Chapter Fifteen
Martina
He’s a widower. And he lost his child.
Ever since he told me, emotions I haven’t felt in a while surface all over again and I’ve found it hard to breathe.
No wonder he’s here. How long ago did it happen? I think he said he’s been here a few years. That’s the reason he left Calloway Creek. He’s running. Running from memories of them .
He really does live here. This isn’t just a fishing cabin he comes to a few times a year.
I can’t imagine being that alone. For me, after my losses, the only thing that helped was being around people. When I wasn’t, and I had only my thoughts for company, life was depressing. Talking with people who knew and loved them, remembering the good times—that’s what got me through. But Dallas seems to have nobody. Was that a choice? Or did it happen by default?
He has a job. And I guess he has parents. After all, someone has to run the family winery.
If I had access to the internet, I could probably find out how his family died. A car accident most likely. My heart pounds. Oh, God. How he totally freaked out when he saw the car seat after my accident, it all makes sense now. Did he lose his own child that way? It’s a horrible and unsettling thought.
The internet would also give me information on his job and family. I wonder what it’s like to own and work for a winery. It must be fascinating. But I wouldn’t know. He hasn’t talked about his past, where he’s from, or… anything really.
For the next half hour, I watch Bex chase a lone squirrel braving the cold to look for food. He skitters up a tree and Bex dutifully circles the trunk over and over hoping the critter will come back down.
When I can’t stand the cold anymore, I call Bex and head back inside.
Bex settles by my side on the couch as I try to read more of the autobiography I started yesterday. I’m not successful, however, as I find myself reading the same paragraph over and over, distracted by Dallas’s movements as he prepares dinner.
I can’t help but admire his light-blue jeans when he bends to get a pot from a low cabinet. The right rear pocket has the frayed outline of a wallet that isn’t even there. I suppose when one lives in a place like this, carrying around a wallet isn’t needed. But it speaks to the age of the jeans. Maybe guys are like women, having that one old, comfortable pair that fits so nicely you just can’t get rid of them. And, wow , they do fit him nicely.
His maroon, long-sleeved thermal fleece hugs his torso in all the right places. His strong arms. His tight abs. My insides quiver because I know exactly what those abs feel like. They’re hard as a rock, testament to all the physical labor he does around here. I long to run my hands down them again. But I fear it might not happen. He ran away. Is it because he thinks what we did was a mistake? My jaw slackens and I cover my mouth in surprise. Am I the first woman he’s slept with since his wife died?
I sigh. Well, that’d be another thing we have in common. He’s the first man I’ve been with since Charles. And the only other man I’ve ever been with.
A million questions linger in my mind as I continue to follow his every movement, my eyes growing heavier and heavier.
“Marti.” My eyes snap open. Dallas hovers over me. “Dinner’s ready.”
“I… sorry. I must have dozed off.”
He throws a log on the fire on his way to the table. “I hope you like asparagus. I’m trying to use up the fresh vegetables instead of the canned ones.”
“Good idea. And I love asparagus. Thank you for making dinner. I’ll cook tomorrow.”
He motions for me to sit, then he does the same. “We might not have power tomorrow.”
“How much is left?”
He picks up his phone and looks at his app, which surely isn’t updating without service. “I have no idea. It never went below five percent. Maybe that’s as low as it goes. Either the sensor can’t detect smaller amounts, or the people who programmed the app didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to let their tanks run out.”
“So you have no idea when the power will go out?”
He shakes his head.
“But tomorrow is Thanksgiving.”
A slow breath eases out of him. “I’m aware.”
“You have a lot of food here. I saw a tenderloin in your freezer. And you have apples and all the staples I’d need to make a pie. Do you mind if I try to throw something together?”
“Like I said, we might not have power.”
“Assuming we do, what would you like? Are there any favorite dishes? Something your mom used to make?”
He shrugs, uninterested. “It’s just another day. But do what you have to do.”
“There’s something you should know about me,” I say, cutting into my juicy pork chop. “I’m a pretty good cook.”
“Great. Go for it then.”
The tone of his words tells me he’s anything but excited. But it’s Thanksgiving. We can’t just do nothing.
During our mostly quiet dinner, I make a mental list of possibilities. I know he’s got potatoes. I should be able to whip up gravy. I try to remember what vegetables he has in the refrigerator. If I were at home, I’d make homemade macaroni and cheese. It’s not a traditional Thanksgiving side dish, but one Asher and I insisted on growing up. So Dad always made sure to have some.
I’m going to miss Dad tomorrow. And Charles. And, well… lots of people. Charles and I would spend most holidays together so Charlie would have both parents around. This was going to be the first one Charlie would have to spend without me. And now he’s going to have to spend it without both of us. Will they even make a turkey?
I know firsthand how hard it is to celebrate the holidays after a death. Dad died only weeks before Christmas. I was in no mood. But Asher insisted. He did everything—put up the tree, strung lights outside, bought Christmas presents, even cooked. And though it was the hardest holiday I’d experienced up until then, I was glad he’d done all those things. Because sitting around feeling sorry for myself was no way to spend Christmas.
I glance at Dallas. Is that how he spends his holidays? Up here, alone?
Bex is lying at our feet, no doubt hoping something will drop from the table.
“Have you decided anything about Bex?” I ask.
He nods. “I’m thinking of keeping him.”
Relieved, I smile. “I think he’ll love that.”
“Why’s that?”
“You mean besides the fact that he won’t have to starve to death?” I chuckle. “Because you’re good for each other. You’ve both been through stuff. He probably understands you like others can’t.”
Dallas stops chewing and stares at me.
My words replay in my head, and I wonder if he’s thinking what I am, that I might just understand him in a way others can’t.
If he only knew.
He looks away and takes another bite.
I take a sip of water then say, “I was thinking it’s funny how the world works.”
“How so?”
“Well, I’d be dead if Abe hadn’t died.”
He studies me pensively.
“Bex saved me. You wouldn’t have known I’d fallen in the pond if he wasn’t here. And he wouldn’t have been here if Abe hadn’t died.”
“You could also reason that if Abe hadn’t died, Bex wouldn’t be here. Therefore, you wouldn’t have walked on the pond to find a stick for him.”
My brows crash together. “Oh my god, you’re so right. It’s interesting how one thing changing can set off other events you didn’t anticipate.”
“The butterfly effect,” he says.
“What?”
“Chaos theory argues that even the smallest change in one nonlinear system can result in large differences on a broader scale.”
“In English please.”
“So there’s a metaphorical example having something to do with the formation and path of a tornado somehow being influenced by minor perturbations such as a distant butterfly flapping its wings. Today, we use the expression in a context outside of weather, as in one small change to anything anywhere has the potential to influence larger consequences or even a chain of events.”
I shake my head. “And you think I watch too much TV.”
He motions around. “Do you see a television? I read, Marti.”
“Yeah.” I glance at his massive book collection. “I can see that. What else do you do? Besides read, hike, and chop wood?”
He shrugs. “I have hobbies.”
I can’t help but look at the door to his ‘hobby room’ and wonder what lies beyond it. “What kind of hobbies?”
“Languages. I learn them.”
“As in you teach yourself?”
“As in, I buy programs that teach me. And books.”
I laugh. “Of course books. What languages have you learned?”
“French. Russian. Portuguese. I’m learning American Sign Language at the moment.”
My brows shoot up. “Really? That’s interesting. Why would you choose that one?”
“I have a deaf niece. And my brother’s new wife is deaf, too.”
I smile. Finally, he’s revealing some personal details. “Fascinating. Will you sign something?”
He sets down his fork and moves his hands around quickly, doing all sorts of signs.
Before Dad died and we moved into an apartment in another school district, I had a deaf friend in middle school. I learned a little ASL back then. But I’m super rusty. Still, as he talks with his hands, I pick up a few signs. I could swear one of them is beautiful .
“What did you say?” I ask.
He blinks then looks down at his food. “That it’s snowing and cold and no tow truck is coming for at least another few days especially since it’s going to be a holiday.”
He’s lying. I’d bet my right arm that’s not what he signed at all.
There’s no more eye contact while we finish up our meal. No conversation either.
When he’s done, he picks up a book and sits with Bex on the same couch I was sitting on when he was cooking. I concentrate on doing the dishes, having to keep myself from turning to see if he’s watching me the way I was watching him. I swear I can feel that he is. My whole body is flushing and tingling. Hell, it’s practically humming as I wonder if he’s thinking about earlier. How he ran his tongue down my body. How he pushed his fingers inside me. How he made me come twice—something Charles was never able to do.
Okay, so Dallas wouldn’t exactly know that little tidbit. But I do. And it does nothing to lessen the ache in my belly that longs for it to happen again.
By the time I’m done with the dishes, Dallas has fallen asleep on the couch, just like I had. His arm is resting on Bex’s back. His head is cocked to the side, leaning on the high couch cushion. I step closer, taking a moment to admire him. I love his hair. His long, thick, unruly hair. What’s more, I love the way my hands felt weaving through it.
Bex’s eyes fly open. He watches me as if he knows what I’m thinking. I roll my eyes at him and go change for bed. It’s still early, but it’s been a long day. I don’t bother waking Dallas. If I did, he’d probably disappear into his hobby room or go outside. It’s only been a few days, but if I know anything about him, I know he doesn’t like sleeping.
I turn out all the lights and settle into bed, watching the dancing shadows from the fireplace on the ceiling. They mesmerize me and pull me closer to sleep.
~ ~ ~
The bed squeaks and I wake. But I don’t move. I remain still and listen. He’s facing me. I can tell by the sound of his breathing. I almost flinch when something brushes against my face. I think he’s moving my hair behind my shoulder. My heart pounds fiercely, so much so that I’m sure he can hear it.
He exhales a long, slow, drawn-out breath.
I can’t stand it anymore, so I open my eyes. He’s staring right at me. Neither of us speak. Is he going to make love to me again? His eyes tell me that’s what he wants. But he doesn’t move a muscle.
“Are we going to talk about it?” I whisper.
He blinks. There’s no need to explain what it is. We both know what I’m referring to. The elephant that’s been in the room all day. The one that’s taking up so much air it’s becoming harder to breathe.
He says a single word. “No.”
“Is it going to happen again?”
His head shakes slowly. “I don’t think so.”
Hoping I don’t sound like a desperate, horny, crazy lady, I say, “It can. I won’t hold you to anything. I’ll be gone in a few days anyway.”
“It wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“Why? I said it’s okay.”
He sighs again. It’s deep and slow and straight from the pit of his stomach. “Because I’m not sure it would be you I’d be making love to.”
Tears sting my eyes. Because I’m positive I’ve never heard a more honest answer. Or a more heartbreaking one.