Page 4 of Feels Like Home

“Um, hey, Andy. You okay there?” Christine asks, looking at me warily. She and I have known each other for a few years now, teetering on that line between mere acquaintances and friends. We kind of run in the same circle, though her daughter, Bri, is several years older than my boys. But she’s friends with one of my bosses, Barrett. In fact, Barrett and his wife, Tess, helped her start up Dreamin’ Beans after her husband passed away. Christine’s daughter, Bri, and Barrett and Tess’s son, Grady, are even closer. They’re walking that fine line between friends and more than friends and from the sounds of it, not doing a very good job ofit.

When I started working for Barrett and Josh, co-owners – and best friends since childhood – of the general contracting company I’ve been with for most of my adult life, it was simply as a summer job doing construction, but I found that I loved the work. Doing something with my hands every day, using my body, building someone’s home, it made me happy. They’ve put trust in me, and I run my own crewnow.

Barrett and Josh’s families are just that to me…family.

“Andy?” Christine’s concerned voice snaps me out of mytrance.

“Fine.”

She eyes me wearily. “What can I getya?”

“The last fifteen years back. No. I take that back. I want the boys, so let’s go the last fourteenyears.”

She looks at me for a bit, blinks slowly before nodding her head once. Without taking her eyes from me, she hollers, “Hey, Emma? Can you cover the front for awhile?”

“You got it,boss!”

Christine fills two to-go cups with black coffee, grabs two plates and something out of the pastry case, then places the cups on top of a tray along with the plates, and winks at me. She nods her head in the direction of the back room then turns on her heel and startswalking.

I follow her, even though I have no idea why, and less than two minutes later I’m settled on the plush tan-colored couch in her office. She hands me a plate holding an enormous piece of lemon pound cake, my favorite. She removes the lids from the coffee cups, reaches into one of the drawers in her desk, and lifts a short square bottle out, pours a shot of brown liquid into each, smiles at me then places the lids back on the cups and hands one to me before sitting on the other side of the couch and taking a sip of herown.

I raise my eyebrows at her, and she simplyshrugs.

“Emergency purposes only. Ipromise.”

Goodenough.

Irish coffee it is. I think I’m probably going to either feel really good by the end of our chat, or really bad, depending on how many more of these she poursme.

She tucks her legs under her, places an elbow on the back of the couch and rests her cheek against her fist. “Where’re theboys?”

“Football practice. My mom is picking them up today. Thankfuck.”

She doesn’t even flinch at my use of the harsh word, or the anger in my voice. “So, Mr. Simpson. Wanna talk aboutit?”

“Would you wanna talk about it if you saw your wife — or husband in your case — having sex with another person on yourbed?”

The second the words are out of my mouth, I wince because it’s such a dick thing to say, considering her husband passed away. But her response isn’t what I expect it to be. She looks at me for several long beats and then shakes herhead.

“No. I didn’t want to talk about iteither.”

Her words make me choke on the sip of coffee I’d just taken. Didn’t, not wouldn’t. Oh shit. I look up at her slowly, and she just nods her head, the jet-black locks with a strip of shiny red, the diamond stud in her nose twinkling. She shrugs her shoulders as if to say, ‘What are ya gonna do?’ but says nomore.

I settle back on the couch, take a long slow drink of the Irish coffee, wishing it weren’t tainted with coffee in the moment, and lick my lips. I take a couple of bites of herunbelievablelemon pound cake, and she does thesame.

For five minutes we sit in silence — me digesting more than just the food she’s given me. Her giving me the time I need to do so. I set the plate down on the table in front ofme.

“So…”

“It was right before we found out he had cancer.” She answers my unasked question, which I’m grateful for. I don’t mean to be like Josh and Barrett and seem nosey, but holy shit. I didn’t have any plans when I walked in here today. But if I had, laying it all out there and getting it in return wouldn’t have been one ofthem.

I nod, still in shock. From what I understood of Christine’s late husband, Todd, he was a pretty stand-up guy. Hell, he’s the reason Dreamin’ Beans even exists. He had surprised Christine and set aside a large chunk of money for her to invest in starting her own coffee shop. Something that had always been her dream, hence the name. Unfortunately, Todd lost his battle with cancer and passedaway.

“How did…” I clear my voice because I don’t know how much to ask, or if it’s something she evenwantsto talk about. “You foundthem?”

She wrinkles her nose like she just ate something gross. “I walked in on her stark naked body straddling him, his pants around his ankles. Though, luckily, it wasn’t our bed. It was the couch. I burned the couch.” Shesmirks.

“Damn. When was this? How did I not know aboutit?”

---