Chapter 4 #2
“I can’t say for sure, but I believe he may have been diagnosed with Parkinson’s.
You know I observe others. It’s simply second nature to me.
I noticed a tremor in his right hand, one which he would cover up by slipping it in his pocket or placing his left hand over it to still it.
He also would be talking and then suddenly grow very quiet in volume or hesitate before saying something. ”
Keaton shrugged. “I googled and found those are some early symptoms of Parkinson’s.”
A single tear rolled down Layne’s cheek, and he wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. Understanding filled her eyes.
“That’s why he did it. He knew he wouldn’t be able to take care of both of them—and he didn’t want me saddled with their care.”
Her voice broke on that last word, and Keaton enfolded her in his arms, a fresh round of sobs coming loose. He let her cry it out, knowing the tears were cathartic, enjoying the subtle scent of lavender which clung to her.
Finally, she pulled away from him, shaking her head. “You aren’t going to need to wash that shirt. I’ve cried on it so many times, it’s probably soaked. I don’t know why you want to be friends with me, Keaton. I don’t even recognize who I’ve become in the last forty-eight hours. I’m a hot mess.”
“I specialize in hot messes, Miss Larson. I think you could use a cup of hot tea now.”
She smiled through watery eyes. “That’s what Mom would always say. Time spent with a hot cup of tea solves everything. Let’s go to the kitchen and find the tea bags,” she suggested.
They made their way through the house, turning on lights as they went, finally arriving at the kitchen. He had eaten a couple of breakfasts at this very table and told her, “Sit. I know where your mom kept the tea bags. She made tea for me every morning I was here.”
He retrieved two mugs and filled them with water, putting them in the microwave to heat before going to a cabinet and removing two tea bags.
Layne said, “I didn’t figure you for a tea drinker. You look more like a coffee drinker to me.”
“I like to go for a run every morning and then come home for coffee. Sometimes, I make it at home. Other times, I head to Coastal Roast, and they know my order. I do, however, unwind with a cup of hot tea about eight o’clock every evening.
A good friend of mine was in the habit of drinking tea at night, and she got me started doing so.
I like sitting with it, thinking about my day. ”
Layne’s eyes sparked with interest. “Ooh, tell me more about this friend. Are you still friends—or more?”
He laughed easily. “Miss Peggy was a good fifty years older than me and my best friend. She’s the woman who saved me. In every way.”
The microwave dinged, and Keaton placed the tea bags in their cups and placed them on the kitchen table. He took a seat to Layne’s left. As the tea steeped, he decided to tell this woman a little about himself.
“I won’t sugarcoat my childhood. It was pretty rough.
Drug addicted parents. Loss of parental rights.
Shuffled from foster home to foster home.
I aged out of the system a month before high school graduation.
Miss Peggy was a retired teacher who lived across the street and was kind enough to take me in. That allowed me to earn my diploma.”
She looked at him quizzical. “You mean … your foster parents just kicked you out?”
“I was no longer any good to them. If the state wasn’t paying, they had no more need of me.
Miss Peggy helped me find a job with a friend of hers from high school.
I worked construction for the next dozen years, and I painted on the side.
She had a small toolshed out in her back yard, and that’s where I worked on my art. ”
He took a sip of his tea, and Layne opened the sugar bowl sitting on the table. She rose and retrieved a spoon, dumping two healthy spoonfuls of sugar into the hot brew.
Stirring, she asked, “You loved her, didn’t you?”
“I did. She was the only mother figure I ever had. I didn’t have a chance to go to college or a trade school, so she gave me books to read.
She had been an English teacher and decided I was another project for her in retirement.
I’m actually very well read now, thanks to the recommendations she made over the years and the discussions we had about all those books, everything from The Scarlet Letter to The Handmaid’s Tale. ”
“What did you do in construction?” she asked, looking interested.
That surprised him. Keaton had never had a woman interested in his blue collar job. Even Frankie had dismissed the idea he’d supported himself working in construction, telling him it had eaten away at his soul.
“I’m what you might call a jack-of-all-trades.
I started with the basics, painting the interior and exterior of houses.
There’s actually an art to doing that, you know.
Then I progressed, graduating to learning how to frame houses.
Lay flooring and insulation. Put in sinks and backsplash.
I even got into building cabinetry. That was my favorite thing, and I got really good at it. ”
“And how did you make the switch into Keaton Maxwell, professional artist?”
“I had a little help with that, one of those being in the right place at the right time situations. I had rented a booth at a local arts and crafts fair to try and sell my paintings. One of my boss’ former clients, whom we’d done a lot of work for, stopped by when she recognized me.
She’d liked the work I had done for her in past remodels and had recommended me to several of her friends.
She bought a couple of paintings I had on display and then introduced me to the manager of an art gallery she had a financial interest in.
Sidney was onboard right away once he saw my work.
His investment in my work allowed me to quit my construction job in order to paint full-time. ”
“I can’t wait to see your art. Not many people can make a living that way, so you must be really talented. What subjects do you paint?”
“I paint mostly landscapes. A lot of them were of Texas. Not that I ever ventured outside Dallas. I just got on the internet and looked at places. Watched a lot of NatGeo and Rick Steves, my windows into the larger world.” He paused, swallowing his pain.
“When Miss Peggy passed, I had no ties to Dallas. I opted for a huge change and eventually moved to the mountains, which had always intrigued me.”
“I’ve never seen mountains before in person. I’d love to go to them someday. I told you I had been thinking about doing some traveling with my job ending and the buyout. Where did you live? Would you recommend me seeing the area?”
“Jackson Hole. In Wyoming. The Grand Tetons are simply breathtaking. You would appreciate seeing them. I definitely went through a phase of painting my fair share of mountains.”
“If it was such a beautiful place, why did you leave it to come to the Bay, where you knew absolutely no one?”
He didn’t say anything, and Layne answered for him.
“You don’t owe me any explanations, Keaton. You’ve already shared quite a bit of yourself with me now.” She smiled. “Besides, we’re going to be friends. The sharing of our stories will unfold a little at a time as we come to know one another and grow comfortable being around each other.”
“Thanks,” he said quietly. “I’ve shared more of myself with you in these last few minutes than I have with anyone.
Ever. My upbringing caused me to be a loner.
Not to trust others, Layne. Even though I’ve found a home here in Driftwood Bay, making friends with Carson, Mila, and Sullivan, I haven’t opened up and talked about my past with anyone.
They’re getting to know the Keaton of Driftwood Bay—not the Keaton of my past.”
“Do you want to leave that past behind? You can do that if you want to, Keaton. You’ve come to a new place. You can be anyone you want to be.”
She reached and placed her hand over his. “I like this Keaton. The Driftwood Bay version. If he’s the only one I ever get to know, I’ll be happy with making that Keaton my friend.”
Layne squeezed his hand and then removed hers, placing it in her lap again, leaving him with an emptiness.
Somehow, this woman filled him with all the things he wanted.
Needed. Yet he couldn’t voice any of that, not when she was so broken.
He told himself to bide his time and hoped she’d decide to stay in the Bay.
For good.