Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [33]
“The restored one?” Sam’s eyes lit up. “Wow, Dad told me about it over the phone. That was so cool of Otis. Why can’t I drive that?”
“ ’Cause your dad isn’t quite ready for that yet,” I said wryly. “He’s not going to be thrilled about me driving it, but it’s the only way we can get you some wheels.”
“Maybe I can talk him into it,” he said, his eyes still dreamy.
“Maybe,” I humored him, thinking, Not in this lifetime, sonny boy.
I was thankful Sam was in the bathroom when Gabe came into the living room dressed for work. I straightened his tie and informed him of our plans.
“Be careful,” he said. “Maybe I should drive Dad’s truck.”
“Okay, but then I drive the Corvette.”
I watched his face struggle with the choices. “I guess I’ll take the Corvette. You’re not going anyplace off-road, are you?”
“Oh, go catch some bad guys,” I said, kissing him and pushing him toward the door.
I dressed quickly in jeans, a sleeveless denim shirt, and boots. With a quick brush of hair and teeth, I was ready for my visit with Nick. All I had to do was stop by the bakery and buy a pie. When I walked back into the kitchen, Sam was loading both last night’s and this morning’s dishes in the dishwasher. A package of chicken breasts lay on the counter.
“Thanks,” I said. “What are you doing with the chicken?”
He smiled at me. “I’m not a complete scrounge, madrastra .” He took a long glass pan from the bottom cupboard. “I thought I’d marinate some chicken breasts in this great teriaki-ginger sauce I learned in Hawaii. We can broil them for dinner. Maybe steam some vegetables and rice to go with it.”
I unsuccessfully hid my surprise. “You cook?”
He wiped his wet hands on his sweatshirt. “I worked for a few months as a chef’s helper in a hotel restaurant in Haleiwa. I mostly just cut up vegetables, but I learned a few things watching the chef.”
“Well, anyone who cooks around here is more than welcome.”
After picking up a fresh cherry pie at the bakery, I drove to Nick’s house. He lived near the college on a cul-de-sac that ended at one of Cal Poly’s pastures. The street had become more familiar to me in the last few months because Gabe’s leased house was at the end of the same street. Nick’s house sat above the pavement, perched over his two-car garage. A red Harley-Davidson Sportster was parked in front of the garage doors, a black helmet resting in the bushes as if he’d flung it there when he dismounted. I picked it up and balanced it carefully on the leather motorcycle seat. A steep set of white wooden stairs led to an intricately carved front door with a stained-glass porthole window. An overgrown ash tree in his tiny front yard canopied the deep front porch.
He answered the door on my third knock. He looked thinner than the last time I saw him a week ago, though I knew that was just an illusion. Death, it seemed to me, did that to survivors, seemed to shrink them for a time, as if a part of them physically left when the person they loved did. His shaggy auburn hair was slightly greasy at the crown, and the whites of his blue eyes were faintly yellow and webbed with red lines. He wore a pair of dark jeans, a gray athletic shirt, and scuffed black motorcycle boots.
“Nick, I’m so sorry,” I said. We did an awkward dance for a moment as I tried to hug him while balancing the pink box holding the pie.
“Come on in,” he said, taking the box from my hands.
I followed him into his shaded living room. With the greenish sunlight dappling the room and the large picture window peering over his neighbors’ rooftops, it felt like we were in a tree house. He pushed aside a pile of newspapers on the leather sofa to give me a place to sit. Crumpled fast-food containers and empty beer bottles littered the glass coffee table. He sat across from me in a plaid chair, cradling the pink bakery box in his lap.
“Thanks for the cake,” he finally said.
“It’s a pie, and you’re welcome.”
We sat uncomfortably