Page 28 of Call it Fate

Zach

She led me through the kitchen, out one door and to another directly across the open breezeway I’d noticed from outside. There were large flowerpots on either side of both entrances, but they were currently empty. She unlocked the second door and chewed her lower lip as she held it open for me.

As confused and angry as I was, Clay had been right—her world had been turned upside down by my appearance, too. The idea that she was scared and didn’t trust me didn’t sit well. I wanted to reassure her in some way, but I couldn’t, not without all the pieces to the story. I felt like an uninvited stranger in my own life; events had taken place without my knowledge, and I no longer knew where I fit in.

We entered a little mudroom, complete with a tall-backed bench and basket space beneath the seat. She took my coat and hung it on one of the empty hooks of the bench, close to a small backpack in the corner. I stared at it for several minutes, again realizing how little I knew about my own son: What grade was he in? Was he a good student? Did he like sports? Did his mom pack him a lunch, or did he like to buy it at school? Did he have lots of friends?

The questions came at a dizzying speed. Emalee had already moved into the next room after kicking off her shoes and lining them up beside several others—big and little—under the bench. I took the hint and toed my boots off and followed her.

It surprised me at what I walked into. While the B&B was beautifully decorated, her personal living room was much simpler. The walls were a neutral off-white, the furniture a boring tan, and the wood floors were scuffed instead of shiny with only a small throw rug under the coffee table.

The only splash of color other than the blue curtains and a couple of throw pillows was a flower bouquet on top of an end table between a couch with frayed cushions and a cracked leather recliner. Even the blanket on the couch was cream-colored. A large wicker basket sat on the floor against one wall and a small table and chair with coloring materials neatly organized on top were the only other pieces of furniture.

Pictures of a beaming Iain with his mom and a woman, who I assumed was his grandmother, were scattered on the end tables and walls. Very minimal, but everything was clean and neat. I wondered why she put so much effort into the inn and not her home.

A series of “beeps” and a clattering of dishes came from around the corner, and I followed my nose to the eat-in kitchen. A square table had already been set for two on opposite sides of another floral arrangement. “You must like flowers,” I commented. “The vase of bouquets in each room is a nice touch.”

She looked up from where she was pulling plates out of a cabinet. “Thanks. It’s an easy thing to like when your cousin has a green thumb. He has several greenhouses and grows a bunch of flowers. He provides the local florist with much of her stock.” Her smile was shy but proud. “I pay him for the flowers for the inn, but I know he’s giving me way more than what I pay for. That’s just Chase. He takes care of those he loves. If I find there’s more than I need for the inn, I bring them home.”

“And that’s where Iain is now?”

She paused and wiped her hands on a towel. “He is. He loves it there, especially the farm animals, and Chase is great with Iain. We spend a lot of time there when I can get away. It’s become the main gathering place for my family.”

I didn’t comment, pleased that Iain had family who loved him but jealous of the time they’d had when I knew nothing of him. I watched as she washed some lettuce and other salad vegetables and got out a cutting board and knife. Her movements froze as I instinctively crossed the room and picked up the knife, causing our hands to brush each other. A zap of electricity shot up my arm at the touch. Her eyes jerked to mine, and I knew by the pretty flush that colored her cheeks, she felt it, too.

Good.I wasn’t the only one remembering how good it used to be. I was dying to know why she left me, but first, I wanted to know more about Iain.

God, I still couldn’t get over the idea I was a father.

I focused on the carrot and green pepper in front of me and began to cut them the way she taught me years ago. Back then, I hadn’t known a thing about cooking since my family had a staff to do anything domestic. During our time together, I started off taking her out to eat, but after the third or fourth time, she teased me about being spoiled and insisted it would help her practice her lessons if we cooked at home, meaning the frat house, and where she could visit Milo at the same time. It was embarrassing I didn’t know slicing from dicing, but Emalee, in her patient way, showed me what to do, and I’d loved working in tandem with her.

I still didn’t have her skills, but over the years, I’d taught myself a few dishes I could prepare on my own. I wondered what she’d think of the change.

She tore some lettuce and cut cherry tomatoes before adding them to glass bowls.

“Would you like some wine? Or water? I’m sorry, I remember you like beer, but I don’t have any.”

“Wine would be nice, but you don’t need to go out of your way.”

I watched as she expertly uncorked a new bottle of wine and poured two glasses. Then she pulled a large glass dish from the oven and set it on the hot pad that was waiting on the table. I added my veggies to the bowls and brought them over.

She blew out a breath. “I guess that’s everything.”

“It looks delicious.”

“I had a lot of energy to burn earlier.” She laughed nervously.

I hated how we felt so awkward around each other now. It was to be expected, but we’d seemed to have connected so easily when we first met. It’s one of the reasons I thought for sure we were meant to be.

After taking a bite of the steaming square of cheesy noodles she placed in front of me, I looked at her in amazement. “This is delicious.”

Her face changed from wary to pleased. “Thanks. It seemed prudent. I could prepare it early, and it will make easy leftovers for tomorrow. Iain won’t let the leftovers last long, that’s for sure. He’s been growing like a string bean this year.”

I digested that tidbit about our son, along with another bite of lasagna. I ate about four more bites before I even noticed she was chewing slowly on what looked like her first bite. She was staring at her plate, her fork making lines in the sauce.

The meal was enjoyable, but we were dancing around the elephant in the room, so I decided to open the conversation.

“Tell me about Iain. How old is he? When’s his birthday?”

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