Lost Along the Way (4 page)

I wasn’t sure I wanted to bother. How much could I really make selling my mom’s little collectable animals anyway? Then it dawned on me. “You have one of these booths?”

“Sort of, yeah.”

“Sort of?”

“I’m an artist.” He fidgeted with the hem of his tank top, not quite meeting my eyes, as if the confession embarrassed him. “Well, I’m actually a part-time groundskeeper at the university, but I sell some art too.”

The groundskeeper part explained the tidiness of my parents’ yard and his dark tan, but the artist part took me completely by surprise. I couldn’t help but think of Chase, who had always dreamed of pursuing a career in music and yet never had the will to follow through.

“What kind of art?”

“I make wind sculptures.”

I tried to imagine what that could be. How did one sculpt the wind?

He must have seen the confusion on my face because he pointed out the front window at the metal bird contraption that had startled me so much upon my arrival. “That’s one of mine.”

I stared at the birds, now soaring in lazy circles on the gentle Wyoming breeze. The idea of him creating something so large and yet so beautiful intrigued me. And all that welding explained the scars and burns on his forearms. It also explained the sculpture’s presence in my parents’ yard.

“I do a bit of photography too,” Landon went on. “I wish I could paint, to be honest, but I don’t have an eye for color.”

“Wow.”

“You should come over sometime and see my work.”

The invitation felt strangely intimate, and suddenly I was the one who couldn’t make eye contact.

“Anyway,” Landon said, veering the conversation back to the subject at hand, “I know the owner down at the flea market, and I know they have space available. You could rent one and—”

“Why don’t you take it?” I asked.

He blinked at me in confusion. “Take what? The space at the market?”

“No. The stuff.” I gestured around the room. “All this stuff. Could you sell it?”

“Well, yeah. Maybe. I think so. Some of it, at least. It’s hard to say what will sell and what won’t, but—”

“Do you want it?”

He took a step backward. “I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s yours.”

I laughed, feeling suddenly as if this was a game. And I was determined to win. “Then I’m giving it to you.” I surveyed the stacks of boxes. “Well, I mean, any of it you might want.”

He chewed his lip thoughtfully. “I could split the profits with you.”

“I don’t even care about that.” And it was the truth. “Consider it payment for all the work you’ve done around here since they’ve been gone.”

“That was nothing.” But he glanced around the room, debating.

I sensed victory and moved in for the kill. “If you don’t take it, I’ll end up donating it.”

That did it. I could see it in his eyes. But he didn’t accept quite yet. “I feel like you should get something out of it too.”

And suddenly, the answer was as plain as day. “Help me sort through it, then.” I held up my hands, gesturing around. “This is only the beginning. There are boxes and boxes in the spare bedroom and the garage. Probably more in the attic too. It’s overwhelming. I could really use a hand. I’d be happy to give you anything you want in exchange for that. And what neither of us wants, we’ll either donate or throw away.” Having said it all, I found myself smiling. It seemed like a brilliant solution. Not only would I get through the boxes faster, but the thought of having a bit of company in that empty, memory-filled house was like a light going on in the dark. “What do you say? You in?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at me. “Okay,” he said simply. “It’s a deal.”

I
LEARNED
a great deal about Landon over the next couple of weekends, and what I learned never failed to amuse me.

He was thirty-four years old. Single. Never married, although he looked at me strangely when I asked. He owned two vehicles. One was an old Chevy pickup truck, as big as they come, and a bit worse for the wear. He used it to move his sculptures from his shop in the old garage in his backyard to the flea market. He also used it several times a year to haul his tiny RV to Yellowstone or Rocky Mountain National Park, where he spent a week at a time camping and taking photos, which he later framed and sold. This suited the newly formed image of him in my mind as a burly, rustic kind of guy.

His second vehicle shattered that image completely. It was a mint green Vespa, which looked absurdly small with his broad, muscular body perched on its seat. I nearly choked on my coffee the first time I saw him putting down the street on it.

He was handy. That much I’d guessed already. He held a deep-rooted respect for my parents, especially for my mother. His obvious regard for her made me like him even more. He’d clearly spent a great deal of time with her, either gardening or drinking tea—and this mental image was enough to inspire a fit of giggles I fought hard to suppress—or watching TV. He told me they’d often watched my forecasts together. Sometimes listening to him talk about her I couldn’t help but feel I’d failed as a son, but he’d made up for it, to some extent.

It didn’t surprise me to learn he loved nature. He loved the wind and the sun and wide open spaces, and I could see how those things suited him. But he also had a fondness for knitting patterns and doilies, although he said he was all thumbs when it came to making the damn things—the mental image of him knitting made me want to giggle again—and he was strangely intrigued by anything that hinted at the supernatural. He checked his horoscope in the newspaper religiously, owned several decks of tarot cards, and mentioned in one off-hand conversation a visit with a palm reader. I couldn’t ever get a good feel for how much he believed in the stuff. Sometimes he seemed skeptical, but other times his tone was almost reverent.

I supposed it was this strange affinity for the unknown that inspired his interest in the cookbook.

“I’ve googled everything I can think of,” he told me one Sunday afternoon as we sorted through boxes in the living room. “I can’t find anything about Granny B. Nothing. But the recipes! I can’t help but wonder if they actually do the things they say. Lulu says—”

“Who’s Lulu?”

“My psychic advisor.” I blinked at him, trying to decide how to respond, but he went on as if I hadn’t interrupted. “She says I should proceed with caution if I start cooking. She says it’s never wise to mess with the unknown. But I could tell she was interested. I thought maybe she’d heard of Granny B, but—”

“You have a psychic advisor?” I interrupted, unable to get past that strange revelation.

He moved the box he’d been sorting—which had been full of porcelain dolphins—to the spot by the door, which told me he intended to take them to his booth at the flea market. “Of course. Don’t you?”

“No.”

He took the lid off the next box and peered inside. “I’m not surprised. You’re a Taurus, right?”

“Right.” And how the hell did he know that?

“I suppose you don’t need one, being a meteorologist.”

“I don’t need one because it’s impossible to predict the future.”

He smiled at me. “Isn’t that what you do? Predict the future?”

“What I do is science.”

“And all anyone ever does is point out when you’re wrong. It must be infuriating. I mean, you’re right more often than not, right? But they never get it.”

“Uh….” That last part was dead-on, but I was still reeling from his comparison of meteorology and psychic prediction.

“Anyway,” he went on, “I actually thought maybe Lulu’d sent the cookbook, but she swears she didn’t, and she isn’t a very good liar.”

“She’s a
psychic advisor
. Her entire career is a lie.”

He stood up straight from the box he’d been digging into to face me, his fists on his hips. “Some of them may be charlatans, but Lulu isn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s my mom.”

Talk about awkward. I felt like a complete ass. “For the record, you might want to lead with that next time.”

“I suppose. Or you could try being more open-minded.”

“If she’s your mom—”

“She prefers I call her Lulu,” he said, anticipating my question. “Something about reminders of nonspiritual ties to the mundane plane of physical existence, blah, blah, blah. Anyway,” he went on, waving the whole conversation about his mother off as if it didn’t matter, “I can’t decide what to try first. I mean, it’s silly, because I’m fine. I don’t need clarity right now. I don’t have a broken heart. I’m not trying to seduce anybody.” But his cheeks flushed bright red as he said this, and he turned his back on me to dig deeper into the box. “Do you cook?” he asked me.

“Occasionally.” I unwrapped a tiny owl. It was the fourteenth one I’d held in my hands that day. “I don’t usually feel up for it by the time I get off work. Chase cooks more than I do.”

“Oh? What does he do?”

“He….” I rubbed my thumb over the owl’s hard, smooth, feathered chest, debating my answer. “He’s a musician.”

Landon glanced at me over his shoulder, his eyes bright with interest, much as mine had probably been fifteen years ago when I’d first laid eyes on Chase. “Really?”

“No.” The word left my mouth before I’d decided to say it. I felt like a traitor. Landon stared at me with obvious confusion. I sighed and set the owl aside. “Not for a long time.”

“But he used to be?”

“He did.”

“How’d you meet?”

“At a bar.”

“Aha!” He grinned mischievously at me, but I shook my head.

“Not like that. It wasn’t a hookup kind of bar. It was this little local joint that hosted live music on the weekends. He played backup guitar for this woman. A singer.” She’d been a hell of a vocalist, and they’d written some great songs together, but at some point, her ego had gotten in the way. Or maybe Chase’s had. It was hard to decide which way to point the finger. “He was good. He loved playing so much.” And I’d loved the romantic notion of dating a musician, listening to him strum his guitar in the evenings, after we made love, me lying naked in bed, him perched on the edge, throwing me flirtatious smiles as he played. I’d loved watching his fingers move over the strings.

I couldn’t even remember the last time he’d taken his guitar out of its case.

Landon watched me, waiting for me to go on. “He never really figured out how to make it work,” I finished lamely.

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what does he do now?”

“He waits tables at the Olive Garden.” But I knew it wouldn’t last. His jobs never did.

Landon shrugged and moved another box to his pile by the door. “It’s hard to make a living off of art. Most of us have to take jobs on the side to make ends meet.”

Yes, I knew that was true. But somewhere along the way, Chase had lost his love of music. He’d lost his confidence. He’d lost his purpose. And sometimes I worried we’d lost each other, too, but that was neither here nor there.

I glanced at the clock. Only a couple of hours left, and then it’d be time to head back home for the week. My heart turned heavy at the thought. I was surprised to realize I’d actually been enjoying myself these last couple of weekends, sorting through boxes with Landon. The idea of returning to Denver filled me with a quiet sense of dread.

It’s not because of Chase
, I told myself.
It’s because of work. Of course you’re not excited about another work week. Who would be?

But I wasn’t sure I believed my own reassurances.

T
HE
DRIVE
back to Denver was long and tedious, and gave me way too much time to examine my dark thoughts. Every week, returning to Denver got a little bit harder. The urge to bury my head in my parents’ clutter and not go home was surprisingly strong. I tried over and over to tell myself it was work I dreaded, not Chase. But as I passed Johnson’s Corner—a truck stop boasting “world famous” cinnamon rolls and exotic massages in a trailer in the back—I finally faced the truth: Chase and I were falling apart.

It was hard to say when it had begun, but over the years, we’d stopped talking. Chase had stopped playing his guitar. We’d ceased making love, or making plans, or looking to our future. We said “good morning.” We said “good night.” We even said “I love you.” But we’d long since stopped feeling the sentiments behind the words. We’d sat in comfortable complacency as our world had gone to hell, and now, our relationship was as lifeless as that much-lamented frog in the pot.

As I turned into our Westminster neighborhood, I was left with a final question: Could it be fixed?

I had to believe it could. We’d invested fifteen years in this relationship. Surely it could be salvaged. All we needed was some quality time together. Maybe a weekend away or a vacation.

Neither was likely to happen in the immediate future.

I found the house empty, and I tried to tell myself the emotion I felt was disappointment rather than relief. A note on the counter explained Chase was working the late shift at the restaurant, which meant he’d be home shortly before eleven. I swore quietly to myself, knowing I’d be asleep by then. He’d been working lunch the last few weeks, which gave us evenings together, but it appeared he was now back on the dinner shift, which meant we’d hardly see each other.

My prediction proved correct. When I left for the station each morning, Chase was still sleeping. When I returned, he was at work. He didn’t get home until long after I’d fallen asleep. The only time we were together was when we were sleeping, each of us hugging our own side of the bed.

I called during my lunch break on Friday, struck with the sudden urge to kidnap him and carry him away from the wreck our relationship had become. “Come to Laramie with me,” I begged, knowing it was futile.

“I can’t, Daniel. You know I have to work.”

“You said you’d take a weekend off.”

“I said in July. It’s barely June.”

I sighed. “I’ve hardly seen you all week.”

“I know, honey. We’re all out of whack right now, but I’ll see you on Sunday, okay?”