Rescue Me (Butler Island) (3 page)

Stepping away from the window, Randall shuffled into the
kitchen, rattling ice against his almost empty tumbler. He may’ve started a
tradition of waking before dawn, but his preferred method of ending each day
involved another bottle of Jack Daniels poured over several cubes of ice.
Reaching for the bottle, he poured the amber liquid over the remaining ice and
took a satisfying sip.

Nights were the worst—when memories, should have’s, and
regrets haunted him. When the piercing pain of losing his best friend could
only be dulled by ingesting eighty-proof liquor.

He’d escaped reality and now it was time to return.
Randall’s five month hiatus would officially end tomorrow morning at seven when
he reported to the fire station for shift. Throwing his head back, he swallowed
the remainder of liquid in his glass and slammed the tumbler onto the counter.
Like a magnet, his eyes settled on the bottle of Jack Daniels, his mind
debating whether or not to finish the remains.

Picking up his glass, he shook the empty tumbler, ice
clanking against the sides. The familiar sound spoke to him, encouraging him to
pour one more round to deaden the ache from within.

And Randall was more than happy to oblige.

Toddling into the living room, he sank into his favorite
chair, making a mental note to contact Mr. Morgan in the morning about the old
Boston Whaler he’d had for sale last spring. Restoring the neglected vessel was
just the kind of distraction he needed. He just prayed the marina owner hadn’t
sold it to someone else in his absence.

And, of course, it went without saying that he needed to
talk to Lana. He owed her an apology for walking out on her and Connor when
they’d needed him most.

But not tonight.

No, tonight he hadn’t been ready to face her.

Raising the tumbler to his lips, Randall took another
satisfying sip, finding comfort in the warmth that trickled down his throat. He
hadn’t been ready, but he would be eventually.
Soon
…

Chapter 4

“I just don’t know if I’ll have time to play catch
tonight, Connor. I have to finish dinner and I still need to finish typing the
minutes from last week’s city commission meeting”, Lana explained as she dumped
a fistful of spaghetti into a pot of boiling water.

“But you promised!”

“I know I did, but I hadn’t anticipated on getting a call
from your teacher today when I made that promise”, she uttered as she
cautiously stirred the noodles. She’d learned the hard way during the first
year of marriage that failing to stir pasta within thirty seconds often led to
a gummy clump of starch, which wasn’t the least bit appetizing.

Satisfied that the noodles were swimming gracefully and
freely in the pot, she added salt to the boiling water and carefully laid her
stirring utensil on the counter. “We’ve been over this countless times, Connor:
leaving early from work means I have to bring home the work I wasn’t able to
finish. Which reminds me”—she said as she turned to face her son—“I thought we
discussed you aren’t to have Mrs. Wilkes call me to come pick you up unless
you’re
really
sick.”

“But I
was
really sick, Mommy: I had a mega belly
ache!”

“Well then, I guess it’s a good thing I can’t play catch
tonight. You’re sick, remember?”

“Oh—I feel lots better, now”, he assured her.

“Really?” Lana crossed her arms and leaned her backside
against the edge of the counter. It still amazed her how quickly Connor came
down with an ailment (and how miraculously he’d recover once she picked him up
and brought him home). “And when did that happen, huh?” she questioned, amused.

Connor shrugged his tiny shoulders and stared at an
imaginary spot on his shoes like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever
seen. “A while back ago.”

“Uh-huh…”

The doorbell chimed just as a bubbly sizzle sounded from
the pot. The pasta water boiled over, temporarily diverting her attention to
the stove. “Shit!” Lana quickly reached for her kitchen mitts, scooting the pot
away from the glowing red circle on the glass stovetop.

The doorbell chimed again. “Shit”, Connor mumbled, “guess
I’ll get it.”

Seriously
…?

Yep, Lana’s life could be summarized into one four-letter
word: shit. She was a twenty-seven-year-old widow and her five-year-old son was
a cursing hypochondriac. Needless to say, she was failing miserably as a single
parent.

A low groan escaped her mouth as she glanced at the ring
around the burner. She’d just cleaned the stovetop last week. Apparently
scrubbing the burnt-on pasta water would be yet something else she needed to
add to her growing to-do list tonight. Realizing there wasn’t much she could do
about it until the burner cooled, she returned her attention back to dinner,
using her pasta utensil to transfer the cooked noodles into a waiting skillet
of marinara sauce.

“You don’t hafta play catch with me no more, Mommy!”
Connor shouted from the living room. “I got someone else!”

“Really? And who might that be?”

“Hey, Lana…”

Randall hadn’t meant to scare her. He’d been on his way
home from the fire station and the next thing he knew, he’d been idling in
Lana’s driveway. It was past time to look her in the eyes and apologize. And he
figured there was no better time than the present.

He’d stepped into her kitchen, the delicious aroma of
Italian cuisine wafting through the familiar room, reminding him of the
countless nights he’d stayed for dinner when Jimmy was alive.

At the sound of his voice Lana jerked, no doubt startled
by his presence.

“Ouch!” she cried as scorching-hot marinara sauce
splashed onto her wrist.

“Shit! Are you okay?” He asked as he dashed toward the
stove. Carefully, he took her hand and led her to the sink.

Lana stood by, watching as Randall placed her wrist under
the running faucet. The cool water eased the sting, but his presence still left
her speechless. Stunned. She’d expected one of the neighborhood boys Connor
sometimes played with—not Randall. His concern touched her, infiltrating a
segment of her heart that’d been numb for nearly five months. She didn’t
deserve his kindness, tenderness—not after the way she’d treated him after
Jimmy’s accident.

He held her hand as cold water trickled over his fingertips.
And when he seemed satisfied that the remedy had alleviated much of her pain,
he turned the faucet off.

Her eyes tracked his thumb as he gently caressed her
wrist. “I’m fine. Really”, she assured him. “It was just a minor splash.”
Silence enveloped them, for how long she couldn’t say. But when Randall finally
found his voice, the two words he spoke were the last two words she expected to
hear.

“I’m sorry.”

Lana tore her eyes away from her injured arm, her orbs
settling on the two gray eyes staring back at her. “For what?” she asked
confusedly.

Shifting his weight nervously onto his left foot, he
leaned his hip against the counter and shrugged. “Where do I begin…”

“Randall, please—”

“Hey, Randall”—Connor shrieked excitedly a moment before
his bedroom door slammed behind him—“can you eat wif us?”

“Um, I’m not really sure if—”

“—
Please
?”

Randall resettled his focus on Lana, attempting to gauge
her reaction. She didn’t appear appalled by the idea, but then again her
five-year-old son was present. She’d been raised to be polite, and besides the
slapping incident, he couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever lost her
composure. Randall figured she’d had good reason to lose her cool that dreadful
day; he certainly wouldn’t hold that against her.

His eyes continued their journey over her exhausted face.
Dark circles cradled her midnight blue orbs, further substantiating that the
transition to single parenthood had been tiresome.

“Stay… There’s plenty”, Lana reiterated.

There was no trace of disgust or contempt. Nor was there
any hint of blame etched on her pretty face, which really surprised him. After
all, if not for his weak, distracted mind, Jimmy would still be alive. She was
offering him an olive branch, and although he didn’t think he deserved it, he
was going to latch on with a firm grip. “All right. I’ll stay.”

The cool November breeze gently swayed the bamboo wind
chimes hanging just above her on the back patio as Connor and Randall took turns
throwing and catching a neon orange Nerf football. They’d been at it for almost
an hour—surprising since the yard was only lit by a meager flood light mounted
on the back of the house. In fact, she was amazed the pair could actually see
well enough to catch the darn thing. But she was grateful for the distraction
it provided her son. Even more grateful that she’d managed to complete the work
she’d brought home before Connor’s nine o’clock bedtime.

Lana saved the document she’d feverishly created to her
flash drive and closed her laptop. In the dim light, she could still see the
intense concentration on her son’s face. The bamboo wind chimes clanked
together with a random, soothing beat, intermixing with the sound of Connor’s
laughter.

And just like that, she was taken back.

Back to a time when life was easy, good times were
plentiful, and troubles were few and far between. Funny how she once thought
she had troubles… there was nothing more troubling than losing the one person
who knew you best.

“Mommy, watch this!” Connor shouted as he took off
running. He ran in a straight line away from Randall, and just as Randall
released the ball, Connor quickly darted to the right, the ball practically
falling into his small hands. “Touchdown!” he yelled excitedly. “Did you see
that, Mommy?”

“I saw it! That was amazing!”

“He’s really good”, Randall commented. “Not only can he
catch—he’s got one hell of a spiral, too.”

“Uh…
a spiral
?” She asked as she stepped off the
back porch.

“Yeah, you know, the way the ball spins in mid-air. I
know grown men that haven’t mastered that skill.”

Lana rubbed her bare arms with her hands for warmth,
coming to a halt in front of Randall. She was way out of her league. She knew
nothing about football. Well, that’s not entirely true—she did know the basics.
The game was usually played with a brown ball, the quarterback threw the ball,
and a receiver caught it.

And the rest of the men running around on the field
?

Well, she figured they were there for moral support (you
know, the occasional chest bump or swift slap on the ass). And to think: she’d
thought a spiral was the latest victory dance. Apparently she had a lot to
learn.

“So a
spiral
 is difficult to achieve?” she asked,
hoping her question didn’t make her seem as though she’d been living under a
rock for the last twenty-seven years. Because truthfully, it’d only been
approximately five and a half months.

“For some, yes, but for others it just comes naturally.
And Connor, here, is definitely a natural”, he said as he rubbed the top of Connor’s
blond head.

“Well, he obviously got his athleticism from Jimmy.”

“Don’t sell yourself short; I’ve seen you dance”, Randall
remarked. He couldn’t help but notice the way her cheeks turned a subtle shade
of pink. Obviously he’d embarrassed her. Clearing his throat, he smiled, hoping
to clarify what he meant. “I mean—you’re plenty coordinated.”

Lana prayed the darkness camouflaged the warmth that’d
settled along her cheeks, because she was clearly blushing.

Question was:
why
?

It was no secret she loved to dance. When Jimmy was alive
they’d spend two Saturdays a month at The Saloon: Jimmy would drink and play
pool, Lana would dance.

Her body just naturally moved to music. In fact, Jimmy
used to tease her, comparing her compulsion to move to a reflex. As soon as she
heard a beat, her hips would sway. But something about the way Randall alluded
to her ability was… different.

It wasn’t a come-on or a seduction attempt. It was more
like… appreciation.

Yeah. Like he recognized her finesse—her ability—as being
impulsive. Instinct driven. Natural. And he would know; he was one hell of a
dancer himself.

So if his flattery was nothing more than a genuine compliment,
how exactly did she explain her rattled reaction?

Chapter 5

“Lana…?”

Her cheeks were now stained a brilliant red; she could
just feel it. What on earth was happening to her?

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you”, he reiterated, sincere,
but amused.

Lana smiled, shaking her head as though doing so would
jolt the quandary from escalating. “It’s fine, really… Thank you.”

“Randall”—Connor interjected excitedly—“I’m open!”

Across the yard, he waved his little arms in the air,
enthusiastic about running another play. The backyard was bathed in subtle dim
light and although Connor stood some distance away, she was still able to
identify a certain buoyancy about him.

“One more and then it’s bath time”, she called out. She
couldn’t remember the last time her little boy had looked so happy, so
carefree. She’d do just about anything to keep that contented expression on his
face. Randall had managed to accomplish in two hours what had taken her nearly
six months to achieve. And the jury was still out on how successful she’d
actually been.

For the first time in ages, Randall felt like he was
actually doing something productive with his free time. And it felt damn good.
Connor’s peppy little laugh caused the corners of Randall’s mouth to turn
upward. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d smiled. Hadn’t really had a
reason to for some time. And even in the dark he noticed the worry fade from
Lana’s angelic face…

He should have never left. He should have been here.

Maybe if he had, the healing could’ve begun sooner. Make
no mistake—their wounds were all still painfully fresh, but there was power in
numbers. “Go long!” he shouted to Connor as he pretended to take possession of
the ball from the imaginary Center.

Lana watched as Connor hung on Randall’s every word. His
tiny legs took off running toward the fence as Randall reared his arm back and
launched the ball (a perfect spiral, of course). Looking over his small
shoulders, Connor tracked the neon orange Nerf, and then opened his arms just
as the ball dropped from the inky night sky.

Air whooshed from Lana’s lungs when her little boy
finally turned around, the look of admiration clearly visible. He looked to
Randall as though he were his idol.

And that’s when she knew: It was time. Time to apologize
for her rude and erratic behavior. Time to ask for a fresh start. She just
prayed her plea for forgiveness wasn’t too late.

“All right, that’s it!”

“Aww, c’mon, mommy—just a couple more—please? I just got
warmed up!”

She felt terrible breaking up the fun. Ever since Jimmy’s
passing, she was the sole disciplinarian—the bad guy. “I know, but you have
school tomorrow.”

“Just a little bit longer?”

Was she being unreasonable? What was so terrible about a
few more throws? “I—”

“It’s okay, buddy”, Randall chimed in. “We can play again
another night this week.”

“Really?” Connor asked, hope filling his tiny voice.

“Really.”

“All right!” he yelled as he hurried past, dashing up the
porch steps.

“Go ahead and get undressed”, Lana called over her
shoulder. “I’ll be there in a sec!” Crossing her arms, she turned to face
Randall. “Thank you for that. I can’t remember the last time he’s been this
excited.”

Randall shrugged. Playing catch with Connor was a small
drop in a large bucket, as far as he was concerned. It didn’t even begin to
make up for all the time he’d spent away. But he was here now. And he intended
on making up for lost time. “He’s a good kid.”

Lana nodded. Connor was a good kid. Sometimes she forgot
that he was just a child, learning to cope with life’s unfair realities. And if
spending time with Randall rescued him from the throes of grief, who was she to
argue?

A gust of crisp wind sent wisps of long brown hair into
her field of vision, forcing her to tuck the silky strands behind her ear. Her
focus settled on Randall’s steel-colored eyes, revealing his wounded and broken
soul, an utter contradiction to the large, strong man they belonged to. “You
mind stickin’ around for a bit longer? I was sort of hoping we could talk.”

“Um, yeah. Sure.”

Together they turned toward the house, climbing the porch
steps as another strong gust of wind rustled the trees. The breeze carried a
hint of winter, causing the hair on the back of Lana’s neck to rise. She
convinced herself that the odd tingle had nothing to do with Jimmy’s spirit,
and everything to do with the arrival of the first cold front of the season.

Because she didn’t believe in ghosts. No matter how badly
she wanted to.

Rushing ahead, Randall reached for the screen door and
gave it a tug, motioning for Lana to enter ahead of him. He may be dead inside,
but he hadn’t forgotten his chivalrous manners. His mother had hammered the
importance of gentleman-like behavior into his brain from the time he was
Connor’s age. It was like second-nature; he didn’t have to think about it.
Which was good. Because the only thing that had been on his mind lately was how
he didn’t deserve to be breathing. He didn’t have a death wish, per se; he just
no longer cared either way.

“It’ll only take a few minutes to give Connor his bath
and tuck him in… Make yourself at home.”

In a flash she turned away and headed down the hall,
leaving Randall alone with the ticking clock and a room full of memories. He
stood motionless for several moments as an eerie sensation washed over him.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Wiping his palm down his face, he stepped further into
the living room, the motion feeling as though he was stepping back in time.

Slowly he walked the perimeter of the room, his boots
clapping against the pine floor in time with the tick-tocking of the clock.
Everywhere his gaze landed he was reminded of his late friend: pictures,
trophies—even spotted a pair of Jimmy’s flip flops lying on the floor beside
his favorite chair. It’d been five and a half months since his passing, and
Lana was still unwilling to pack away her husband’s possessions.

She wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t been selfishly distracted
that dreadful day
.

No matter how hard he tried, his thoughts always circled
back to that premise.

He did this. This was his fault.

Being here wouldn’t change what happened in Tate’s Hell,
but maybe it could make a difference in moving forward. After all, it was
Jimmy’s dying wish that Randall take care of his family. He hadn’t made good on
that promise, but he would. From this day forward, he vowed to spend every day
he had left on this earth mending what he took away from Lana and Connor.

A picture on the wood mantel suddenly caught his
attention. Inside the metal frame was a picture he and Jimmy had taken last
year at the annual Oyster Festival. He plucked the heavy frame from the mantel,
raising it for closer inspection.

They’d just competed in the oyster shucking contest—both
losing miserably to a twelve-year-old little girl named Emmy. She’d cheated…
okay, not really. But that was their story and they were stickin’ to it. Her
father owned The Saloon on the boardwalk and the girl had undoubtedly been
shucking the damn things for at least half of her twelve years.

“That was a fun day”, Lana commented as she entered the
room.

He glanced over his shoulder at Jimmy’s widow before
returning his focus back to the picture. “Yeah…it was.” Carefully, he set the
frame back into position.

“Can I get you anything to drink? Don’t have any beer,
but I do have some leftover white zinfandel in the fridge.”

Turning around, he shoved his hands into his front
pockets and smiled. “You never did like beer.”

“Some things never change, I reckon.”

“And sometimes, everything changes…”

Lana got the inkling they were no longer talking about
beverages. She glanced down at her hands, picking at her nails. It was a
nervous habit, one her burgundy polish would likely not survive. Steeling
herself with a deep breath, she set out to make things right. “Listen, Randall…
I… Well, I owe you an apology.”

“An apology?” he questioned incredulously. “For what,
exactly?”

“For the way I acted, for slapping you… for causing you
to run off—”

“My leaving had nothing to do with anything you did,
Lana”, he affirmed. “If anything, I owe you one… I should’ve been here, you
know?—for Connor… for you.”

Lana tore her attention away from her pitiful-looking
manicure, allowing her eyes to scan the wounded man that stood several paces in
front of her. Outwardly he appeared the same, but upon closer inspection she
recognized it: on the inside he was broken and hollow, just like her.

Slowly, she was filling, swelling with purpose. But she
knew she’d never return to normal. Never be the person she used to be. Randall
was still nearly empty, but tonight while playing with Connor she saw a flicker
of life in him. Maybe there was hope for him—for all of them.

“Connor really missed you, you know. I can’t even begin
to describe how excited he was to see your truck parked in the driveway on
Halloween. We stopped by, but—”

“I know”, he confessed softly. He watched confusion
settle over Lana’s pretty face, making him feel like a fucking coward for
hiding like he had.

“How?”

“I saw you.”

“But, why didn’t you—”

Randall shrugged. What could he say? He’d acted like a
pussy; liquid courage in the form of whiskey hadn’t even given him fortitude.
“I needed more time, I guess. Wasn’t quite ready to face you yet.”

Wrapping her arms around her middle, Lana nodded. “Don’t
suppose I gave you any indication I wanted you around the last time we saw each
other, huh?”

Randall rubbed his left cheek with the palm of his hand.
“You have one hell of a hard hand”, he teased, hoping to lighten the mood.
“Remind me to never make you mad.”

Embarrassed, Lana covered her face with both hands.
“Gosh, I really am sorry about that!”

“Don’t worry, you were forgiven the moment it happened.”

She raised her head from her hands. “Really?”

Randall shrugged, still rubbing his cheek. “Well, maybe
not at the
exact
moment…”

The edges of his mouth turned up.
Was he toying with
her
?

Yes, he most certainly was.

Lana snatched a throw pillow from the couch and tossed it
at him (although she was incapable of a perfect spiral). She watched as he
threw his hands up, blocking the sage-colored cushion from colliding with his
head.

“All right, all right—I probably deserved that”, he
confessed, smiling.

Randall picked up the pillow and glanced at the woman
that’d launched it at him. Her lips quivered for a moment, immediately followed
by the sweetest sound he’d ever heard: Lana’s laughter. In that moment, five
and a half months of worry and concern faded from her face. He wondered how
many times she’d laughed since the accident.

Probably zero.

But, damn, it looked good on her. And he’d be lying if he
said that putting it there didn’t thaw a small portion of his frozen insides.
“It’s good to hear you laugh.”

Lana’s cackle quieted. “Thanks”, she uttered softly. “I
haven’t done that in a while.”

Tossing the green pillow back on the couch, Randall took
a seat, leaning his forearms against his knees. “So, how’ve you been?”

There was that question again. Funny how such simple
words sobered her. “Good”, she managed. And then he did it: he gave her
The
Look
. Kendall often referred to it as a truth serum, because with one look,
the truth typically started pouring out of his intended target. And right now,
his gray eyes were intensely focused on her.

“C’mon, Lana, you don’t have to bullshit me. How’ve you
been? Really.”

Sitting down in the chair across from him, she sighed.
“I’m… managing.
Barely managing
” she emphasized just above a whisper.
“It’s a daily struggle, you know? I never realized how hard life actually was
for single moms until I become one.”

Randall nodded. He understood; his father had walked out
on his mom when he was nine. He saw firsthand how unglamorous of a job it
sometimes was. But of course his circumstances had been different. He hadn’t
been sorry to see the son of a bitch leave. Because after he left, the beatings
his mother occasionally endured stopped. “And Connor?”

“He’s had a hard time adjusting. His teacher calls at
least once a week demanding I pick up my sick child—only he’s not
really
sick. He’s craving attention right now and he’s not picky about it being good
or bad.”