Casting Stones (Stones Duet #1) (39 page)

Soon after, I’m handed a pair of thick, pink rubber gloves and a metal rake. I look at the foreign object with wide, curious eyes. I’m a city girl. I don’t know the first thing about raking, mowing or gardening.

Shane drops his rake and stands behind me, both hands covering mine as he shows me how to toss the rake out and drag it back in. Toss and drag. Toss and drag. He continues the tutorial until I assure him that I’ve got it. The truth is his hard dick pressing into my backside was driving me insane.

Even Shane’s offer to make a huge leaf pile for Abby to jump through isn’t enough to gain the little girl’s forgiveness. Simon would call her a typical woman who can hold a serious grudge.

Later that afternoon, as the sun begins to fall low across the western sky, I’m showered and dressed, ready to meet Shane’s mother.

“Well, look at you. Aren’t you pretty!” A tiny voice that matches the tiny lady says, reaching out to greet me.

“Ma, don’t embarrass the poor girl,” Leslie chimes in. “She’ll think you’re crazy.”

“Stop that nonsense. I’m Sheila, Shane’s momma.”

“Hi,” I return the awkward hug. “I’m Remy. Remy Scott.”

“You smell good! What is that you’re wearing? Estee Lauder? Chanel Number five?”

“Uh, no. Michael Kors, I think.” I shrug, trying to remember the name of the perfume. I’ve never been one to pay attention to details like that. David gave it to me a few years ago for Christmas as a reminder of his beloved, deceased wife. Jenna thought it was an odd gift, but then I explained how I loved the scent on her. It was always welcoming and loving.

“Where’s that handsome son of mine?”

“He’s taking a shower.”

“Alone? Why ain’t you in there with him?”

“Excuse me?” I cover my loud cough.

“Mom!” Leslie gasps in unison.

“Awww, relax girls. I’m just kidding.” Sheila winks at me and walks out of the room down into the basement.

“Your mom is—”

Leslie interrupts, “Crazy!”

“I was going to say funny, but crazy might work.”

Leslie grins in agreement.

My eyes fall to an old picture taped to the front of the refrigerator. Shane and Leslie look really young; each is sitting on a parent’s lap. It looks like the ones you see on the JC Penney portrait studio catalog. I smile at the goofy grin of the awkward boy who has become the man I love.

“Does your dad live here, too?”

“No.”

With a single word, I realize the conversation is over.

Shane’s mom returns carrying a thick floral-printed book and sets it on the table.

“Ma, c’mon! Are you serious? He’s going to kill you!” Leslie reprimands her mother who has opened the thick book to the first page which reveals a large picture of a bald, bouncing baby boy.

“Oh no, you don’t.” Shane breezes into the room and snatches the book away from his mother, holding it way above his head out of her reach. His playful demeanor is a nice change from earlier when he practically screamed at his niece, causing her to run away in tearful sobs.

“Boy, give that to me right now. It doesn’t matter how big you are. I’ll take you over my knee! Give it here.” Her short arms reach out for the album to no avail.

“No.” Shane replies but offers a kiss to her check as a concession. “No baby pictures.”

His mom glances over at me, winks and then whispers for all to hear, “I’ll show you later when he goes for a run. He was such a good baby. He was a real porker, too.”

“Thanks, Mom.” With a playful rolling of his eyes, he sets the photo album high above the wooden cabinet.

Shane glances over to his sullen niece and offers a look of apology. I watch carefully as he walks over then bends down to meet her face to face. There’s a flurry of whispered words that fly back and forth between them until a happy smile stretches across her face. Finally, she nuzzles into his open arms and she sighs. According to this five-year-old, the world has been once again been set right.

Hand and hand, Shane and Abby walk over to where I stand watching Leslie strap the baby into a carrier. The carrier is a monstrosity of a thing; it looks like the curly-headed infant might be launched into outer space.

“You okay?” Shane asks.

“Yeah, why.” I glance at him.

“You look like you’re… disgusted.” He smoothes away the furrow of my brow and follows it with a kiss.

I chuckle, realizing my face was scrunched up as I watched Leslie secure the baby in the five-point harness. “I’m good.”

A little hand slips into mine and gives a gentle tug, drawing my attention downward to the pint-sized version of Shane’s sister.

“Do you like it when Uncle Shane tickles your belly, too?”

My eyes snap to his face where a playful grin appears. The room is suddenly a million degrees as my face flames red with embarrassment. His beautiful blues widen, silently telling me to play along and agree. I feel as though all eyes are on me…because they are. Shane’s family waits for my answer. Sheila looks like the cat has got her tongue.

I swallow nervously and clear my throat to speak, but a deep voice answers for me instead.

“Yes, Abby. I told you that she likes it very much. In fact, she loves it. Don’t you, Remy?”

He kisses the top of her head and ends the conversation. Seemingly satisfied, Abby simply shrugs and follows her mother and grandmother out to their car.

“Oh my God! That was horrible!” I elbow him playfully. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Why?”

“You told your niece you were “tickling my belly.” I state the obvious.

“Well, I couldn’t exactly tell her I was kissing my way down to your sweet pus—”

My hand flies up and covers his mouth. “Don’t say it!” I open my eyes like I mean business after glancing around the kitchen as if someone might hear.

“You like when I say it other times.”

I smirk. “There’s a time and a place for everything,
Mr. Davis
. In the kitchen of the home where you grew up is not one of them.” I offer a quick kiss, thinking about the night I called him Sir.

The drive to the restaurant is filled with a trip down memory lane as he recants all the people and places of his small town. He points and smiles at all the familiar sights. Seeing him so happy and carefree fills me with warmth and, if I’m honest, a twinge of jealousy. I wish I could look back at my childhood and recall so many good memories like he can. I guess there were a few years that weren’t so bad.

Shane places his hand at the small of my back and leads me to a large round table toward the back of the Mario’s Pizzeria. It’s relatively busy for a Saturday night. The atmosphere is homey and warm with quiet chatter of families enjoying a night out. It’s as if Shane is the prodigal son who has returned home when people, men and women of all ages, greet him by name.

“Excuse me a minute.” Shane kisses my cheek and stands. My eyes follow him as he walks over to an older gentleman who sits alone at a table set for two.

“Shane.” Leslie calls after him, but he ignores her, pulling out the empty chair and sitting opposite the man.

I’m desperate to know who he is and why Shane suddenly looks so angry. I can’t pull my eyes away from them. We place our drink order with the waitress. I order a glass of water for myself and beer for him. Sheila looks at me as if I’ve suddenly grown three heads.

“He’s drinking again?” Her voice is laced with concern and something close to worry.

The gears in my brain, which normally work in conjunction with one another, stop abruptly. Her question floors me. I turn to look at him and catch him staring at something. I follow his line of sight, searching for the source and see nothing but a pretty pregnant woman, a dark-haired man and two little kids. I don’t understand his fascination with the small family who like everyone else seems to be enjoying a night out, eating dinner and laughing. A flicker of envy reminds me of the few times I was a part of a family of four.

“Is he?” Sheila interrupts my moment of reverie.

I don’t appreciate the tone in her question and, for some strange reason, I feel the need to defend him. “Uh…he has a beer or two on occasion. I’ve never seen him drink more than that.”

Again I glance in Shane’s direction and watch him interact with the husky man who tips back the last of his drink and slams the glass down. With incredible intensity, he leans forward to look directly at Shane and murmurs something I can’t hear. I watch Shane’s fine features transform into a look of repugnance as he mouths a response. Abruptly, Shane stands and walks in the opposite direction, leaving the older man alone.

My heart aches for him. I want to move my body and run after him, but my feet are cemented to the floor. I’m trapped, feeling awkward and uncomfortable, as Leslie and Sheila fall silent, each with a heavy, sorrowful sigh.

I know what it’s like to have someone pry into my personal life, to start asking questions you don’t want to answer. I hate it. Too many times, I’ve been left with no choice but to lie rather than reveal the truth. The truth, sometimes, is ugly, harsh and raw.

I sip on the water and look around the restaurant, anxiously and patiently waiting for Shane to return. My eyes land back on the family of four who have now finished their dinner and are gathering their belongings. The man, tall and handsome, holds open a jacket as the woman slips her arms through. She kisses him quickly and smiles. They follow the children through the narrow path, walking together, hand in hand, and wave goodbye to other diners.

“Hey,” Shane pulls out his chair and sits. “I’m sorry about that.” His apology is meant for each of us as he looks around the table. The bottle of beer is brought to his lips and nearly half consumed with two big gulps. Gently, he sets it on the table.

“Should you be drinking, son?”

As if putting on a show of defiance, Shane picks up the beer again, directs his eyes to his mother and finishes the contents.

I slip my hand under the table and place my hand on his thick thigh. My palm slides up and down along his jeans, silently asking or willing him to relax. Shane drops his head in what appears to be disgrace and places his hand over mine.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as he leans over and kisses the spot just below my ear.

My eyes search his, silently accepting his words and offering my love and understanding in return.

“Mom,” he calls.

Sheila calms her quivering chin and meets his gaze with tear-filled eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

She places her small hand over his and pats it lightly, rubbing her thumb across his knuckles. “I know you are, son. I know you are.”

The rest of dinner continues on with superficial conversations. I feel as though I’m playing a game of twenty questions because Leslie and Sheila bombard me with inquiries. Most required an easy response until they asked about my family.

I’m thankful for Shane’s interjections and change of subject.

After dinner, we wave goodbye to his mom, his sister and her little girls as they pile into their car and we climb into the truck.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, sliding over and moving to sit next to him along the leather seat.

“Nothing.” He shrugs. If he thinks I’m going to let this go, he’s sadly mistaken.

“Who was that man you were talking to?”

He turns the key and starts the engine. The truck roars to life as his foot presses the gas pedal repeatedly.

“Shane?” I still his leg with a simple touch.

“My father.”

Shane maneuvers the truck onto the main road. The rural land passes by in the dark night only lit by streetlights.

“Oh,” is the only word I utter.

“Want to tell me about him?”

“No. Not really.”

We drive along the main road until we reach the entrance to what appears to be a park.

“What’s he like?”

With only the light from the tall streetlight, I can see Shane’s chest rise and fall as he repeats my words.

The truck is turned off and we sit in silence.

“He’s a hardened man.”

“What does that mean? What happened to him?”

He releases a deep sigh. “He was a young man who went to war and never came home.”

Shane closes his eyes as his long fingers steeple against the bridge of his nose. “My father left his heart and all sense of reality in Vietnam. He was just a kid who tried to be a man. He, like so many, came home broken and forever wounded.”

I pull his fingers away from his face and lace our hands. “I’m sorry about your dad. Has he ever gotten some help? Talked to someone?”

“Yeah, he did when I was a kid, but then one day, he just stopped going. He said they were trying to make him forget what happened and he didn’t
want
to forget. He couldn’t forget because it would be as if it never happened.”

“Why doesn’t he live at home with your mom?” I know I’m prying, but I really do want to know. The intense conversation between father and son and Leslie’s clipped comments has piqued my curiosity and I want to understand what’s going on.

“My father became abusive. He used to push my mother around. It was a vicious cycle. She would kick him out, but she always forgave him and took him back. She said it wasn’t his fault; she blamed the U.S. government. In her eyes, it was never
his
fault until he pushed her down a flight of stairs, breaking her arm in three places and causing her to miscarry their third child.”

The image of Shane sitting upon his father’s knee in the picture I saw taped to the refrigerator races to my mind. What appeared to be a happy, all-American family was anything but. My heart hurts for that little boy, but it splinters even more for the man who sits beside me with silent tears flowing down his cheeks.

“I don’t want to be like him.” Shane, this big masculine man who displays so much pride, chokes back a sob.

“You’re not like him.” I crawl into his lap and cradle his head in the crook of my neck.

“I hate what he’s become.”

I offer nothing but arms to soothe him and words of love to comfort him.

Slowly, he drags his head up and looks at me; his fingers lightly caress my cheeks as his eyes follow his finger’s trail until his eyes meet mine. As if looking into the depths of the deep blue sea, I discover something hidden, something painful, something he has yet revealed to me. I see his pain.