The knife in Sherman’s hand was in danger of losing its blob of butter as it stilled, suspended over the toast he’d been buttering Saturday morning. “What do you mean you don’t want to go? It’s already planned,” he explained patiently.
The grief counselor had told him to be patient. Two years ago.
“I thought you’d like the surprise,” he added.
“I don’t.” Kent sat at the table, already dressed in jeans, a button-down shirt and a sweater—green today—with his hands in his lap. Awaiting the cold cereal and toast Sherman was in the process of getting for him.
The butter dropped from his knife to the toast, catching the side of his hand, as well. Sherman spread quickly, dropped the toast to the counter and licked the side of his hand.
He poured milk. Added a spoon to the bowl of Kent’s latest choice in sugared cereal, took that and the toast to the table, a smile on his face. “Why not?”
“Where’s your cereal?”
“I’m not having any this morning.” He’d pulled off at a twenty-four-hour diner on his way home from the city and wasn’t hungry.
“What time did you get home?”
“Sometime after midnight.”
“Way after midnight. I got up at 2:00 a.m. to pee and Ben and Sandy were still here, sleeping in the recliners.”
The love seat portion of the leather sectional he and Brooke had purchased the year before she...
Yes, well, he was glad that Ben and Sandy made use of the love seat.
“I was with a client.”
“I don’t care if you’re out screwing someone, Dad.”
Anger burst through him. He very carefully took the space between stimulus and response, to make certain that, for his son’s sake, he didn’t say something he’d regret.
Then he sat. Crossed his hands. Leaned over. And looked his son square in the eyeballs. “There are many things wrong with that comment,” he said slowly, but with no doubt to his seriousness. “First, screwing is an inappropriate way to describe any relationship I might have with a woman. Second, if I was making love with a woman it would be absolutely none of your business. And third, I was with a sixty-year-old man at a basketball game and then we went to a restaurant, where I had a glass of sparkling water and he had a whiskey sour while we discussed Sadie Bishop’s county auditor campaign, after which I got in the BMW and drove home, stopping only for a plate of greasy scrambled eggs, hash browns and toast. I have done nothing to deserve your disrespect.”
Kent chewed. Crunching his cereal as if he was set to win a contest. His throat bulged when he swallowed.
“Yes, sir,” he said then. “You’re right. On all three counts. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.”
Kent crunched some more. And Sherman sought to understand the boy.
Patience was the key. He was certain of that. He just wished he knew what to say sometimes, while he was waiting for patience to work its magic.
“So...how about that trip to the driving range?” he asked, back to his cheery self, when no other words presented themselves. Clark Vanderpohl and his son were meeting them at the course in less than an hour.
“Uh-uh.”
Patience.
“Why not?” His tone was right on cue. Easy and nonthreatening.
“You’re only taking me because you have business to do,” he said.
“That’s not true, son.” He was completely sure about that.
“So we’re not meeting someone who has something to do with one of your precious campaigns?”
Kent’s tone wasn’t easy. Or in any way upbeat or even particularly kind. But then, he was only ten.
Sherman was the adult here. Didn’t matter how much he hurt, too, he had to maintain the order in their lives.
“I didn’t say that,” he said after giving himself the few seconds pause he needed to choose his response.
“Ha! See, I knew it.” Kent slurped his milk.
Brooke would have said something about that. Sherman started to. But pulled himself back.
“What I said,” Sherman continued, his tone as even as ever, “was that I’m not just taking you because I have business to do. It’s the complete opposite, in fact. I invited Mr. Vanderpohl and his son to join us because I’d already planned to take you to the driving range, as I promised last weekend, and I wasn’t going to disappoint you.”
Kent came first. He always had.
“Cole’s going to be there?” Kent’s face lit up as he mentioned the banker’s son.
“Yes.”
“Cool!” Picking up his bowl, Kent put it to his lips, emptied it, licked the spoon and then very carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin, put the spoon in the bowl and carried the ensemble over to the sink.
Some moments he was still pretty much a perfect kid.
* * *
HER PALMS WERE SWEATING. Tanner had said she’d be fine. She’d believed him. He was wrong.
Making a beeline for the teacher’s lounge, Talia made it to the bathroom in time to throw up. And then sat there shaking. She must have the flu.
Her forehead was cool to her touch.
But she definitely felt off.
Emotionally, she was a rock. Could count the number of times she’d cried since she was five.
Maybe it was something she ate.
Did that make you shake?
She could call someone. Sedona.
Pulling out her cell phone she pictured her new sister-in-law in her legal office, all capable and smart, answering her phone. Asking Talia questions that she wouldn’t want to answer.
No, calling wasn’t a good idea.
Kent Paulson, Sherman Paulson’s son, was sitting in the principal’s office, working on his assignments for the week. She was permitted to work with him at any time over the next hour.
The hour was ticking past.
He didn’t need her.
This was about her. Because she wanted to meet him.
No, that wasn’t right. She just needed to make sure he was okay.
And if he wasn’t, she’d do what she could to see that he got the help he needed. From someone else.
As if his artwork was somehow going to give her a glimpse into his little-boy soul and she’d magically know what he needed?
Or maybe she’d know something instinctively because of who he was?
Did a woman still get maternal instincts when she gave up her baby for adoption?
Her stomach roiled and she almost puked again.
God, what was the matter with her? Nothing scared her.
Nothing.
Except maybe when Tatum had been missing. She’d been scared then.
Because she loved that kid.
She didn’t love Kent. She couldn’t. She didn’t even know him.
He wasn’t hers to love.
It was just going to be art.
Pictures in