Smoky Mountain Dreams (25 page)

In the end, Jesse and Frankie-Jones stole Will and
Christopher’s hammock base, and then there was more wildness as they all
tumbled onto it, flipped it, and fell onto the ground, groaning and laughing,
and in Frankie-Jones’s case almost crying from hitting his elbow on a stone.
Christopher had landed half on Jesse, and there was a split second when gazing
up at Christopher’s happy face, shadowed in the darkness and yet lit up with
joy, Jesse had almost grabbed a handful of his hair to pull him down into a
kiss.

Instead, they’d disentangled themselves, sharing nothing
more than a significant look that held promise for some future time when their
lips could touch.

“It’s all fun and games, until someone gets hurt,” Jesse
chided as he led the kids up the deck stairs and into the house to ice FJ’s
arm.

“That was
awesome
,” Christopher
enthused, following at Jesse’s heels. He bounced as he walked, almost like a
puppy who was ready for more rough-and-tumble play. Jesse wished to God he
could do something about that—something exhausting and fun as hell. Something
he knew damn well Christopher was
very
good at, and
at which they would both be winners.

Christopher was still talking, and Jesse grinned as he
listened. “Seriously, the best and
only
noodle war I’ve
ever had.”

As they walked through the living room, Jesse examined
Christopher. His face was red from the wine, cold, and exertion, and his eyes
were bright. He’d never looked more handsome. Except possibly the first time
Jesse ever saw him on stage—the night he’d had to check the name in the program
fifteen times. Or maybe the night at Christopher’s house, flushed and sweaty in
the bed, his eyes scrunched with pleasure and his mouth—

No
. It wasn’t the time for
thoughts like that. He was going to make himself crazy and then not be able to
do a damn thing about it—except use his own hand again—for days. And days. God,
he needed to make a plan to see Christopher naked again soon. Very soon.
Tomorrow.

He helped Frankie-Jones up onto the kitchen bar stool and
grabbed an icepack from the freezer. “It’s fine. Just a bruise. I promise you’ll
live.”

Frankie-Jones nodded solemnly, putting on a brave face now
that they were inside and he could see his arm wasn’t broken, and he didn’t
really need his mommy after all.

“Can we play Wii?” Will asked.

“Not in the basement. The girls are down there.”

“In your room, then? Please? I promise I won’t mess with any
of your things.”

“I know, buddy. Sure. Just be fair, okay? Don’t play games
that FJ will have trouble with since he just hurt his arm.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Birch. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“The resiliency of youth,” Jesse said to Christopher.

Frankie-Jones plopped his ice pack on the counter and slid
off the stool. He nodded firmly so that his afro bounced a little, his
expression grave. “Thanks, Mr. Birch, for being on my team. We kicked butt.”

Jesse high fived the kid. “We sure did. But we should be
good winners, don’t you think?” He turned to Will. “Good game.” He shook his
son’s hand, smiling down at him. Then he turned to Christopher, who was
standing by the table, flushed and a little sweaty, gazing down at the cranes
again.

“Hey,” he said, putting his hand on Christopher’s arm and
squeezing. “Good game.”

Christopher smiled softly, the light from the chandelier
over the table shining through the edge of his ears, pink and delicate. “You
too. I think we should have a rematch, though. Will and I could
so
take you in the daylight when I could actually see what
I was aiming for.”

“Nah!” FJ giggled, giving Will a high five. “You’ll lose
again.”

“I thought we were aiming for good sportsmanship here?”
Jesse said.

“Right, of course. Good game.” Christopher smirked slightly,
his eyelashes blinking slowly, and Jesse wanted to grab hold of his shirt
collar and rub his face against the light, soft-looking stubble collecting on
Christopher’s jaw.
Dammit
.

“Thanks for playing with us, Mr. Chris!” Will called as he
and Frankie-Jones headed upstairs.

“No, thank
you
for playing with
me
!” Christopher rolled the sleeves of his button-up even
higher and fanned a hand at his face. “Phew! Could I get some water? Who knew
that running around in the cold would make me sweat so much. It’s like I’ve
been under show lights or something.”

Jesse grabbed a glass and poured the cold water straight
from the fridge as Christopher went on.

“Sometimes I get so hot up there—in summer, especially—I
think I’m going to just slide into the song, you know? Like I might melt into
the music and just slip away.”

“Slip away where?” Jesse asked, handing over the glass and
lifting the hem of his cotton T-shirt to fan in some cool air before pouring
his own water.

“I don’t know. Somewhere I should’ve been already. Somewhere
timeless. Like, are you ever homesick for something that you never had? That’s
how I feel when I’m singing sometimes, like I could find my way back
to…somewhere.”

Jesse sipped the cold water. His fingers and nose were still
chilled from being outside, but the water felt good on his throat. “Sing your
way back home?”

Christopher snorted. “I’ve never had a home. Or never had a
place that felt like home to
me
. It’s always just
been the place where I live. Gran’s house is the closest, but even so…well, I
call it Gran’s house. So, that probably makes it pretty clear.”

“Yeah.”

“What about you? This feel like your home?” Christopher
motioned around the kitchen, but Jesse knew he meant the entire three-story
cabin.

“No.” Jesse took another sip of water to stall on the next
sentence. He wished he’d stopped by the coffee table and grabbed his wine
glass. “It’s always felt like it
could
be home, but
something was always missing.”

“Your wife,” Christopher whispered, looking sympathetic as
if he wished he could take Jesse’s grief and suffering away.

“It’d be so easy to say yes to that and let you think that’s
true,” Jesse said. “But it didn’t feel right when she was here, either. I’ve
felt guilty about that.” He shrugged. “Hell, I’ve felt guilty about a lot of
things.”

Christopher put the glass down on the table, and reached out
for Jesse. “I’m sorry for your loss. I really, truly am.”

Jesse moved into Christopher’s arms, holding onto his glass,
squeezing it so he wouldn’t give into temptation to shift the hug into
something more. “Thanks,” he said, pulling away. “Let’s move into the living
room? It’s more comfortable in there.”

Christopher held onto his hand, though, as Jesse led the
way—a warm, anchoring kindness that made Jesse’s stomach flutter and his mind
race like a teenager’s, desperate to memorize the way their fingers fit
together so he could think about it later, swooning in his bed.

J
ESSE
DIDN’T SEEM TO WANT TO
watch the recorded game at all anymore. He set
the television’s volume to a nearly imperceptible level before turning back to
Christopher.

“I’m glad you came over tonight. I’d never have taken the
noodle war out back with them on my own.”

“Why not?”

Jesse shrugged. “I forget to be playful, honestly. Being the
only parent is hard. It’s getting the business done. I’d been applauding myself
for actually setting up playdates for them. But you made those kids’ night. I
kind of hate that Brigid missed out, though she’s awfully girly these days, and
way too serious.”

“Like the cranes?”

“She’s obsessed.”

Christopher cocked his head. “Why’s that?”

“It’s a book her teacher sent home last month.”

“Ah,
Sadako
. That’s a sad one.”

“Ever since she read it, she’s had a goal of completing two
thousand cranes before New Year’s Day.”

“Why not just a thousand, like in the book?”

With a small smile, Jesse shrugged. “I guess she’s an
overachiever.”

“Is she doing it to make a wish?”

“I don’t know. Is that what the book was about?”

“Yes. The book is actually the basis of the play I was
involved with in high school. The title character’s interest in the origami
cranes comes from an old Japanese legend: if you make a thousand paper cranes,
a wish will be granted. What do you think she’s wishing for?”

Jesse frowned. “I don’t know. A year without homework?” He
chuckled softly, but his concern remained etched in his eyes.

“You know how kids are. They really believe those old
superstitions. I just hope it’s not something she’ll be too disappointed by if
it doesn’t happen, because after all that work, that’d be crushing.”

Jesse frowned again, his eyebrows low and his mouth tight. “Thanks
for telling me. I’ll see what I can find out. I should have read the book when
this all started, but things have been busy, and…it’s a lame excuse, I know.”

“It’s not. You have a lot on your plate.”

Christopher’s mind drifted back to the family portrait
hanging in the entry way of the house, and the wedding photo of Jesse and his
wife under dogwoods in the spring. He hadn’t gotten a good look at either of
them, not wanting to be obvious about his interest. He wondered what it was
like for Brigid walking past that picture every day. Was it a happy reminder
that a woman had once been her mother and loved her? Or was it just as likely
to make her feel the gaping hole in her life all the more?

God, poor kid. Everyone needed their mother, after all. He
considered the question in light of his own mother and doubt filled him.

Sammie Mae is a mess, but she’s your
mama.

“I know, Gran.”

Jesse’s eyebrows shot up and Christopher nearly slapped his
hand over his mouth. Maybe he shouldn’t have accepted the refill on the wine.
It was stronger than the beer he usually indulged in. His cheeks burned. “I,
uh, talk to my grandmother sometimes. In my head. And sometimes out loud. I’m
not crazy, though, I swear.”

Jesse laughed. “The question is: does she talk back?”

“Uh, she usually talks first.”

Jesse’s eyes glinted and he leaned forward, his red mouth
looking lush and somehow dangerous under the bright, overhead lights.
Christopher wanted to lean forward and suck and bite it.

“I see. What kinds of things does she say?”

“Oh, the woman’s got an opinion about everything from apples
to assholes.”

“What’s she think of me?”

“The real Gran or the Gran in my head?”

“Both.”

“Real Gran remembers you from when you were a kid and wishes
you well.” He didn’t want to bring up Gran’s pity for Jesse’s dead wife again
if he could avoid it, and he definitely didn’t want to bring up the fact that
Gran thought he was a better catch than a doctor, so he fudged the truth a
little. “As for the Gran in my head? She says you like my honey.”

Jesse threw back his head and laughed. “Does she now?”

“Yep. She says you’re pretty fond of it. And you’d like
more.”

“Damn straight.” Jesse’s eyes raked over him and his smile
curved and narrowed as his expression turned lustful. “I’d like to taste some
of that honey now if I could.”

“But the kids…”

“Right.” Jesse tilted his head and considered Christopher a
moment. “Would you like to see something?”

“Sure.”

“It’s upstairs. Come on.”

Christopher trailed after Jesse, his eyes scanning over the
photos lining the wall on the side of the stairway. Brigid as a baby, a
toddler, as little girl holding a baby, and then Brigid in dance costumes, and Will
in a little suit, and then later in baseball uniforms. Then, at the very top of
the stairs, right across from where Jesse turned left into the hallway, was a
beautiful, large photo of a gorgeous, blond woman with crisp brown eyes and
light freckles dancing over her nose, rolling in the autumn leaves and grass
with the kids, all three of them laughing.

Christopher didn’t mean to stop. He didn’t really want the
night to have anything more to do with Jesse’s dead wife. And yet…there she
was. Gorgeous, vivid, colorful, and with a smile that made his heart twist. She
just looked so
alive
.

“Chris?” Jesse was halfway down the hallway. “Oh…yeah. That
was taken the autumn before the accident. So, Will’s four and Brigid’s eight
there. Marcy was twenty-seven.” He tilted his head, looking at the photo with a
critical expression. “I’ve been meaning to move it somewhere not so…prominent.
But Brigid likes it there. And, well, it’s a nice photograph of a good day.”

“It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful. They all are.”

Jesse’s lips twisted with sadness, and he shrugged. “Time
strips that away from all of us. She was good inside and that mattered a lot
more.” He started down the hallway again. “Come on, it’s in the attic.”