Amy Frazier - Independence Day

The adults laughed.

“Take it home with you,” Nick urged. “You can practice.”

“Oh, thanks.” Sean ruffled Alex’s hair. “Just what we need. More noise in the house.”

“Your Uncle Nick’s afraid Aunt Chessie might try to make a point with it again,” Penn declared dryly.

“So…” Kit indicated both the trumpet and the sandwich board. “Are we talking about this?”

“Sure,” Chessie replied as Nick said, “No.”

If anyone would understand her mission, it was Kit. At twenty-five, her sister-in-law had been on her own for nine years—nine unconventional years—until Sean convinced her that loving him and Alex didn’t mean she had to give up her individuality.

Nick looked at his watch. “The tide…”

“You know McCabe parties go on forever,” Sean said. “Stop by when you get in.”

“Thanks.” Nick smiled, but he didn’t say they’d be there.

Chessie wondered about that as they made their way home. Nick had told her that moving this last time was a good idea because they’d settle into a ready-made family. She and the girls had done the settling, but Nick remained strangely aloof.

“Are you and your family okay?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

She didn’t pursue the issue. Nick’s relationship with his family had always been…special. His mother had died when he was twelve and Jonas, his youngest brother, just one. Nick had been old enough at the time to shoulder some of the responsibility of looking after the kids. She could see where the experience had honed his deeply ingrained provider instinct. But when he’d left for college nineteen years ago, he’d left for a future away from Pritchard’s Neck. And when they’d returned last year, Nick had never seemed completely at ease with either his father or his siblings.

He seemed as emotionally AWOL with them as he was with her.

Chessie couldn’t control his relationships with others, but if her strike woke her husband up, she might not be the only one whose needs were met.

“CHESSIE?” Nick glanced at his watch. Seven-thirty. “We’re home!”

“I’m up in the bedroom.”

She sounded rational. With some sense of relief that she hadn’t ambushed him with more laundry, he climbed the stairs. Yet today’s explosion—having gone beyond anything she’d ever pulled on them before—still worried him. He was tired from exploring the islands with the girls, but he needed to get to the bottom of this before the situation escalated.

But what was the situation? What did she really want from them? From him? She’d spoken in riddles.

Chessie had mentioned a project that was important to her. He’d always liked her interest in ceramics because it seemed to relax her, but maybe the self-imposed pressure to excel had gotten out of hand. Maybe she actually needed to lay off the pottery for a while.

Maybe he could engineer a short break for the two of them, since he’d chosen not to take his scheduled vacation this year. The AP science teacher had promised his spring term students a bus trip to Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire next week. A reward for passing their Advanced Placement exams. Maybe he and Chessie could hook up as chaperones. It wouldn’t be a real vacation, it wasn’t an overnight trip, but it would be a change of scene. Maybe he could afford one more day off work. If he could only get next fall’s hiring completed this week.

There were far too many ifs and maybes.

He found himself stalled in the upstairs hallway.

“Do you plan to step over the threshold?” Chessie leaned against the bedroom door frame, looking up at him. Lost in thought, he hadn’t even noticed her. “I won’t bite,” she added.

“I wasn’t sure.”

“I said we’d talk later. Now’s good.”

“The fireworks start at nine.”

“Oh, we have plenty of time before the fireworks start.” With a gleam in her eye that could itself be described as pyrotechnic, she pulled him into their bedroom and closed the door firmly behind them.

Things were looking up.

He moved to take her in his arms.

“Talk,” she said, pushing him down to sit on the bed while she remained standing. “So…what did you learn today?”

He was in treacherous, uncharted territory. “Chessie—”

“Maaaa!” The adolescent shriek careened up the stairwell and through the closed door. “Are there any strawberries and whipped cream left over from breakfast?” Gabriella.

With a shudder, Chessie opened the door. “Miss McCabe, unless you broke both legs and at least one arm on your trip to the islands, you can open the refrigerator door and check for yourself.” Her shoulders seemed to droop. “Please don’t interrupt. Your father and I are in the middle of an important conversation.”

“It won’t interfere with us watching the fireworks, will it?”

“If you don’t give us ten minutes, the fireworks will begin early, I promise.”

Even from upstairs, Nick could hear Gabriella stomping off to the kitchen. He’d always admired Chessie’s infinite patience with their daughters, especially Gabby, who was proving a handful. This evening, however, that patience showed signs of wear and tear.

Breathing deeply, Chessie turned back into the room. “Where was I?”

“You wanted to know what I’d learned today.” He chose his words carefully. “I think perhaps you want more time to yourself.”

“Not quite. It’s more that I don’t believe you and the girls see me as being a self. I’m your wife, their mom. Outside of that, I think I’m a bit of a blur.”

“How can you say that?”

“Okay. What was I wearing this morning?”

A trick question. Was she wearing the shorts and T-shirt she had on now?

“Besides a sandwich board?” he asked, stalling.

Clearly impatient now, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Underneath the sandwich board.”

He frowned. Before she’d surprised him with her strike sign, she’d shown every intention of working on her pots. He hazarded a guess. “Shorts. A smock.”

“What color were my toenails?”

He glanced quickly at her feet. She wore sneakers. “Red, white and blue?”

“Have you ever seen me paint my nails? Ever? The girls, yes, but me? I don’t think so.” With an unexpected snort of laughter, she picked up a pillow from the window seat and threw it at him. “Red, white and blue. I’ll give you C+ for creativity.”

The fact that she didn’t appear angry seemed to augur the return of the old, familiar Chessie, mischievous but sweet. His exact opposite. Perhaps that’s why he’d been drawn to her back in high school—

Another pillow hit him in the head. “No daydreaming in class.”

“Then can we cut to the chase? My day off is almost gone. I’d like to spend the rest of it with my family. With you.”

“About this morning—”

“You’re forgiven.” He grinned, then immediately regretted his ill-timed humor as another pillow whizzed by his head.

“You and the girls mustn’t take me for granted any longer.” The renewed rebellion in her eyes told him this was no joke. “There are times I feel invisible.”

“Sweetheart.” He opened his arms to her. “You are the most colorful, least invisible woman I know. The girls and I love every quirky bone in your body.” Okay, so it wasn’t Robert Browning. He was a high-school principal—a weary high-school principal—not a poet.

“Do you understand how important my work is to me?” she asked.

“If there were a Maine Mom-and-Wife-of-the-Year Award, I’d nominate you in a heartbeat.”

“And my pottery?”

“I love your pots.” Better keep it simple. Talk of arts and crafts dragged him out of his league.