Ruth Herne - Waiting Out the Storm

“That would be a switch.” She nodded to the large kettle on the stove. “Can you shift half that pot into the eight-quart kettle for me, please? Dad’s got a fishing crew on the Deborah I and they’re due back. I want supper ready when they get here.”

“Will do.” As he poured half the soup into the smaller kettle, he angled a brow his mother’s way. “So. What did you ask God for?”

Her quick smile brightened gray-blue eyes. “The usual. Affordability. Hills, trees, land, good neighbors and room for dogs.” She didn’t mention Rocket by name. They both knew the inevitability of the old boy’s future. Talking about it didn’t make the outcome easier, although Craig hoped the Lab could make the move with him. Time would tell. “And I love that section of the county, so close to the state park. Beautiful land, Craig.”

“It is.”

“And it’s a family home you’re building.”

“Yup. Me and Rocket.”

At his name, Rocket almost perked an ear, but it was obviously too much effort. The misnamed hound let out a whine, passed gas, then stretched, his paws kneading air in his sleep.

“I was referring to the human variety, but…” His mother slanted a grin Rocket’s way. “He’s a solid beginning. Kind of.”

“I don’t think finding the right girl is as easy as you make out,” Craig argued. “Can’t say my luck’s running any too good in that direction.”

“Depends on where you’re looking,” she shot back. “Probably wouldn’t hurt to expand your horizons, my boy. Search outside the box.”

“Girls don’t come boxed,” Craig pointed out. “That would make things way too easy.”

“Or Stepford,” Deb replied. “When God puts the right woman before you, you’ll know it. There’ll be no doubts.”

“None?”

“Nope.”

“Like you and Dad?”

“Exactly like that,” she agreed. “We’ve weathered some storms, but haven’t capsized yet.”

“And you knew right off the bat,” Craig teased, grabbing another slice of bread, then re-thinking the decision. Eight mile runs and full stomachs weren’t a great mix.

“I was sixteen,” Deb laughed, poking his arm. “But yes, Craig. I knew.”

On his way upstairs to change into running shorts and shoes, Craig spotted Grams sitting on the side porch, a blanket drawn around her shoulders as the evening air cooled. He decided to drive fast and take a minute with her. Life had been crazy busy this spring and their shared moments had been few and far between. “Grams?”

She smiled and turned. “Craig. I was just thinking what a beautiful day this was and now it’s even better.”

He grinned and sank into the rocker alongside hers. The wraparound porch, barren now, would teem with flowers once the nights warmed. His mother didn’t care that most of their reservations were hunters and fishermen. She believed people should appreciate God, flowers and good food.

Grams leaned his way. “You’ve been busy, I hear.”

“Crazy,” he agreed. “And you?”

She laughed. “Your Aunt Cindy kept me hopping these past weeks. I helped when Lisa had her baby, and oh, my, that was a walk down memory lane.” She patted his knee. “I remember you children being born like it was yesterday, your mom and I walking you and Cade through town in your strollers. Then on trikes. The idea that thirty-five years have passed…” she paused, staring outward, then gave a little jerk. “Anyway, it’s nice to be part of this new generation. Watch you youngsters have babies of your own. Your grandpa would have loved that.”

The wistful look in her eye magnified Craig’s inner guilt. If Gramps hadn’t died of a heart attack, he might be here to play with Lisa’s baby. Or her little boy, Jack.

But no. Gramps was gone and hadn’t known the joy of his great-grandchildren, except Kyle.

And whose fault is that, his conscience prodded.

Craig surged from the seat and noted the time, then hurried off, unable to meet Grams’ look, a mix of trust and loss. Would she hate him, knowing what he’d done? That he’d spurred the old man on?

Did it matter? He hated himself for the brash actions of youth, the foolish yammering of a young man who thought he knew so much.

He was living proof of the old adage his grandfather liked to quote: “Better to close your mouth and let people think you’re stupid, than open it and prove them right.”

If only he’d learned the lesson sooner.

The first scream brought Craig’s head up. It was followed by a second and a tirade of crude words Craig hadn’t heard since party nights in college.

“I hate you! I really, really hate you! I’ll kill you when I get my hands on you, you little worm!” The threat was followed by the slamming of a door, first once, then twice. As Craig hurried down the drive, a runner hurtled toward him, full tilt, arms pumping, an expression of half fear, half triumph lighting the boy’s face.

Behind him pounded a girl, tall and lanky, her athletic prowess outstripping that of the huskier boy. Reaching out an arm, Craig caught the boy, noted the look of surprise and confusion, then held tight while the girl barreled toward them. “What’s going on?”

“Let me go!” The boy struggled against Craig’s grasp.

Craig tightened his grip. “Be quiet. Now.” He directed a calm look to the agitated girl whose knowledge of words unsuited for God-fearing ears was most impressive. Keeping his eyes impassive, Craig stared her down. “Swearing isn’t going to help your situation. I’m not turning him over to you until I know what he did to deserve the beating you can’t wait to dish out.”

The boy squirmed. Craig sent him a look meant to quell. It did. Keeping his body between the antagonists, he angled his head. “What’d he do?”

“Besides reading my journal to his stupid friends over the phone? Even the most private parts?” The girl’s pitch heightened significantly. With good reason, it seemed.

Craig squelched the boy with a stern expression. “Her journal? You would stoop that low?”

Trying to wriggle away, the boy realized the futility when Craig’s arm clenched tighter. “It’s just a stupid old diary.”

“It’s hers.” Craig’s tone allowed no leeway. “Private. Confidential. What were you thinking?” Staring into the boy’s light eyes, he issued a challenge, man to man.

“I just wanted to see what girls write in those things.” Reading Craig’s expression, the boy turned sheepish.

“You’ve got a lot to learn about women, kid,” noted Craig. He was about to continue when a swift-moving figure emerged from the far side of the barn. Startled, he recognized the tawny skin and raised planes of the cheekbones. Huge brown eyes, deep and dark, complementing the long, thick black braid. She’d obviously been working; she bore the look and scent of barn labor.

The girl rolled her eyes as Sarah approached. Then she sniffed, unimpressed, the sound insulting. The boy stilled as if ashamed.

“What’s going on?” Sarah’s voice held the same calm, flat intonation he’d come to know. Tilting her chin, she met Craig’s eye. “You may let go.”

“Of course.” Irritation at being told what to do rose within him. “Now that I’ve saved his life, I’m expendable.”

She didn’t smile. Grim, she addressed the girl. “Who’s watching Skeeter?”

The girl flinched. “She’s watching cartoons.”

Silent, Sarah didn’t move. She used the full force of those dark, impenetrable eyes to subdue the teenager. Defeated, the girl fidgeted. “I’ll see to her.”

The teen flounced back to the small green house set in the trees, her posture indicating displeasure at life in general.