks ago.” I keep my voice neutral.
“Is that something Nicolette forgot? Or did you forget to tell her?”
I turn, bracing myself for battle. This guy has a skill for using my anguish against me. “I didn’t want to worry her.” That’s not entirely true. And by the look on his face—narrowed eyes, chin raised—Caleb knows it.
“Well, she is worried. She talked about it the whole way home.”
I can’t do anything right with this guy. I’m a terrible daughter for hiding this from Mom. I’m a horrible person for upsetting her now. I don’t respond.
“Maybe you should let her know you’re fine. Anxiety can’t be good for her recovery.”
“Noted.” I’ll keep lying to her. That should be easy enough.
“But in case you’re not okay.” He unfolds his arms and wraps his hands around the counter ledge behind him. “It does get easier.”
“Thank you.” But what I want to say is Fuck you.
Because what the hell does he know? Does betrayal ever get easier?
I’d expect Caleb to be the last person to assure me that I’ll heal.
He’s still judging me about how I failed to move on from the last deception that upended my life.
I’m not exactly a poster child for forgiveness.
From what I hear, forgiveness is a precursor to healing. So I have a feeling this wound is going to fester. It is my superpower, after all.
“How long have you been divorced?” I ask, because knowledge is currency. I’m not giving this man anything he hasn’t given me.
“Officially? Five years.”
I do the math. The same math I did last week while looking at Nadia’s swollen torso. “Fiona is . . .” She told me she was four and a half. That doesn’t leave much space for the arithmetic of fidelity.
“Ian’s,” he confirms, although the genetics are apparent now that I’ve met him.
Maybe Caleb and I aren’t so different. Perhaps we can find some common ground.
“My husband . . .” I exhale and start again. “My ex-husband is having a baby. Any day now, actually.” How is it that his stern face and harsh assessments coax my confessions? Cassie would have some theories, I’m sure.
Caleb watches me, and there’s something about his stare that makes me think he can see right through me to my skin, bone, heart, hurt.
“Were you separated?”
I shake my head. “We separated eight months ago. I didn’t know at the time about the baby or the woman.” I laugh, although there’s nothing funny about it. And the way his body recoils in pity is even less funny. It’s secondhand embarrassment for my trauma.
“Yikes,” he says. “Is that why you’re so anxious to hide out here?”
I don’t know why I keep trying with this man. In my attempt at connection, I wind up pointing to my open wounds, so he knows where to pour the salt. I snap back, “Is your failed marriage why you’re so insistent on hanging around here, too?”
Caleb takes off his baseball cap and runs a hand through his haywire hair from back to front until he covers his face in one broad palm and sinks against the counter. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“It sounded insensitive.” And I realize, I may not like Caleb all that much, but I do like myself in opposition to him and the fight he ignites.
I like saying what I mean and telling him to fuck off when he deserves it.
To hell with biting my tongue and keeping the peace.
I did that with Jeff, and he left anyway.
I swallowed my fury at Mom, and she left, too.
“I already told you why I’m here, and I’m not putting up with your attitude while I put my life on hold to do what’s right.
If you plan to be here, too, I suggest you get over whatever you have against me or keep it to yourself. ”
“Okay.” Caleb raises his hands, palms up. But I’m not ready to accept his surrender.
“Because there was a good reason I never visited. There was a good reason I didn’t want to be here specifically—in this town, in this house. Being here isn’t easy for me. And I don’t need you making it harder. If you can’t do that, just stay away.”
He takes a cautious step closer. “Okay,” he repeats.
“You’ll stay away?”
Caleb shakes his head, slowly, as if he’s a hostage negotiator. Any minute now, I expect him to reach for my metaphorical gun. “I promised Sonny I’d take care of her. And Sonny and your mom were the only people who ever took care of me.”
And there it is again, the faintest vulnerability. I fight the urge to exploit it. As much as I like this new fight I’ve found, I take no pleasure in cruelty.
When I don’t respond, he adds, “But I can be more careful with my words. I’m not always good at that. I’ll try.”
I nod once, and he offers me the barest smile.
It is a careful truce, or perhaps just a ceasefire.
But either way, the heat of my anger has cooled, and the silence stretches between us, taking on a new shape, filled with memories of his touch yesterday.
I sneak a glance at his hands, recalling how rough and raw his palm felt against mine.
I don’t remember when, or if, I was ever as attracted to someone, especially against my will.
Was I ever this drawn to Jeff? I loved him, the soft-spoken, steady man who cooked us dinner, organized our pantry, and changed the oil in my car before I noticed it was necessary.
But my body didn’t flush when he looked at me.
I didn’t obsess about the veins on his arms, the curve of his shoulders, or the slope of his bottom lip.
There was little lust left at the end, and it’s hard to remember how much there was to begin with.
There’s no justification for the attraction I feel to Caleb; he’s proven himself unkind and callous where I’m concerned.
But he’s looking at me, stripping me with those liquid eyes, as intoxicating as the liquor they resemble.
His gaze flicks to my mouth for half a heartbeat, and my lips feel like they’re on fire.
Caleb grips the counter with one hand, his knuckles white. And I’m probably making him uncomfortable by telling him off one minute and ogling him the next. Where has calm, collected Eden gone?
“So, those discharge instructions.” My voice sounds about as low and sultry as Cassie’s terrible impression of me.
He doesn’t respond immediately, holding me captive with a lingering look. But I glance away, spotting a collection of pill bottles on the counter.
“Did she talk to the doctor about ongoing treatment?” I lower my voice, although we’ve been whisper-hissing this whole time.
“She’s going to have to see a neurologist for that. We saw the orthopedist this morning,” he says.
At the mention of the orthopedist, I’m again thankful she didn’t need surgery. I would have insisted we transfer her to a better hospital, and that would have been a battle with Caleb, Mom, and the hospital. But we dodged that bullet.
“Are there any neurologists around here? How far does she need to travel for treatment?”
“The clinic is an hour away, and she hates the doctor. Something about him being a condescending prick.”
I snort. “But if that prick can give her meds to slow the progression—”
“I know.” He sounds resigned and frustrated, and I sense he’s already had this conversation with Mom multiple times.
He shifts to face the counter and drags the pill bottles to the edge, spinning them so the labels are facing out.
“But first things first. We need to deal with her pain and prevent infection from her stitches. And maybe when you get her more relaxed on the good stuff here, you can convince her to see the neurologist again.”
Caleb goes over the medications the hospital prescribed, all of which are clearly labeled on the bottles.
But he takes his job seriously, so I pay attention.
He pulls the hospital paperwork from his back pocket and flattens it on the counter, waving me closer as he reads the fine print aloud.
Again, this is unnecessary, but there’s something sweet about his diligence.
He’s so close that his arm brushes mine as he flips to the next page.
He smells like Dove soap and fresh lumber and something distinctly male.
And his body is inviting, even if his disposition isn’t.
“I’ll be by every day. And others will help, too. Adelaide, Bob, Carmela, Dakota, Lina, Ian . . .” He trails off. “You won’t be doing this alone.”
“That’s kind, but I’ve got it.”
He rests his elbows on the counter, leaning over as if he’s exhausted, and he probably is. It’s been a long twenty-four hours. “You think that now, but it’s a lot. When Sonny was sick . . .”
I don’t know much about Sonny’s decline, but I know he wasn’t sick long because he never recovered from his stroke. Mom brought him home, and he died a few months later.
I have wondered since whether I would have come if Mom had called earlier. Would I have faced my anger at Sonny’s bedside? Would I have tasted the words of forgiveness? But she didn’t call me until he was gone. Mom and I have mastered the art of avoiding hard truths.
“I’m sorry about Sonny. I know what he meant to this town. And what he must have meant to you.”
Caleb nods and returns to his full height, his posture locking into place like armor. He reaches into the drawer at his hip, finding a pen before scribbling his name and number on the discharge instructions. He pushes it toward me before he heads for the back door.
“I’m five minutes away. Call me if you need anything.”
He hesitates with his hand on the doorknob. “I know I was a dick for what I said about your divorce and hiding here, but I guess I meant”—he looks out over the forest—“this isn’t the worst place to come when your life goes to hell. Grand Trees can heal you if you let it.”
Maybe he’s right. But unfortunately, I know how easily it can break you, too.