Maiden Leap
by CM Harris
an excerpt from the novel published by Bedazzled Ink Publishing | September 1, 2020
CHAPTER ONE
2007
KATE
A ghost turns the corner in a flash of black, her overcoat lapping at the legs of passersby. Those touched, slow in her wake, alerted to something gone askew in their world. Some turn to catch a glimpse, but the flow of Black Friday shoppers engulfs her, and the briefly molested carry on with their errands, their revelry.
Watching this dark whirlwind from the safety of her minivan, Kate Larson gently nibbles the inside of her cheek. If it was merely a ghost, she could drive on without another thought, blaming imagination, holiday enchantment, Thanksgiving leftovers. But there’s something about that woman—her determined gait, dark whipping strands of hair, strong jaw—which sets Kate’s heart thumping, her skin tingling. This is no phantom.
“No way,” Kate whispers. She hangs a right at the corner without signaling, only to earn a quick toot from the car behind. “Oh, fuck the fuck off.”
Kate winces. Not because she dropped the f-bomb for the first time in years, but because the oncoming driver has read her lips and raises his hands in outrage.
She smiles meekly, waving him off. In a town the size of Wicasa Bluffs, it will surely come back to bite her.
To maintain a visual on the woman in black, Kate eases the minivan to a crawl. Her chest seizes up as if it might collapse in upon itself if she doesn’t remember to breathe. Meanwhile, the specter on the sidewalk storms along, as oblivious to the swath she is clearing as she had been stalking the halls of Wicasa Bluffs High School nineteen years ago. Kate flicks on her right-turn signal. Cars zoom past, engines revving with annoyance. But she needs to make sure. Could it really be Lucy? Kate hunches down, shielding half her face behind the passenger headrest. The woman glances at the street and darts into the Gonzo Fox antique store. It is, without question, Lucy.
2007
KATE
A ghost turns the corner in a flash of black, her overcoat lapping at the legs of passersby. Those touched, slow in her wake, alerted to something gone askew in their world. Some turn to catch a glimpse, but the flow of Black Friday shoppers engulfs her, and the briefly molested carry on with their errands, their revelry.
Watching this dark whirlwind from the safety of her minivan, Kate Larson gently nibbles the inside of her cheek. If it was merely a ghost, she could drive on without another thought, blaming imagination, holiday enchantment, Thanksgiving leftovers. But there’s something about that woman—her determined gait, dark whipping strands of hair, strong jaw—which sets Kate’s heart thumping, her skin tingling. This is no phantom.
“No way,” Kate whispers. She hangs a right at the corner without signaling, only to earn a quick toot from the car behind. “Oh, fuck the fuck off.”
Kate winces. Not because she dropped the f-bomb for the first time in years, but because the oncoming driver has read her lips and raises his hands in outrage.
She smiles meekly, waving him off. In a town the size of Wicasa Bluffs, it will surely come back to bite her.
To maintain a visual on the woman in black, Kate eases the minivan to a crawl. Her chest seizes up as if it might collapse in upon itself if she doesn’t remember to breathe. Meanwhile, the specter on the sidewalk storms along, as oblivious to the swath she is clearing as she had been stalking the halls of Wicasa Bluffs High School nineteen years ago. Kate flicks on her right-turn signal. Cars zoom past, engines revving with annoyance. But she needs to make sure. Could it really be Lucy? Kate hunches down, shielding half her face behind the passenger headrest. The woman glances at the street and darts into the Gonzo Fox antique store. It is, without question, Lucy.
~
Half an hour later, Mark Fox catches Kate at Risdahl’s Supermarket. His tight orange curls and matching beard, usually a friendly beacon, are today a warning. The two lock eyes, ending any thought Kate might have had of swinging a U-turn out of the pasta aisle.
Mark rushes at her in a blur of cream cable knit and corduroy, accompanied by the slightest whiff of leather from his lace-up packer boots. “There you are,” he says with a snap, “You know a cell phone only works if you have it on. Had to call your house. The deer hunter said you’d be shopping.” In his hands, he balances a leaning tower of deli containers filled with salads, olives, mozzarella balls.
“Something wrong?” Kate says airily. Her gaze drifts up and down the shelves, while her perspiration gathers under his delving glare.
“You tell me. Guess who’s back in town and as what.” He croaks the last word like a bullfrog.
“Who?”
“Lucy. Van. Buren.”
“Oh yeah?” Kate tries to focus on her tour of duty. Whole-wheat penne for Erik’s irregularity. A value pack of Mac ‘n Cheese for Brace. This obscurely branded, organic, multi-colored ravioli for Samantha--
Mark’s gaze stays on her. “Came into the shop this morning.”
Kate rakes cans of SpaghettiOs into her cart, though she hasn’t craved them since her sophomore year. She shivers. “Is it cold in here? Risdahl always has those freezers so high.”
“Hello?” Mark stops in front of Kate’s cart, eyeing her bounty with confused distaste. “Don’t you even want to know what Lucy’s up to?”
Kate stares through Mark. “Sure. Is she well?”
“Well? Yeah, she’s well.” Mark scratches thoughtfully at his beard. “Maybe a little saggy. But no more than the rest of us.”
“Yikes.” Good. She’s old and ugly.
“What did you think, she’d gone off to drink from the fountain of youth? Gin and cigarettes more like. Anyway”—Mark pokes Kate’s arm and murmurs—“she’s one of you people now.”
“Whopeople?”
Mark snickers, slightly crouched, waiting for her to figure it out.
“Wait a second. What?” Kate frowned. “She’s married?”
“No, not yet.” Mark rolls his eyes. “Can you imagine the poor guy who tries to rope Lucy Veebee?”
Actually, Kate could. Lucy had won plenty of admirers in high school. They always seemed to transform from cocky young bucks to bumbling, glassy-eyed zombies.
Sorta like I did.
“She’s been through Sojourn Reclaimers,” Mark says.
Kate’s lip curls as she pushes the cart forward. “That sounds familiar.” Too familiar. Mommy-in-law-dearest familiar.
“It’s an ex-gay ministry.”
“Okay, yeah, they’re one of Claudia’s campaign contributors. She’s showed us one of their recruitment videos. She has no idea it looks just like an SNL sketch.”
“Lucy said they ‘reversed her polarity,’” he says with a smirk. “She’s still got a sense of humor at least.”
Kate pictures high school Lucy lying on a slab in Frankenstein’s laboratory, gas blue lightning bolts arcing at her temples and curling her dark hair. And for a moment the corner of her mouth turns up because that’s just what young Lucy would have pictured too. But the smile quickly fades.
“Are you sure? Last I heard her band was coming out with another album.”
“Yeah, well, apparently she hit bottom, went through detox, and the whole thing imploded. Checked into Sojourn Reclaimers to change her ways, she said. Bought the old Gainsborough place up on the Leap. It’s way too big for her. She’ll just rattle around in that mausoleum. Guess her mom’s going to help decorate it.” He sniffs. “I give it six months.”
Kate’s blinking gaze drifts upward as if the puzzle might be solved there amongst the fluorescent lighting. “Not possible, Mark. It just isn’t.”
He shrugs. “Some people change. Or think they do.”
As Kate rolls her cart slowly on, they watch the throng gathering at the registers.
“Jeez,” he shakes his head, “what on earth are you going to say to her?”
“Gawd, I don’t know.” Kate’s mental shopping list grows hazier. “What did you say to her?”
“Well, I was going to tell her she’d been brainwashed, but I sorta chickened out.”
“Ha! Some activist you are.”
“Speaking of,” he says, “we still on for the rally?”
“Can’t this time.”
Mark’s jaw juts to the side. “What? Oh, come on.”
“The Senator needs us for a photoshoot—before you get angry, think about it. If Claudia is at a soup kitchen serving leftover turkey, she’s got no time to hassle you at the capitol.”
Mark looks at her with a disgusted incredulity that always burns, always reminds Kate that she supports his causes only when convenient. She’ll never live it like he does. But Mark will also never walk the line she walks, the shades of grey she must paint with while married to the son of a conservative state senator.
“Gotta go clean the house.” Mark looks defeated at his deli fare. “The Scrooge cast is coming over for dinner.”
“Mark,” Kate calls as he slouches toward the 10 Items or Less line. “I’ll drop off the signs Samantha painted for the protest tomorrow.”
He shrugs a shoulder and shuffles away from her.
Great.
Mark rushes at her in a blur of cream cable knit and corduroy, accompanied by the slightest whiff of leather from his lace-up packer boots. “There you are,” he says with a snap, “You know a cell phone only works if you have it on. Had to call your house. The deer hunter said you’d be shopping.” In his hands, he balances a leaning tower of deli containers filled with salads, olives, mozzarella balls.
“Something wrong?” Kate says airily. Her gaze drifts up and down the shelves, while her perspiration gathers under his delving glare.
“You tell me. Guess who’s back in town and as what.” He croaks the last word like a bullfrog.
“Who?”
“Lucy. Van. Buren.”
“Oh yeah?” Kate tries to focus on her tour of duty. Whole-wheat penne for Erik’s irregularity. A value pack of Mac ‘n Cheese for Brace. This obscurely branded, organic, multi-colored ravioli for Samantha--
Mark’s gaze stays on her. “Came into the shop this morning.”
Kate rakes cans of SpaghettiOs into her cart, though she hasn’t craved them since her sophomore year. She shivers. “Is it cold in here? Risdahl always has those freezers so high.”
“Hello?” Mark stops in front of Kate’s cart, eyeing her bounty with confused distaste. “Don’t you even want to know what Lucy’s up to?”
Kate stares through Mark. “Sure. Is she well?”
“Well? Yeah, she’s well.” Mark scratches thoughtfully at his beard. “Maybe a little saggy. But no more than the rest of us.”
“Yikes.” Good. She’s old and ugly.
“What did you think, she’d gone off to drink from the fountain of youth? Gin and cigarettes more like. Anyway”—Mark pokes Kate’s arm and murmurs—“she’s one of you people now.”
“Whopeople?”
Mark snickers, slightly crouched, waiting for her to figure it out.
“Wait a second. What?” Kate frowned. “She’s married?”
“No, not yet.” Mark rolls his eyes. “Can you imagine the poor guy who tries to rope Lucy Veebee?”
Actually, Kate could. Lucy had won plenty of admirers in high school. They always seemed to transform from cocky young bucks to bumbling, glassy-eyed zombies.
Sorta like I did.
“She’s been through Sojourn Reclaimers,” Mark says.
Kate’s lip curls as she pushes the cart forward. “That sounds familiar.” Too familiar. Mommy-in-law-dearest familiar.
“It’s an ex-gay ministry.”
“Okay, yeah, they’re one of Claudia’s campaign contributors. She’s showed us one of their recruitment videos. She has no idea it looks just like an SNL sketch.”
“Lucy said they ‘reversed her polarity,’” he says with a smirk. “She’s still got a sense of humor at least.”
Kate pictures high school Lucy lying on a slab in Frankenstein’s laboratory, gas blue lightning bolts arcing at her temples and curling her dark hair. And for a moment the corner of her mouth turns up because that’s just what young Lucy would have pictured too. But the smile quickly fades.
“Are you sure? Last I heard her band was coming out with another album.”
“Yeah, well, apparently she hit bottom, went through detox, and the whole thing imploded. Checked into Sojourn Reclaimers to change her ways, she said. Bought the old Gainsborough place up on the Leap. It’s way too big for her. She’ll just rattle around in that mausoleum. Guess her mom’s going to help decorate it.” He sniffs. “I give it six months.”
Kate’s blinking gaze drifts upward as if the puzzle might be solved there amongst the fluorescent lighting. “Not possible, Mark. It just isn’t.”
He shrugs. “Some people change. Or think they do.”
As Kate rolls her cart slowly on, they watch the throng gathering at the registers.
“Jeez,” he shakes his head, “what on earth are you going to say to her?”
“Gawd, I don’t know.” Kate’s mental shopping list grows hazier. “What did you say to her?”
“Well, I was going to tell her she’d been brainwashed, but I sorta chickened out.”
“Ha! Some activist you are.”
“Speaking of,” he says, “we still on for the rally?”
“Can’t this time.”
Mark’s jaw juts to the side. “What? Oh, come on.”
“The Senator needs us for a photoshoot—before you get angry, think about it. If Claudia is at a soup kitchen serving leftover turkey, she’s got no time to hassle you at the capitol.”
Mark looks at her with a disgusted incredulity that always burns, always reminds Kate that she supports his causes only when convenient. She’ll never live it like he does. But Mark will also never walk the line she walks, the shades of grey she must paint with while married to the son of a conservative state senator.
“Gotta go clean the house.” Mark looks defeated at his deli fare. “The Scrooge cast is coming over for dinner.”
“Mark,” Kate calls as he slouches toward the 10 Items or Less line. “I’ll drop off the signs Samantha painted for the protest tomorrow.”
He shrugs a shoulder and shuffles away from her.
Great.
~
The minivan idles at the front of a long line of cars along Portage Avenue. Inside, Kate hums, adjusts the side mirrors, checks the state of her face in the sun visor.
“Least I’m not saggy.”
Deception, she knows. The tiny marquee lights bathe parched winter skin in warm glamour and produce a twinkle in the mossiest shade of green eyes. And, because she is looking upward, the fine lines flatten. She catches the eye of the driver behind her and flips the visor closed.
The iron spine of the Wicasa Bluffs lift bridge stretches to the eastern shore of the St. Croix River, where bare trees form a gray-brown mist. The Larsons’ split-level ranch waits in a cul-de-sac less than a mile away, but it might as well be twenty. The bridge’s midsection is climbing with a slow rumble to allow an icebreaking barge to continue along the purgatorial artery between the craggy banks of Minnesota and Wisconsin. Above the rising exhaust of fellow bridge strandees, an iridescent sundog lights the morning sky. Dry air roars through the minivan. Samantha’s banana popsicles will soon turn to yellow slush, but it’s too cold to roll down the windows. Kate settles for turning off the blower.
Lucy was your first. And your last.
This Sojourn Reclaimers bullshit is one hell of a leap on the crooked path of enlightenment Lucy had sung about in her songs. Kate had counted on the woman to be true to at least herself, even if no one else could be true to her. Knowing Lucy was out there living large was how Kate made peace with the past, why she didn’t feel as guilty about how it fell apart, why she’d started supporting Mark’s pro-gay marriage battles so readily. This is more than Lucy betraying herself; it is a whitewash of their shared memory as if it could all be erased with a little God therapy.
Kate glances back at the bluffs, where the old Gainsborough estate sits tucked behind the clearing of Maiden Leap, the highest cliff in town. She can only see the home’s gray-shingled turret cone from here. Mark’s right. It’s the last place Lucy would settle down in.
What will Lucy be like after all this time? Will she consider Kate too bourgeois? Too fat? Too married? Too mom? Kate was going to let the summer sun lighten her dark blonde curls. Should she hasten the effect with a cut and color at Trés Jolie?
“Oh fer goshsakes. Just. Don’t.” Her breath comes hard and quick. She presses her lower back into the heated lumbar support, commanding her shoulders to loosen. The lift bridge finally lowers, but the minivan does not budge. Kate is lost at age fifteen, remembering the day she ran across the bridge as it split in two—ran for her life, ran in shame from being publicly serenaded by another girl. Cars honk impatiently behind her.
She slips her foot on the gas and the minivan lurches forward.
Throughout the years, Kate had always averted her eyes when anyone mentioned Lucy Van Buren, though her ears remained alert.
“Lucy is homeless.”
“Lucy is a bazillionaire.”
“Lucy won a surfing contest in Malibu.”
“Lucy was arrested on drug trafficking charges in Barcelona.”
“Lucy climbed the Matterhorn.”
“Lucy went schizo.”
All right, sure, Lucy a Scientologist, maybe. But an evangelical? Never. The Van Burens were not that religious. Kate has no recollection of young Lucy suffering fire and brimstone propaganda, just the unceremonious slap of her father’s open palm. Compared to Kate’s zealous in-laws, the Van Burens were downright pagan—a sensual people with strong hearts and a bit too friendly with the liquor.
Lucy’s mother Bridget has only recently shown up for Sunday services since Lucy’s father died. She is more often seen in a kimono and flip-flops, walking her cats down the sidewalk, coffee mug in hand, her breath smelling like coconut tanning oil—Malibu Rum, according to Mark. Not such a bad way to retire, Kate supposes, save for the fact that if your name isn’t something like Nordquist or Svengard you’re supposed to be taking your last meander in a gated community outside Tucson. To this, Lucy “Veebee” of the indie band Cake for Horses has returned to pay penance? As Kate’s daughter Samantha likes to say in a cockney accent: not bloody likely.
“Least I’m not saggy.”
Deception, she knows. The tiny marquee lights bathe parched winter skin in warm glamour and produce a twinkle in the mossiest shade of green eyes. And, because she is looking upward, the fine lines flatten. She catches the eye of the driver behind her and flips the visor closed.
The iron spine of the Wicasa Bluffs lift bridge stretches to the eastern shore of the St. Croix River, where bare trees form a gray-brown mist. The Larsons’ split-level ranch waits in a cul-de-sac less than a mile away, but it might as well be twenty. The bridge’s midsection is climbing with a slow rumble to allow an icebreaking barge to continue along the purgatorial artery between the craggy banks of Minnesota and Wisconsin. Above the rising exhaust of fellow bridge strandees, an iridescent sundog lights the morning sky. Dry air roars through the minivan. Samantha’s banana popsicles will soon turn to yellow slush, but it’s too cold to roll down the windows. Kate settles for turning off the blower.
Lucy was your first. And your last.
This Sojourn Reclaimers bullshit is one hell of a leap on the crooked path of enlightenment Lucy had sung about in her songs. Kate had counted on the woman to be true to at least herself, even if no one else could be true to her. Knowing Lucy was out there living large was how Kate made peace with the past, why she didn’t feel as guilty about how it fell apart, why she’d started supporting Mark’s pro-gay marriage battles so readily. This is more than Lucy betraying herself; it is a whitewash of their shared memory as if it could all be erased with a little God therapy.
Kate glances back at the bluffs, where the old Gainsborough estate sits tucked behind the clearing of Maiden Leap, the highest cliff in town. She can only see the home’s gray-shingled turret cone from here. Mark’s right. It’s the last place Lucy would settle down in.
What will Lucy be like after all this time? Will she consider Kate too bourgeois? Too fat? Too married? Too mom? Kate was going to let the summer sun lighten her dark blonde curls. Should she hasten the effect with a cut and color at Trés Jolie?
“Oh fer goshsakes. Just. Don’t.” Her breath comes hard and quick. She presses her lower back into the heated lumbar support, commanding her shoulders to loosen. The lift bridge finally lowers, but the minivan does not budge. Kate is lost at age fifteen, remembering the day she ran across the bridge as it split in two—ran for her life, ran in shame from being publicly serenaded by another girl. Cars honk impatiently behind her.
She slips her foot on the gas and the minivan lurches forward.
Throughout the years, Kate had always averted her eyes when anyone mentioned Lucy Van Buren, though her ears remained alert.
“Lucy is homeless.”
“Lucy is a bazillionaire.”
“Lucy won a surfing contest in Malibu.”
“Lucy was arrested on drug trafficking charges in Barcelona.”
“Lucy climbed the Matterhorn.”
“Lucy went schizo.”
All right, sure, Lucy a Scientologist, maybe. But an evangelical? Never. The Van Burens were not that religious. Kate has no recollection of young Lucy suffering fire and brimstone propaganda, just the unceremonious slap of her father’s open palm. Compared to Kate’s zealous in-laws, the Van Burens were downright pagan—a sensual people with strong hearts and a bit too friendly with the liquor.
Lucy’s mother Bridget has only recently shown up for Sunday services since Lucy’s father died. She is more often seen in a kimono and flip-flops, walking her cats down the sidewalk, coffee mug in hand, her breath smelling like coconut tanning oil—Malibu Rum, according to Mark. Not such a bad way to retire, Kate supposes, save for the fact that if your name isn’t something like Nordquist or Svengard you’re supposed to be taking your last meander in a gated community outside Tucson. To this, Lucy “Veebee” of the indie band Cake for Horses has returned to pay penance? As Kate’s daughter Samantha likes to say in a cockney accent: not bloody likely.
~
As the flakes begin to fall, Kate arrives home, welcomed back into the Larson habitat by a crackling fireplace, Badger hockey on the flat screen, and her husband extruding bruisy deer meat through the sausage grinder. The scent of fennel and sage and a gamey tang rolls down from the kitchen.
“Hey, babe,” Erik says, sleeves pushed up over his ropey forearms, hands glossy with venison fat.
Kate kisses his scratchy cheek, which glitters with graying stubble. He always waits to shave and shower until after dressing a deer. She likes her husband like this, thoroughly smelling like himself and the woods. Same as the day they met.
“Took you a while,” he says.
“Oh. Sorry. Yeah, bridge was up.” She first rescues the sagging box of banana pops from the bag and rams it into the freezer.
“Uh, don’t fill that up, got meat needs to go in there.”
“Can’t you put it in the basement freezer?”
“Nope, the new buck’s in there.”
She cannot decide if seeing Erik’s hands on those thick phallic casings is sexy or disturbing. Maybe both. By spring, she’ll have run out of exciting deer sausage recipes. And Samantha is already one bite away from becoming a vegan.
The front door huffs open. Brace lumbers up the stairs and into the kitchen. His blond hair is still wet from the locker room and more the color of butterscotch than when it’s dry. Kate smiles her adoring smile, which has embarrassed Brace since he was eleven. Now at seventeen, he barely meets her eyes anymore.
His hockey bag hits the foyer linoleum and a sweaty funk wafts up to the kitchen. “Hey, peeps.” He pokes around in the groceries.
Erik grumbles. “We are not your peeps.”
“Well, whose are you?”
“We are your parents.”
“So you say, so you say. Where’s Samster the goth hamster?”
“At Jamie’s,” Kate says.
Their silvery Weimaraner, Chuck Norris, clicks around the kitchen, his snout denting the bags and leaving a snail trail. Kate plucks a Post-it note and jots down nail trimming.
“Good.” Brace pulls a Gatorade off the plastic six-pack device that Samantha has dubbed the duck-strangler. “The guys’r comin’ over for the rest of the game. Zev will only half pay attention to it if she’s spooking around all moody and stuff.”
Kate punches her hands onto her hips. “Please remind Zev Cohen that Sam is two years too young for him.”
Brace sniffs out the bag of rotisserie chicken. “Um, you’re ten years younger than Dad.” He cracks the drink and tucks the bag of chicken under his arm like a football.
Kate eyes her husband.
Erik shrugs. “I like that he didn’t say I’m ten years older.”
Brace saunters down to the rec room, Chuck invisibly tethered by the scent of hen.
Kate calls after him, “Two years is a lot in school. It’s like dog years.”
“Yeah, it’s practically cradle-robbing.” Erik grins.
“It’s not funny. Sometimes I can still smell the baby powder on Sam.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Too bad it’s not Brace.”
Kate nods and grabs Brace’s hockey bag. She holds it at arm’s length and starts downstairs toward the laundry room. She slows at the foyer, her eyes not fully seeing the present. Two years was indeed like ten in the old days. Lucy Van Buren was a senior, Katie Andern a sophomore. Their parents called it perverted.
Kate and Lucy called it forever.
“Hey, babe,” Erik says, sleeves pushed up over his ropey forearms, hands glossy with venison fat.
Kate kisses his scratchy cheek, which glitters with graying stubble. He always waits to shave and shower until after dressing a deer. She likes her husband like this, thoroughly smelling like himself and the woods. Same as the day they met.
“Took you a while,” he says.
“Oh. Sorry. Yeah, bridge was up.” She first rescues the sagging box of banana pops from the bag and rams it into the freezer.
“Uh, don’t fill that up, got meat needs to go in there.”
“Can’t you put it in the basement freezer?”
“Nope, the new buck’s in there.”
She cannot decide if seeing Erik’s hands on those thick phallic casings is sexy or disturbing. Maybe both. By spring, she’ll have run out of exciting deer sausage recipes. And Samantha is already one bite away from becoming a vegan.
The front door huffs open. Brace lumbers up the stairs and into the kitchen. His blond hair is still wet from the locker room and more the color of butterscotch than when it’s dry. Kate smiles her adoring smile, which has embarrassed Brace since he was eleven. Now at seventeen, he barely meets her eyes anymore.
His hockey bag hits the foyer linoleum and a sweaty funk wafts up to the kitchen. “Hey, peeps.” He pokes around in the groceries.
Erik grumbles. “We are not your peeps.”
“Well, whose are you?”
“We are your parents.”
“So you say, so you say. Where’s Samster the goth hamster?”
“At Jamie’s,” Kate says.
Their silvery Weimaraner, Chuck Norris, clicks around the kitchen, his snout denting the bags and leaving a snail trail. Kate plucks a Post-it note and jots down nail trimming.
“Good.” Brace pulls a Gatorade off the plastic six-pack device that Samantha has dubbed the duck-strangler. “The guys’r comin’ over for the rest of the game. Zev will only half pay attention to it if she’s spooking around all moody and stuff.”
Kate punches her hands onto her hips. “Please remind Zev Cohen that Sam is two years too young for him.”
Brace sniffs out the bag of rotisserie chicken. “Um, you’re ten years younger than Dad.” He cracks the drink and tucks the bag of chicken under his arm like a football.
Kate eyes her husband.
Erik shrugs. “I like that he didn’t say I’m ten years older.”
Brace saunters down to the rec room, Chuck invisibly tethered by the scent of hen.
Kate calls after him, “Two years is a lot in school. It’s like dog years.”
“Yeah, it’s practically cradle-robbing.” Erik grins.
“It’s not funny. Sometimes I can still smell the baby powder on Sam.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Too bad it’s not Brace.”
Kate nods and grabs Brace’s hockey bag. She holds it at arm’s length and starts downstairs toward the laundry room. She slows at the foyer, her eyes not fully seeing the present. Two years was indeed like ten in the old days. Lucy Van Buren was a senior, Katie Andern a sophomore. Their parents called it perverted.
Kate and Lucy called it forever.
