At Peace by Kristen Ashley
I didn’t find it that easy.
But since he gave it to me, I figured I should give it back and when I figured that, I was reminded of Joe telling me about the scales.
Balancing them out.
Shit, Joe was too wise for my good and it pissed me off when he was right.
“Just that…” I trailed off, not knowing how to explain it, “getting reminded of things. You know, like my girls’ll never cuddle up to their Dad again, watch a movie.”
His face changed, grew gentle, his hand tensed at my jaw and he whispered, “Sweetheart.”
I shook my head again. “It’s okay, it’s cool. Sorry. It isn’t cool, just that I should say, it’s good that you have that with Clarisse.”
“Yeah,” he replied, his eyes never leaving mine, “’cept, next time, it’ll mean a helluva lot more than normal.”
I bit my lip thinking I was standing mostly in the arms of a really good guy.
Mike read that I needed a subject change pronto and asked, “You wanna see why I bought this place?”
“Sure.”
He let me go, took my hand and led me to the French doors and out onto the white-painted, wooden balcony.
There were a couple of Adirondack chairs there, also painted white, no pads. His yard below had a high fence all around to shield his business from the neighbors.
But I knew why he brought me to his bedroom when I saw, beyond his fenced yard, there was also a view of straight, flat cornfield, the corn growing, knee height now. Beyond that were some dense woods. Smack in the middle of it, there was a yellow farmhouse with white woodwork, a wraparound porch and a red barn with green lawn all around, some graveled drives, a white gazebo with wisteria growing from it, a grape arbor heavy with vines.
Something about the view stunned me. I’d seen many farmhouses but this one, from our elevated view, seemed picture perfect. There was intricate, lacy woodwork in the corners of the posts holding up the porch roof; the lawn looked like mine, green and healthy; and the pristine rows filled with the wide leaves of the growing corn, both spiky and bowed, all of it exquisitely cared for and cultivated showed these farmers loved their home, their farm, the pride went deep and it was amazing to behold.
Not a lot of people would think this was picturesque or at least not beautiful. It wasn’t a beach or a view of the mountains but I thought it was gorgeous. I could totally see buying this house if I could sit in an Adirondack chair, drink wine and stare at that view.
“Grew up in this ‘burg and my high school girlfriend grew up on that farm,” Mike told me and I looked up at him to see his eyes on the farmhouse. “She got married to some guy she met at Notre Dame, moved to DC. Her brother runs that farm now.” He looked down at me. “I always loved that farm.”
“Did you wanna be a farmer?” I asked.
“Fuck no,” he grinned, “still, liked her farm. Her folks were great too. And she had this sister…” he stopped talking and I waited for him to say more. His face had grown thoughtful in a faraway way and since he didn’t seem to mind sharing, and he wasn’t sharing, I figured he didn’t want to so I changed the subject.
“How’d you meet Audrey?” I asked, leaning against the railing and he came back to the conversation and leaned with me.
“Blind date.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he grinned again, “friend of mine was dating a friend of hers. Thought we’d get on.”
“Obviously, you did.”
He didn’t answer, he looked out to the farmhouse again, taking a sip of his wine, his face grew pensive again and I thought I read what this meant.
“You really liked her,” I said softly, not wanting to push.
Mike’s eyes came to me. “Audrey?”
“No, your high school girlfriend.”
He burst out laughing.
“What?” I asked when he was mostly done laughing.
“Debbie was sweet, but she was career minded. Hated livin’ here, couldn’t wait to get out, doesn’t come back often. She didn’t want kids, wanted to be a lawyer and she became one. Her brother tells me she’s a shark. Makes a mint, works eighty hour weeks, lives and breathes her work. Saw her at Christmas a few years ago, she was with her Mom in the grocery store and she had her Blackberry in her hand, e-mailin’ people while she was at home for the holidays, out with her Mom, buyin’ egg nog. Seriously, sweetheart, that is not my thing.”
“And Audrey was your thing?”
The humor moved out of his face and he said, “You don’t wanna know about that shit.”
“I do, unless you don’t want to tell me.”
“Violet –”
“Mike, honey, I just nearly burst into tears in your bedroom. You can feel free to tell me about your ex-wife.”
He smiled, took another sip of wine, then slid an arm around my waist, inching me closer and when he had me where he wanted me, he left his arm there.
“I won’t lie, lookin’ back, she gave me signals, lots of ‘em. But she could be funny, fuckin’ hell, she could be funny. Never laughed so hard as I did with Audrey in the beginning, thought that’d be my life, laughter. She was gorgeous and she made me laugh and I kept my focus on that and ignored the signals. It started six months in, after we got back from our honeymoon, which, by the way, she demanded was at an all-inclusive that cost a fuckin’ fortune. I was twenty-four, my parents had to help me pay for it.”
He paused to allow me to let this information sink in, I nodded for him to continue and he did.
“We’d moved into our apartment but she wanted another one, bigger, more exclusive in a development with a pool. I couldn’t afford it but I loved her, so the minute the lease ran out, I moved her into her new apartment. Two months later, she found a house she wanted to buy and it kept goin’ from there. She never hid it from me, I just wanted to think eventually she’d have what she needed or she’d be happy with what she had or, at least, she’d be happy just to have me. She never was.”
I placed my hand on his chest thinking Audrey Haines was all kinds of fool, his arm gave me a squeeze and he went on talking.
“I should have ended it before we got down to kids but, if I did,” he shrugged, “I wouldn’t have my kids.”
“Worth it then,” I murmured.
“Definitely,” he smiled.
Layla, done with giving her hint that camping out on the bed meant we should join her there, came out and started to head butt our legs.
“I should start cooking,” Mike said, letting me go to pet his dog who, remembering he existed, appeared in throes of ecstasy to have his big, strong hand scratching behind her ears.
“Can I help?” I asked and he stayed bent to Layla but twisted his torso to look up at me.
“You always cook for your girls?”
“Mostly, yeah.”
“Then no.”
There it went, the belly flutter again.
“You always cook when your kids are here?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Then I’ll help.”
He gave Layla a playful push and came to me, his hand curling at my neck, pulling my upper body close to his as his neck bent so his face could get close to mine.
When he was close, he whispered, “I like you, Violet.”
“I like you too, Mike,” I whispered back.
He grinned, touched his forehead to mine a second then touched his lips to mine a second then he said, “Let’s go cook.”
* * * * *
Being a good Dad, Mike knew how to cook. The au gratin potatoes were already cooking in the oven and he made London broil and green beans and he had fresh bakery rolls to go with.
We ate at his kitchen table with Layla lying mostly on Mike’s feet then we did the dishes together. After the dishes, Mike made ice cream sundaes with lashings of caramel and chocolate syrup on gourmet vanilla bean ice cream, whipped cream on top, sprinkled with pralines. I took note of this since they were simple but absolutely delicious. My girls would
We ate these on the couch with Layla sitting by my side, her head on the seat by me, staring at me while blinking, telling me she needed ice cream or she’d die.
Mike noticed and called her off. She gave in with an irritable groan and lay down by my feet.
Conversation through dinner and dessert wasn’t heavy, we didn’t share life stories and I didn’t tear up again. We talked (mostly about our kids), we laughed (mostly about our kids) and he proved again he was easygoing and easy to be around.
Then he took my bowl, ordering me to fill up our wine glasses and he left the room. I did as he ordered and was taking a sip when he got back. He sat down beside me, took my glass out of my hand, set it on the coffee table, put his hands to my pits, dragged my ass across his lap and over then I was on my back and he was on top of me.
Then we were making out on his couch.
I wasn’t certain how I managed to get myself into these situations, fucking Joe on his couch that morning, making out with Mike on his that evening. But I was certain I wasn’t doing a lot to avoid them. I figured, partially, it was because both, in their own way, were pretty freaking magnificent. The other part was that I liked being with both men. I liked it in entirely different ways, but I still liked it.
His mouth moved from mine and his face disappeared into my neck. I felt his tongue trail from the back of my ear down the line of my neck where he stopped and while I shivered, he asked, “Where’re your girls tonight?”
“At home, hopefully not throwing a wild party with boys and kegs.”
His head came up and he was grinning when he looked at me. “That something they would do?”
“Kate, no, Keira, yes, once she figures out kegs exist. Kate would be running through the house trying to get people out or cleaning up and fretting the whole time that someone would break a glass or knock over the TV. Keira would be in the kitchen, not a care in the world, shot gunning beers.”
He was still grinning when he asked, “Yeah?”
I grinned back and shook my head. “No, they’re both good kids. They’re probably watching a movie while Kate texts Dane, who’s out with his friends tonight, and Keira texts everyone in three counties. But I know Keira, there’ll come a day when my house will look like the day after in a 80’s Brat Pack movie.”
“Weird Science,” he said on a smile.
“Sixteen Candles,” I one-upped him.
“You need to get home?” he asked and I looked at the clock on his shelves.
It was eight thirty. I didn’t need to get home and, even though it made me a terrible person, being on the couch with Mike who I liked too much in a way that was so confusing I couldn’t unravel it in a million years, I wanted to be home late, just in case Joe was watching for me.
“No,” I replied when I looked back at him.
“Good,” he muttered and his head came back down.
We made out more and it got heavy, mainly because we both liked it, but the progression was slow, natural, strangely like we’d fooled around on his couch hundreds of times before and when we did it, we always knew we had all the time in the world. This was a change from Joe, a nice one but one that reminded me of Tim, who also took his time, and I’d liked that too.
Eventually Mike’s hand curled around my breast and his thumb slid over the fabric of my blouse at my nipple.
I sucked in breath against his lips and arched my back to press into his hand.
“Sweetheart,” Mike called and I realized my eyes were closed so I opened them.
“Yeah?” I whispered, his eyes got soft, his lids lowered and his mouth touched mine as his thumb slid back across my nipple and I inhaled again.
“I wanna fuck you, honey,” he said quietly and I held my breath, wanting him to and not wanting him to, both at the same maximum strength.
He went on. “Right here or I take you to my bed. But before I do that, we gotta talk.”
“Okay,” I whispered, unsure about this talk because I was pretty sure what this talk was going to be about.
His hand left my breast and he fell to his side, rolling me to mine with his arm around me and he got up on an elbow, head in hand and looked down at me while he tangled his long legs with mine. I decided to get up on my elbow too and I rested my other hand on his chest.
“You ready for this?” he asked softly and I closed my eyes, drew breath into my nostrils and remembered he was a really good guy.
I opened my eyes and replied, “I don’t know.”
“We can go fast, we can go slow, I’m good with both. What I’m not good with is us goin’ fast when you wanna go slow but you not sayin’ anything, yeah?”
I nodded.
Then he spoke again and my entire body went solid because what he said introduced the part I knew he wanted to say.
“I’m also not big on sharing.”
“What?” I asked even though I knew exactly what he meant.
“Cal was at your house today.”
Shitshitshit!
I tried to be casual. It wasn’t like it was 1890 and I had to make sure no one saw my ankles. These days, women played the field just like men.
Right?
“Yeah, he was,” I affirmed, even though he was there, Joe was there and I was there when Mike asked me over for dinner.
“What was he doin’ there?”
“Fixing my garage door opener.”
“He do a lot a shit around your house?”
“Um… just the alarm system and the garage.”
“Things still complicated?”
The answer to that question was, more than ever.
Except, after that afternoon when Mike asked me to his house right in front of Joe and Joe didn’t blink, he didn’t freaking care, not even a little bit, maybe they weren’t.
I just didn’t want to admit it yet, even though I knew at the back of my mind and at the bottom of my heart, I knew.
I also knew, when I uncomplicated things, it would hurt a lot more than it should and more than I could take right then.
“He’s wound you up,” Mike said on a sigh.
“What?”
“Cal, he’s wound you up. Women get like that with him.”
“They do?”
“Yeah, the whole history… women love that shit.”
“What whole history?”
Mike stared at me then he asked, “You don’t know?”
“Don’t know about what?”
“About Cal, his wife, his Dad and his kid.”
I felt my body twitch and I whispered, “His kid?”
Mike stared at me a second then muttered, “Fuck.”
“Fuck what?”
Mike didn’t answer.
I got up on a hand and looked down at him. “Fuck what, Mike?”
Mike pushed up too then, with his arm around me, he pulled me further up the couch to the armrest. He leaned back against the couch and pulled me to him, into his arms, my chest pressed to his, his hand in my hair.
Then he said in a way I knew he didn’t want to say it, “The story is ‘burg lore so someone’s gonna tell you, might as well be me.”
I waited.
Mike spoke again. “You know Feb and Colt’s story? How they were the big item in high school, even before, everyone said they were born to be together?”
I nodded.
“Well, Cal and his ex-wife, Bonnie, they were that way too.”
I blinked, not believing that, not for a minute. Not about the emaciated, lank-dirty-haired, filthy-slutty-clothed Bonnie who crashed to the floor after offering the tall, huge, strong, amazingly beautiful Joe the opportunity to take her up the ass if he paid for it.
“That can’t be true, I’ve met Bonnie, she’s –”
I stopped talking when I saw Mike’s face register out-and-out shock. “You met Bonnie?”
“Yeah.”
“Cal’s Bonnie?”
I didn’t like to think of her that way but I still answered, “Yeah.”
“I was over at his house, she came over.”
“You have got to be shittin’ me.”
I shook my head and said, “No.”
“You sure it was Bonnie?”
I nodded my head and said, “Yes.”
Mike looked away and he muttered, “Jesus Christ.”
I was confused and I explained why. “It wasn’t pleasant but I got the impression it happens a lot. She was asking for money.”
Mike looked back at me and he looked pissed. I’d never seen him look pissed and it was kind of scary. Not Joe-pissed-scary but still, pretty freaking scary.
“She came to Cal’s house and asked Cal for money?”
“She was wasted, and high, a total mess.”
“She wanted money for drugs,” Mike surmised.
“Or booze.”
“No, Violet, she wanted money for drugs,” Mike stated firmly and I stared at him.
“Okay,” I replied slowly.
“She’s a junkie,” Mike informed me.
That wasn’t surprising, she definitely looked and dressed the part, not to mention acted it.
“I guess so.”
“No, she is. Look up junkie in the encyclopedia, sweetheart, Bonnie Wainwright’s picture is right there. The bitch has been a mess for years.”
It seemed out of character for Mike to refer to anyone casually as a bitch so I started to get scared.
“Maybe you should tell me the story,” I suggested.
“Nab our wine, honey, we’re gonna need it,” Mike ordered, I didn’t take that as a good sign but I twisted out of his arms, nabbed our wine off the coffee table and came back, giving him his and taking a sip from mine.
Mike shifted a leg under me so he had one foot to the floor, his thigh angled on the seat, me mostly in his lap, partly between his legs, his other leg the length of the couch, still tangled with both mine.
This was a comfortable position, one of safety, togetherness.
It didn’t register on me as I braced for Mike’s story.
“Like I said,” he started, “Bonnie and Cal were an item, like Feb and Colt. But Bonnie’s Dad was an asshole. Big wig at the church, holier than thou, but not so holy, he didn’t go home and beat the shit outta his wife and kid.”