Page 82 of That Weekend in Paris
~
I DON’T TELL her what time I’m coming, but nonetheless, when I walk into Riley’s room, she’s alone, and I’m glad because I can’t hold in my questions much longer.
“Hey,” she says. “I’m so glad you’re here. They’re saying I can probably go home today.”
“That’s good,” I say in an even voice, walking over to stand by the window and stare down at the parking lot below. “We need to talk, Riley,” I say without looking at her yet. For some reason, I can’t bring myself to do so, and I fold my arms across my chest, getting to the point immediately.“Pete thinks you might be trying to get rid of me, Riley.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I do turn to look at her, wanting to gauge her reaction for myself. I can see she’s been expecting this because her expression is completely neutral. There’s not a glimpse of surprise to an eyebrow nor a shocked widening of her eyes.
“Pete’s crazy,” she says.
“You can have your opinion about that, nonetheless, he’s pretty convinced of what he’s saying.”
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Why on earth would I do something like that, Klein?”
“I don’t know, Riley. Why would you? Maybe to pay me back. All I know is I’ve been sick twice and have no explanation for it. My doctor was a little curious, so he insisted on doing a tox screen. Is there anything in there that you think he might find?”
Riley’s face blanches an unnatural shade of white. I watch as she silently grapples for an answer, and I really don’t need to hear anything more from her. It’s clear that there’s enough truth to this accusation to make me sure I want to see the results of Dr. Macau’s testing. And get him to test the rest of my supplements as well.
Dillon
“How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.”
?William C. Faulkner
I HONESTLY THINK I’d forgotten how much I love it here.
Mama left me the house on Smith Mountain Lake. The Virginia land and old farmhouse were left to her by her parents. I’ve only been here once since she died, and pulling into the driveway now, I’m overcome with a wave of sadness. I turn the car off and sit staring at the house, memories welling up. I see Mama standing on the front porch, waving at me as I climb on the school bus. I see our Lab Lucy bounding down the steps to meet me in the afternoon.
It’s summertime here, and I remember countless days when Mama and I had sat on the front porch on a day such as this, eating watermelon and having a seed-spitting contest.
Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to come now. But honestly, I couldn’t think of anywhere else I belong. Nashville felt like a place I needed to leave. The house Josh and I shared wasn’t ours anymore. It is his. I wish more than anything in the world that Mama was here to meet me. That I could run up the stairs and into the house to find her in the kitchen baking sugar cookies because she knew I was coming.
But I know she won’t be there, and so I get out of the car, walking up the steps and finding the key under the flowerpot by the front door. It fits in the lock exactly the same as the last time I’d used it, just slightly crooked, but the lock cooperates, and the door swings in.
The house always smells the same as I remember, a touch of lemon furniture polish mixed with the scent of yesterday’s baking. It’s not logical that the house would smell of Mama’s cooking, and sometimes, I wonder if it is my memory guiding my senses and not the actual house.
I step inside the foyer, my shoes squeaking on the polished hardwood floor. I’ve been paying Betsy Harker to clean every two weeks, and looking around, I can see she has kept things exactly as Mama would have. Mama loved a clean house, and she spent every Saturday morning making ours shine. She enlisted my help when I was older, and I never minded because her love for this place had been infused in my heart the same as it had hers.
I flick on lamps as I head toward the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to take in the room Mama had loved most. She’d kept much of it as it had been when she was growing up, the white stove with its gas burners, the farm table in the breakfast nook, the large cupboard with her grandma’s dishes prominently displayed.
I stand at the screen door that looks out onto the back yard, note that Betsy’s husband is as careful and meticulous with his mowing as she is with cleaning. It’s nice to come home and see the place so well taken care of. I know that would make Mama happy.
Why haven’t I come home more? I could blame it on Josh and the fact that he’d never been overly enthusiastic about coming here, but the fault is more mine, if I’m honest. I cared what he wanted more than I cared about coming home. I feel heartsick at the pain I must have caused Mama. And now it’s too late to undo any of it. Too late to tell her I’m sorry.
I turn and walk back to the truck where I pull my big suitcase from the passenger seat. I’d left the Porsche 911 with Josh. I don’t want it anymore. It was never me anyway. I pat the hood of the truck as I roll the suitcase toward the front porch. The truck has always been more me.
~
I TAKE A long hot soak in the bathtub upstairs. It’s the old clawfoot kind, and I’m a little tall for it, but it’s deep, and the water is deliciously warm, the bubbles I’ve added floating up under my chin. I close my eyes and try not to think about the scene with Josh before I’d left. I’ve hurt him. I know it, but it wasn’t because I wanted revenge. I just know it’s time to move on, figure out where I’m going from here.
My phone rings from the stool near the tub. I sit up and reach for it, glancing at the screen. My heart thuds and takes off at a gallop. Should I answer? Would it be better to leave the connection between us severed?
Probably, but I click the green button anyway. “Hey.”
“Dillon. Hey.”
His voice drenches me in warmth. I sit up in the bath, pulling my knees against my chest and putting him on speaker. “How are you?” I ask, my voice echoing in the room.
