Slow Moon Rising (3 page)

It was a question without an answer. Not one I could give, anyway. Not easily, without a lot of words. Words I'd not bothered to say out loud except to Lisa.

“I thought . . .” I swallowed hard, shook my head. A breeze blowing from the direction of the bay entered the green, whipped around the gazebo, and slapped a long lock of hair across my cheek. It came to rest over my nose.

As though he'd been doing so all his life, Ross reached over, plucked the strand with his fingers, and tucked it behind my ear. “Go on,” he said. “You can talk to me.”

It must have been the physician's heart that spoke, I reasoned. He was accustomed to hearing the issues of others, those crises that drove mothers and fathers into his office with their little ones. Some real, some the imaginings of overly fearful parents. I pictured him patiently listening, nodding, making notes in the child's chart. Smiling knowingly, assuring the frantic parents their child would be all right.

I took a deep breath, willing myself to say what I'd only admitted once before. “I thought I'd met ‘Mr. Right' a few years ago. But . . .” I shrugged.

“The young man was a fool to let you slip away,” Ross said, straightening himself to again face forward, elbows resting on the railing. He tilted his chin upward. Breathed in the salt air from the bay. Air that lay heavy but lifted the spirits anyway.

“Not so young, I'm afraid.” I laughed lightly and slipped my hands from under my thighs to clasp them in my lap. “Don't take this the wrong way or misunderstand what I'm saying here, but I've only dated older men.”

Ross looked at me sharply. “Is there a reason for that?”

I gave a quick pout. “Lisa says I have a father complex.”

Ross's eyes widened. “Ah.” Then, “I'm sure you dated plenty of boys your own age when you were in high school.”

“High school . . . that was a couple of hundred years ago.”

“More for me than for you.”

“When did you graduate high school, Ross?” I felt myself pink. “If I may call you ‘Ross.'”

“I'd like that very much.” He sighed with dramatic flare. “Oh, let me see . . . Columbus sailed the ocean blue, Jamestown colony . . . and then I graduated from high school in 1957.” He winked at me. “And I bet you weren't even a glint in your daddy's eye back then.”

“I was born in 1962. So maybe a twinkle but not quite a glint.”

“You are a mere child, not that much older than my Kimberly-Boo.”

I laughed again; it came easily with him. “A mere child of thirty-eight.” “Ah . . . and I'm an old man of sixty.”

“I would have guessed fifty.”

It was his turn to find delight in the words. “Oh, you're good, Miss Kelly. Very good.”

“Anise.”

He looked me fully in the eyes. A strange level of understanding shot between the blue in his and the gray in mine. It reached into my soul and stirred my heart. “Anise.”

The sun danced through the latticework of the gazebo, and the wind played with my hair again, interrupting the moment. “Would you like to walk through the square?” I asked. “I don't know about you, but I'm a little hungry and the Rexall”—I pointed—“which you can see from here, has a wonderful fountain grill if you like greasy hamburgers made to order. Loaded, of course.”

“I love greasy hamburgers made to order, loaded, of course.” His salt-and-pepper brows drew together playfully. “And I don't believe I've heard the name Rexall in years.”

I stood; he did the same. “Some things around Seaside Pointe never change. The Rexall is one of them,” I said, stepping to the lawn. “Been here since the early fifties.” I cut my eyes playfully at him. “The 1950s, when you were nearing adulthood.”

We returned to the sidewalk. Ross crooked his arm and extended his elbow toward me in invitation to slip my hand into its protective embrace. I complied and, for the sweetest of moments, felt as though I'd been doing so my whole life.

Seaside Pointe natives called Holmes Drugstore “the Rexall” because that was its name in the beginning. The old sign—somewhat rusty and fading, but welcoming nonetheless—still hung above the glass door of the redbrick storefront. Over the years, the tiles on the floor had been replaced,
the paint on the walls and ceiling refreshed, and the items on the shelves modified to match the era. But nothing about the corner café had been altered. Updated, yes, but not altered. The booth seats were retro puffy glitter-vinyl, the tabletops Formica. Chrome napkin holders kept neatly folded but too-thin paper napkins at the far end of each booth, along with what would now be considered vintage salt and pepper shakers, glass sugar dispensers, and squirt-top ketchup bottles. The countertop bar matched the tables; a long row of swivel stools matching the booths' seats ran along its length. And, across the years, from the other side, meat sizzled on the griddle, ice cream was dipped high into sundae bowls and topped with whipped cream and cherries, and cola shot into tall Coca-Cola glasses from a bright red fountain.

This Rexall had been a favorite of mine since childhood when my father would bring me here after my dental appointments for a cherry cola. Provided, of course, I didn't cry or give the hygienist a difficult time. After Dad left our family, Mom would bring Jon and me for lunch after church. Provided we'd not misbehaved. When I was a teenager, these booths had been the setting of many after-school meetings with friends. This was where we'd planned school functions, dances, and the prom, which I did not attend.

I'd been madly “in love” with our history teacher at the time, not that he was even remotely aware of my fantasies. No
boy
from the senior class would begin to suffice as an escort. My cousin Trace, older by one year, had offered to take me, but I'd opted for spending the evening sitting on one of the piers along the bay, feet dipped in the water as I swished them back and forth and listened to the rippling, the call of the
gulls, the boats and fishermen. There I daydreamed about the day I would graduate from high school, just a few weeks away. That very day I would boldly approach Mr. Pearson and tell him of the passion burning within me. I imagined he would gaze down at me for a moment, stunned by my declaration of love, take me in his arms, kiss me most ardently, and say, “My darling Anise.”

“There's a booth open over there,” Ross Claybourne now said.

“Perfect.” I felt heat rush to my cheeks, as though the good doctor had read my thoughts.

“Are you all right?”

I nodded, unable to speak.

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

I said hello to a few of the people I knew, not lingering or making introductions, though I knew anyone who saw me was bound to wonder. Instead, I moved Ross along until we sat in the wide booth he'd pointed out. Our server was right behind us; we placed our orders for cheeseburgers (mine a veggie burger), fries, and cola, and returned our attention to getting to know each other. “You were lost in thought,” Ross said, “when we walked through the door.”

“I know. I was remembering being here. As a young child, a teenager. Now. Funny how just walking through a door can bring back such a flood of memories.”

“Do you come here often?”

Our drinks were served before I could answer. Ross and I set about removing the bendy-top straws and wadding up the tubular paper that remained. “I come about once a week,”
I told him before taking a sip of my drink. “My shop is just around the corner. I typically bring my lunch to work, but about once a week I treat myself to being here.” I took another sip before adding, “Tell me more about your daughters.”

Ross had taken a drink as well, swallowed, and answered, “Kim and Jayme-Leigh . . . after Jayme-Leigh, there's Heather. She's married to Andre, who is a pharmacist. They have three kids, two are twins. Then Ami. She's the baby.”

“How old are your girls?”

Ross smiled in the beaming sort of way fathers do. Good fathers. Not mine. At least, not to Jon or me. “Kim is thirty.”

“You called her . . . something . . . a few minutes ago.”

Another bright smile. “Kimberly-Boo. It's a name I gave her when she was just a toddler. She loved peekaboo and . . . well, you know how parents can be when their children are young.”

Yes, I thought, but not really. “Is she married? You said Heather is, but what about Kim? Does she have kids?”

“Yes, she's married to a great guy. Good husband. Great father. Charlie. They have two boys. Chase is four this year and Cody is only a year. He, ah, was born about nine months before Joan . . . passed.”

I allowed the moment to settle before asking, “And Jayme-Leigh, you said, is married but no kids.”

“That's right. Isaac's a doctor as well, but he's in research with a pharmaceutical company. They're both bright people, they enjoy their time together when they're not working. Jayme-Leigh is a good doctor. It's a real pleasure for me to watch her do her job.”

“You look very satisfied when you speak of her.”

“I am. Her mother and I wanted . . . we wanted her to have
children, of course. Our children were sometimes the driving force in our marriage, if I'm to be honest.”

“Why not be honest? After all, I told you about my ‘father complex.'”

We shared a laugh as our burgers and fries were served in plastic baskets covered by emblem-plastered sheets of paper. The scent of grease and meat and potatoes drifted upward. Both Ross and I inhaled deeply before saying, “Smells good!”

We laughed again. Ross offered a brief prayer of thanks to God, adding that he hoped whatever damage was being done to our arteries by the food on this table would not be of any lasting harm.

“That was cute,” I said. “That last part.”

“God and I are on good terms,” he said. “Even if I was a little mad at him seven months ago.”

“Is that how long it's been?”

He took a bite of his burger, nodding.

A natural part of me sank. Seven months. As if we were telepathic, I sent a warning to Lisa:
Too soon, Lees . . .
I decided to broach the subject. “Do you want to talk about it? About Joan?”

Ross swallowed, took a sip of his cola, and popped a fry into his mouth. Chewing around it, he said, “No, do you?”

“No.”

“You're not eating,” he said. “And by the way, a
veggie
burger?”

“I don't eat red meat,” I said. I picked up a fry and bit into the warm saltiness of it. “Tell me about . . . Heather?”

“Ah, Heather . . . now, she's the little mother of the group.”

“In what way?” I took a bite of my burger, felt the juiciness
of the “meat,” cheese, sliced tomato, and shredded lettuce burst into my mouth. Heaven on earth, even if it wasn't a
real
burger.

Ross placed his back into the basket, pulled a napkin from the holder, handed it to me, then pulled another for himself. He wiped his mouth, wadded the paper in his hand. “For starters, she's an actual mother and takes the role very seriously. ‘Too seriously,' Joan would say. Joan worried that when Heather's children are ready to leave the nest, she won't be able to handle it.

“Beyond that, she's the one who flits in and out of everybody else's life. Cooking and bringing home-cooked meals to Jayme-Leigh and Isaac because she worries they don't eat right. She became a mother before Kim, so, of course, she's always checking to make sure her big sister knows what she's doing in the maternal department. She even watches Cody while Kim works, and Chase is in day care or pre-K or whatever they call it these days.”

“How amazing of her. She and Lisa would get along great.”

Ross picked up a fry, pointed it at me, and said, “I'd already thought that. Only . . . Lisa and Derrick have no children, do they?”

I shook my head, saying nothing more. It really wasn't my place to share their heartache with a man who was, in reality, still very much a stranger. “Your youngest, Ami? She's how old?”

“Seventeen. Eighteen in a half a year. She'd insist I add that last part especially considering she acts with more maturity than many adults I know.”

“Really?”

Ross smiled. Or winced; the movement of his lips was difficult to decipher. “She certainly doesn't have the youngest
child syndrome, and once Joan got sick, she seemed to take on more responsibility. More . . .” His voice trailed until it disappeared entirely.

“And she's still at home, of course.”

Ross nodded as he gathered the thick burger between his hands. “Not often enough. Not these days.” He took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “She's passionate about ballet. I've got her enrolled in a high school that specializes in art programs, so when she's not studying—which is never enough in my opinion—she's en pointe, if you get my meaning.”