Rescue Me (Butler Island) (5 page)

“You didn’t. I offered, remember…? Go home. Pull yourself
together. Connor never has to know about this.”

“And what about everyone else?” she asked as she briefly
closed her eyes. “If I l-leave, they’ll—”

Randall brushed a fleeing tear from her cheek with his
thumb, wishing he could offer her more than a spur-of-the-moment babysitter.
“If anyone asks, I’ll tell them you weren’t feeling well. You
did
eat
dinner at your momma’s…”

Despite her grief, Lana laughed softly. “Yeah, I did.”

Randall smiled, feeling as though he’d accomplished the
impossible: he’d made her laugh. He was unprepared for the sense of
satisfaction that pummeled through him, unprepared for the flicker of light
expanding in his dark heart. “Go. I’ll see you in a bit.” Hands still cupping
her face, Randall leaned forward and placed his lips against the top of her
forehead.

Lana closed her eyes, feeling a glimmer of hope for the
first time in months. She wasn’t alone. She didn’t have to carry the burden by
herself any longer. “Okay”, she whispered softly. “Okay.”

Beams of light danced across the white mantel, followed
by the low hum of Randall’s truck pulling into the drive. Rising from Jimmy’s
favorite chair, Lana tucked her still-damp hair behind her ear. Near-scalding
water had cleansed the overwhelming gloom from her body, the shower’s drain
thirsty for her tears. She’d become accustomed to crying in the shower, hiding
the anguish from Connor behind a palm-tree-printed curtain.

She felt better—exhausted, but better. The amount of
energy leached from her small frame by way of her tears still amazed her.
Sometimes after a good cry she felt as though she’d competed in a marathon. In
fact she was pretty damn certain she could make a sport of it. And if the
Olympics recognized table tennis and badminton as a sport, she didn’t
understand why
Mourning Marathons
couldn’t be included too.

Heavy footsteps thudded against the porch steps as Lana
reached the front door. Randall greeted her on the other side, carrying a
sleeping Connor.

“He passed out before we even made it to Main Street.”

Lana moved aside, making room for Randall to enter. Once
he’d cleared the threshold she gently closed the door. “He had a busy day today”,
she uttered quietly.

Motioning for Randall to follow, she journeyed down the
narrow hall lined with pictures of Connor, all framed in white wood and
randomly positioned in a collage. Jimmy never cared for the casual appearance,
arguing that it looked as though she’d hung the pictures with her eyes closed.
She hadn’t, of course. There was a method to her madness. She’d seen it done on
HGTV
once. It was supposed to command attention, luring one’s
eyes to journey over the images in a sweeping motion, allowing the still shots
to tell a story.

Randall followed Lana into Connor’s room, light from the
hall spilling onto the green area rug patterned with thin white stripes: yard
lines like the ones painted on a football field. Careful not to trip over any
toys, he gently placed Connor in his bed, backing away while Lana removed his
sneakers. Feeling as though he was intruding on a precious, private moment,
Randall slowly backed away, wiping his palm down his face as he strolled into
the kitchen.

Walking up the porch steps moments ago he hadn’t known
what to expect; she’d been a mess at the station. Now puffy red eyes were all
that remained.

“Thank you”, Lana uttered just above a whisper as she
joined her rescuer in the kitchen.

Randall shoved his hands in his front pockets, bewildered
by her gratitude. “It was nothing, really.”

“Don’t do that. It meant a lot to me.” Wrapping her arms
around her middle, she continued, “You saved me from falling to pieces in front
of Connor tonight.”

Shrugging his broad shoulders, he leaned his hip against
the counter, allowing his gaze to wander over her face. “I told you before, I
want to help.”

Two gray eyes staring back at her revealed pain—like a
festering wound that refused to heal. She recognized the weariness, the despair,
the discontent. Looking into his eyes was like looking in the mirror. And if
there was any truth in the eyes being the windows to the soul within, their
depths divulged his vitality had suffered an immeasurable blow. The agony was
camouflaged well behind his poker face, but she still saw it. He couldn’t hide
it from her.

And although his pain wreaked havoc on her already
fragile heart, the comfort of knowing she didn’t have to heal alone rescued her
from the black hole she’d stumbled into nearly six months ago. “I’m glad you’re
here.”

It felt damn good putting her mind at ease. For the first
time in months it felt like Randall was doing something positive and productive
with his time, instead of spending it pickling his liver with eighty-proof
whiskey. He’d been numb for so long feeling seemed foreign to him. But as his
eyes settled on the healing woman before him, he had to admit it felt good.

It felt good to be here. Good to see her smile again.
Hell, it just felt damn good to feel. “Me too.”

Chapter 8

The first weekend in December had been reserved for
Winterfest for as long as Randall could remember. The annual celebration began
on First Street as eager spectators lined the road’s edges for the Christmas
Parade. And after the Winterfest Queen rode by on the back of the mayor’s blue
1966 Ford Thunderbird Convertible, residents migrated to the boardwalk,
sampling some of the best Christmas cookies available this side of the equator.
But the biggest attraction, by far, had to be the carnival.

Fried funnel cakes dusted with powdered sugar, Polish
sausages smothered with grilled peppers and onions, cotton candy sold in pairs
of red and green tempted the masses in droves. And when bellies were sated,
thrill seekers binged on rides that spun, twisted, dropped and lifted. Large
stuffed animals hung from tent ceilings near the exits, beckoning folks to
spend the remainder of their hard-earned cash for a chance to win a coveted
Christmas prize.

But Randall wasn’t interested in parades, Christmas
cookies, or the thrill of a carnival ride. It was Saturday night—which meant
two dollar domestic drafts at The Saloon.

Yeah, that was something worth celebrating.

Pushing his way through the heavy wood door, the familiar
scent of stale cigarettes and Pine Sol accosted him immediately, filling his
nose with a strange sense of comfort. He waved at the bartender, Dan, as he
wound his way to the back of the room. Grant had managed to snag their favorite
pool table in the back corner, and was already arranging the billiard balls
inside the triangular rack for their first round.

“About time you got here”, Grant teased as he carefully
lifted the triangle from the table. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going
to show.”

Randall slapped his hand against Grant’s, pulling him in
for a manly shoulder-bump. “What’re we wagering tonight?” he inquired as he
turned his attention to the wall, meticulously analyzing the display for a cue
stick before selecting the one on the end. Pointing the tip toward the ground,
he studied the wooden rod, checking for any signs of warpage.

“Loser buys the next round.”

“Olivia have you on an allowance or something?” Randall
asked as he stepped away from the wall.

“Only when I’m playing pool with you.”

Randall chuckled under his breath. He didn’t like to
brag, but he was damn good at the game. He’d taken Grant’s money on more than
one occasion over the years—a fact Olivia was obviously well aware of. “Where
is she, by the way? Figured she’d already be parked on a stool for moral
support.” The waitress arrived with their first round, placing two frosty mugs
on a nearby table. “Thanks, Rachael.”

“You bet”, she answered with a wink, then scurried toward
the neighboring table to collect another order.

Grant hovered over the billiard table, allowing the cue
stick to glide back and forth over his thumb several times before he struck the
cue ball. The perfectly-aligned billiard balls scattered violently along the
green felt. “She’s at Lana’s; should be here anytime now.” He studied the
arrangement, looking for an easy solid-colored ball to sink.

“Lana coming, too?”

“That’s the idea.” Grant struck the cue ball again, attempting
to sink the solid number three ball into the corner pocket—of course, he
missed. “
Damn
.”

Swallowing a large gulp, Randall placed his beer on the
high bar and grabbed his cue stick. He stalked the table, slow and confident,
studying the whereabouts of each striped ball. Once his selection was made he
got into position, pocketing number ten with ease. “What about Connor?” he
questioned, altering his stance for his next shot.

“Her parents are taking him to the carnival, then keeping
him for the night.”

Randall eyed the cue ball as it bounced off the side
rail, smacking into number twelve with a loud clank before disappearing in the
left corner pocket. “Think Olivia can talk her into it?”

“Don’t know. She said Lana seemed onboard earlier. Guess
we’ll find out when they get here.”

Olivia pressed her thumb against the doorbell and waited.

And waited.

“Lana”—she yelled as she pounded on the door with her
fist—“it’s me, Olivia!” Moments later the door swung open, revealing her friend
still wrapped in an ivory satin robe. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

Turning on her heels, Lana left the door open for Olivia
and wandered into the living room. “Probably because I’m not going.”

“Why not?”

Lana shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t really put it into
words, really. It just… doesn’t feel right.”

“Lana, Connor’s gonna be gone until tomorrow afternoon;
this only happens once a month. You can’t just sit here all night by yourself
and—”

“I’ll go next time.”

Crossing her arms, Olivia eyed her from across the room.
“That’s what you said last month”, she politely reminded her.

“I know, I know. It’s just… I don’t think I’ll be very
good company tonight. It’s probably best if I just, you know… don’t go.”

“Huh-uh, you’re not sittin’ here tonight by yourself—I’m
not havin’ it. If you’re plannin’ on stayin’ in, then so am I.” Olivia plopped
down on the couch, arms still crossed.

“No!” she pleaded. “Grant’s expecting you to be there
and—”

“He’s expectin’
you
to be there, too”, she
reiterated. “Listen, sugar, this is an all or nothin’ kind of situation: either
we both go to The Saloon together, or we both stay right here. Your choice.”

Lana ran her fingers through silky hair she’d spent
twenty minutes straightening. Olivia was right: Connor wouldn’t return until
tomorrow afternoon. Her parents kept him overnight once a month, and once a
month she’d savor the much-need break it provided her. Alone.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to move forward—she did,
she
really did
. But sadly every step she took toward the future meant she was
one step further from her past. She knew it probably sounded silly, she’d
buried her husband almost six months ago. He was gone. Forever. But moving on
somehow still felt like she was leaving him behind.

Abandoning him.

Two months in a row, Olivia and Grant had invited her to
join them at The Saloon. And two months in a row she’d declined, always hinting
she’d likely accept their invitation the following month. Lana understood what
they were trying to do. They were nudging her to take that next step.

Was she ready? Would she ever find herself in a place
where she felt prepared for life’s curveballs? She didn’t know. But one thing
was certain: she couldn’t decline the invitation a third time. “Anyone ever
tell you how incredibly stubborn you are?”

The corners of Olivia’s mouth turned upward in a grin as
if recalling a fond memory. “Yep, my husband likes to remind me daily. So…
what’s it gonna be?”

Even though taking the next step felt like a frightening
leap, Lana finally obliged. “All right, all right. Let me just get out of this
robe.” She pivoted and headed down the hall to her bedroom, but not before
noticing the victorious expression plastered on Olivia’s face.

Maybe Olivia was right. Maybe it was time to take advantage
of the parenting pause her mom and dad offered once a month. Maybe it was time
to stop merely existing and start actually living.

After all, that’s what Jimmy would have wanted.

Lana tossed her robe on the bed and tugged on a pair of
denim jeans. She slipped on a green plaid flannel, leaving the ends unbuttoned
so she could tie the soft material at her waist. She finished her ensemble with
her favorite pair of brown cowgirl boots, distressed and worn in from countless
hours on The Saloon’s dance floor. Glancing in the mirror a final time, she
nodded in approval.

 Tonight Lana would rejoin the living. Wishing her life
had turned out differently wouldn’t change a damn thing.

Because no amount of wishing was going to bring Jimmy
back.

Grant bought the next round after Randall effortlessly
sank the eight ball into the called right corner pocket. Again. “Man, Livvey’s
gonna kill me if I keep this shit up.”

Stifling a smirk, Randall glanced at his watch. “Maybe
not; they should’ve been here an hour ago. Maybe they changed their minds.”

“To do what?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know—chick shit, I guess.

Grant slurped a sip of beer and then ran his tongue over
his mouth to capture a segment of froth that’d settled on his upper lip. “Chick
shit, eh? And what might that be?”

“Nail painting, purse swapping”—leaning forward, he
braced his hands along the edge of the pool table—“pillow fighting… You know,
shit like that.”

“Pillow fights?” Olivia asked as she sidled up beside
them. “What type of fantasy land do you reside in, Randall?”

Tugging at her waist, Grant pulled his wife against him.
“What took you so long?” he questioned as he nuzzled his face in the crook of
her neck. “

“Well…”

“It was my fault”, Lana began. “I—”

“Almost won the pillow fight. Yep, and you know Lana:
Mrs. Competitive”, Olivia emphasized teasingly as she gestured at Lana with her
thumb. “She demanded a rematch.”

 Laughter rippled around the pool table. Olivia’s rundown
of the events that’d taken place prior to their arrival couldn’t have been more
contradictory in nature. Lana was sweet. Compassionate. She didn’t have an
antagonistic bone in her body.

“Well, I’ll be… I thought that was you”, said Dan as he
came to rest next to Lana. “Sure is good to see you in here.” The longtime
bartender/owner swung one of his arms around her shoulders and smiled.

“Thanks, Dan. Looks like you’re in for a busy night
tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am. Winterfest always seems to draw a big
crowd—plus I heard it’s supposed to rain later. When that happens, folks will
likely stop in here. What’re you lovely ladies drinkin’ tonight?”

“I’ll have a glass of merlot”, Olivia announced. “A
full
glass.”

“I think I can manage that. And what about you?” he asked
as he turned his attention back to Lana. “The usual?”

“You mean—you still remember? It’s been ages since I’ve
been in.”

“Of course, I do. It may’ve been a while, but I wouldn’t
forget. Malibu and pineapple juice, three maraschino cherries”, he gestured
with his fingers.

Stifling a shy smile, Lana nodded.

“All right. Be right back.”

Randall placed his half empty mug on the nearby table,
gathering Lana in his arms in a friendly greeting. “Hey, girl, I was beginning
to think you weren’t going to show. Good to see you.”

“Thanks, good to see you too”, she said as she stepped
out of his arms.

“Grant mentioned your parents were taking Connor to the
carnival.”

Lana nodded. “They usually keep him overnight once a
month to give me a break. Just so happens it fell on Winterfest this month.”
She forced herself to smile—nobody wanted to be around a Debbie Downer. “I’m
sure he’s milking them for ride tickets and a load of junk food as we speak.”

“Yeah, he’s a smooth-talker, all right. Talked me into
buying donuts at Anderson’s Bakery last week.”

“Wait—he talked
you
into it?” She emphasized as
she pointed a finger in his direction. “Am I hearing this correctly? Because I
don’t recall anyone ever having to talk you into that before.”

Anderson’s Bakery was a family owned establishment that’d
been opened for nearly three generations. They sold everything from bread to
pastries to pizza dough. The bakery specialized in unconventional donut
flavors, and if customers timed their arrival just so, the gourmet creations
were served warm.

“Touché”, Randall replied, attempting to hide a growing
grin. “I do have a weakness for key lime glazed donuts.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Dan appeared again—this time with drinks. And when his
delivery was complete he wove around the growing crowd, returning to his position
behind the wood-shellacked bar.

“Now that the girls have their drinks, you ready for
another round of pool?” Grant asked.

Randall smirked, revealing an easy confidence. “Depends:
Are you up for buying the next round of brew?”