Jill Sorenson - Backwoods

Not so long ago, her daughter had been gap-toothed and giggling, wearing a party hat. She’d been a newborn who refused to latch on for the first two weeks, and then a toddler who’d refused to stop when Abby tried to wean her. She’d always been stubborn, prone to outbursts, quick to laugh and full of energy.

Brooke flipped open the makeup case and rifled through its contents. “Here,” she said, choosing a single item. She tucked the rose-tinted lip moisturizer into Abby’s palm and closed her fingers around it, as if bestowing a precious gift.

Abby turned to the mirror and applied it, her throat tight.

Brooke came up behind her. “Do you think I need boobs?” she asked, covering her small breasts with her hands.

“Absolutely not,” Abby said, appalled. Brooke had a runner’s figure, strong and sleek. “You’re perfect.”

“I look like a boy.”

“Who told you that?”

“No one important.”

“Good, because it’s ridiculous.”

“Were you flat, before?”

“You don’t remember?”

Brooke shook her head.

Brooke had been twelve when Abby had her breasts done. Too young to notice the flaws Abby had seen so clearly. “I wasn’t flat...I was asymmetrical.”

“Like, one big boob and one small?” She adjusted her hands over her chest to demonstrate.

“Yes.” It wasn’t the only reason for her augmentation; Abby’s self-confidence had taken a hit during the divorce. If she hadn’t been such an emotional wreck, she might not have gone under the knife, but she was happy with the results. “You have a lovely figure, very proportional. Besides, large breasts are a pain for sports.”

“True.”

“They also seem to attract jerks,” Abby pointed out.

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know.”

Although her implants weren’t that obvious, Abby worried about the example she’d set for Brooke. Until now, Brooke had never complained about her shape or acted self-conscious. She certainly wasn’t shy about wearing revealing clothes. Abby wondered what had prompted this conversation. “What are the boys like at Berkeley?”

Brooke stopped posing in front of the mirror and dropped her hands. She’d steered clear of serious relationships in high school, preferring to concentrate on sports and academics. “They’re hot, rich and smart.”

It was a succinct summary, delivered with more cynicism than a girl her age should have. Maybe Brooke had some trust issues of her own.

Thanks, Ray.

Brooke scooped up a pile of clothes and escaped into the bathroom. Abby hoped her daughter would come to her if she needed someone to talk to. She also wished Brooke had a better male role model. Too often, her father wasn’t there for her.

With a frown, Abby left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen. The soles of her shoes made no sound on the lush carpet. When she exited the hallway, she saw Nathan and almost jumped out of her skin.

“You scared me,” he said, removing the carafe from the coffeemaker.

It took her a few seconds to realize he was joking. “I didn’t know you were up.”

“I was trying to be quiet.”

He went to the sink and filled the carafe with water, whistling. After transferring the water to the reservoir, he plugged in the machine and turned it on.

Abby studied him as they waited for the coffee to brew. He was wearing a faded blue Toros T-shirt with tan cargo shorts and brown hiking boots. The clothes fit well on his body, which appeared to be in fantastic shape. She figured he had to be close to forty, but only his face showed his age. He had thick brown hair, broad shoulders and a trim waist. An outdoor setting would only accentuate his rugged features.

It wasn’t fair.

Abby didn’t want to “rough it” with a man this attractive. She was going to be sweaty and anxious and unkempt. The idea of trekking through the woods and leaving civilization behind intimidated her. She didn’t like feeling out of her element, out of control.

“You must have been a child bride,” he said.

She’d heard that one before. It was an odd sort of compliment, but she saw no censure in his expression. “And you were twelve when you fathered Leo, right?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “I was nineteen. The same age he is now.”

“Were you more mature than he is?”

“Maybe, but not by much.”

She fell silent for a moment, pondering her own teen marriage. At eighteen, she’d thought she was ready to be a wife and mother. She’d wanted her own family more than anything. Ray had been five years older, and on a fast track to a promising career in medicine. They’d skipped the courtship and gone straight to playing house.

“Was the pregnancy unplanned?” she asked, tentative.

His brows rose at the personal question. “It’s hard to say that, considering how careless we were with protection. The real surprise was that it didn’t happen sooner.”

“Did you want to get married?”

“I did, actually. I had to talk her into it. She had reservations about the amount of time I spent traveling with the team.”

Abby couldn’t blame her. She imagined a young, beautiful Lydia, taking care of a baby by herself while Nathan “the Storm” Strom hit home runs in front of a roaring crowd. Lydia had gotten the short end of that stick.

When the coffee was finished brewing, Nathan grabbed a cup and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” she said, disconcerted by his proximity.

“Isn’t this cozy,” Brooke said as she walked in. She was wearing a red tank top, frayed denim short-shorts and sturdy hiking boots. Her long hair was braided under a baseball cap. “You two should get revenge on Lydia and Dad by hooking up.”

Abby stepped back from Nathan too quickly and spilled coffee over the rim of her mug. “Brooke!”

“What?”

Nathan coughed into his fist, as if covering a laugh. He found another mug on the shelf and busied himself with the coffeemaker. Abby set her cup aside and wiped the floor with a paper towel, her cheeks hot.

“Coffee?” Nathan offered Brooke.

“No, thanks.”

He must have preferred it black, because he left without adding any cream or sugar. “Ladies,” he said, winking at Abby.

Brooke gave her a triumphant smile.

Abby opened the refrigerator, half hoping she could crawl inside and die. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“Relax. He thought I was joking.”

Abby took out a carton of soy milk and a jar of orange juice. “Should I make breakfast?”

“Definitely. Be domestic.”

Abby rifled through the utensil drawer for a spatula. “You can scramble eggs,” she said, pointing it at Brooke.

They cooked almost a dozen eggs, along with turkey bacon and wheat toast. Nathan came back for a plate. Leo also roused from his slumber. He was dressed casually in basketball shorts and a T-shirt that said High Life across the front. Nathan’s gaze darkened with irritation when he saw the marijuana logo.

Abby could cut through the tension between them with a knife. Nathan had said that Leo didn’t like him. It appeared to be true. He was polite to her and Brooke, seemingly indifferent toward his father.

After breakfast, Leo helped Brooke with the dishes while Nathan walked outside to make business calls on his cell phone. Abby perused the local newspaper, which must have been delivered with the groceries. She found a disturbing story about Echo Lake. A few years ago, a group of teenagers had hiked there for an afternoon swim. When it was time to leave, one of the girls hadn’t returned to shore. Divers searched a portion of the lake but were unable to recover the body. She was presumed drowned.

Abby read the article out loud to Brooke and Leo. “You’ll have to be careful swimming. There are obstacles in the water. Sunken logs.”