Page 29 of Come to Me

Patrick brought his line back in and sure enough the worm was gone. They both rebaited their hooks and cast out, sitting on the edge of lake as the sun drew higher in the sky.

“Do you think my mom is okay?” Tate asked.

“I don’t know why not.” Patrick knew death was tied closely to religion, a topic he didn’t dare broach.

“She wasn’t happy I don’t think. And sometimes I hear people say she was hurting my dad.”

“What do you think?” Patrick met his searching blue eyes—so like Michaela's—and felt an ache for this young boy whose world had been turned upside down far too early.

“Daddy said she was with the angels and they’re in heaven.”

“I’ve never heard anyone be unhappy in heaven, have you?” Patrick said carefully.

“No.” He sighed. “She must be okay.”

“She must be.” Patrick reflected on the conversation with Michaela the night before where she told him that he’d made an impression on the boy. He was happy to do that, but Patrick wondered if maybe Tate was the one making an impression on him. Tate and Michaela.

“You look like a Rockwellian painting.”

Both Patrick and Tate looked toward the path where Michaela was walking toward them carrying an insulated bag. She wore cutoff jean shorts and a red tank top. Her hair was piled up on her head and she had her usual red bandana holding it back, red sunglasses and red lipstick. She was stunningly beautiful.

“I caught a fish Aunt Micki. Didn’t I, Dr. Patrick.”

Worried he was caught ogling Michaela, Patrick cleared his throat. “You sure did.”

“And what did you catch, Dr. Patrick?” Michaela’s eyes shined wither usual mischief.

“Nothing so far.”

“Except maybe a sunburn. You are wearing sunscreen, aren’t you?”

Patrick frowned. He wasn’t. He didn’t even bring any.

“You’re looking a little pink. And thirsty. Lucky for you both I’ve got refreshments.” She set the bag down.

“Did you bring lemonade?” Tate poked his head over the bag as Michaela opened it.

“Of course. The drink of fishermen.” She handed him a tumbler. “I’ve got water or sweet tea as well. What would you like, Dr. Patrick.”

“Water would be lovely.”

“Here you are and here’s some sunscreen.” She handed him a bottle of water and sunscreen.

“Thank you.” Patrick’s cheeks burned, but he decided it was from embarrassment of not thinking of something as basic as sunscreen. It showed just how little he knew about roughing it.

“I’ve got food too. Waffle sandwiches and fruit.”

“Do you have one with peanut butter and jelly?” Tate asked.

“Absolutely. It has your name on it.” She handed him the waffle sandwich. “I have one with eggs and bacon and another with eggs and sausage.”

“On a waffle?” Patrick asked.

“Yes.” Michaela dangled the two wrapped sandwiches. “What’s your preference?”

“Ah…bacon, I guess. I’ve never had a waffle sandwich.”

“Well, then you’ve never really lived.” She handed him the sandwich.

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