Finding Fisher Page 7

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you a princess?”

  “No. Why would you think that?”

  “Princesses have long yellow hair like you do.”

  “Hair my color is called blonde,” I explain.

  “When I draw your hair I use a yellow crayon.”

  “Good point.”

  “Do you want to get up? We’re going to make apple pies.”

  He nods, but doesn’t make any movement to get out of bed.

  “My mommy and daddy are in heaven,” he tells me.

  “I know.”

  “They’re angels.”

  I don’t think it’s my place to tell him it doesn’t really work like that, and I’m not sure a three-year-old would understand the intricacies of the angelic realm anyway.

  “I’m not going to get any brothers or sisters,” he says.

  “That’s true.”

  “Maybe if you and Fisher have a baby I’ll have someone to play with.”

  Out of the mouths of children. I’m not sure how to respond. “I think Fisher needs our help with the pies.”

  “Okay.” And that’s all it takes. He hops from the bed and runs into the kitchen.

  “I should have peeled apples,” I whisper to Fisher as I stand next to him at the sink.

  He’s already got a pile of them peeled and sliced.

  “What happened?” he whispers back.

  “He figured out that he’s not going to have any brothers or sisters since his mom and dad are gone. So his solution to getting a playmate is for you and I to have a baby.”

  Fisher nearly chokes on the piece of apple he popped into his mouth.

  Jackson is seated at the counter waiting patiently. “Can I have my snack first?”

  “Of course, Buddy,” Fisher says as he wipes his hands on a dishrag and heads over to the refrigerator.

  “Don’t forget my juice box,” Jackson calls out.

  Fisher places the juice box right next to Jackson. “See. I didn’t forget.” Then he gets the Lunchable ready for Jackson to eat. “When you finish your snack we’ll get you to knead the dough. But Chloe has to make it for you first.”

  When I glare at Fisher he gives me a big dimpled grin. I have to admit his dimples are starting to grow on me. He’s such a tough guy in so many ways, but those dimples make him seem more vulnerable.

  “Do you know how to make pie dough?” Fisher is doing his best not to laugh.

  “You know I don’t have the slightest idea how to make dough.”

  He takes flour, butter, salt sugar and water and puts it all into a large mixing bowl. “Once you have all of the ingredients mixed, Jackson can help you knead the dough. He’s good at that.”

  In kindergarten I had an enthusiastic teacher who taught us how to make dough. I do my best to try to remember how she made it and I ask Jackson to help me.

  “Maybe you’d better wash your hands first,” I suggest when I see he’s got sticky jelly on his fingers.

  He hops from the counter stool and dashes toward the bathroom.

  “Should I follow him?” I ask.

  “Just keep an eye on him and make sure he’s not wasting too much water. He likes to play around in there.”

  “Gotcha,” I reply as I make my way toward the bathroom.

  Jackson is standing on a small stepstool and washing his hands in the sink. “You should wash your hands too.”

  “Good idea,” I tell him. “But you have to finish with your hands first.”

  As soon as he’s done he moves his stepstool out of the way so I can wash my hands.

  I notice he’s watching me very intently as I go about my business.

  He points my engagement ring. “I like your ring. It’s sparkly.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did Fisher give it to you?”

  Great. How am I going to get out of this one? “Someone very special gave it to me.”

  “Fisher is special,” he replies.

  “I know he is.”

  “Do you want to kiss him?” he asks.

  Kids sure do ask a lot of questions.

  “I saw Mommy kiss Daddy a lot.”

  Just what I wanted to hear.

  “You should kiss Fisher.”

  I dry my hands on one of the hand towels. “I think we’d better get back to those pies. They’re not going to bake themselves.”

  One hour and thirty-five minutes later our first pie is out of the oven and being cooled. I’m exhausted and I’m dirty up to my elbows with flour and dough.

  “The pie smells good, doesn’t it?” Fisher asks Jackson.

  “My mouth is already hungry for it,” he replies.

  “My mouth is too,” I admit, and that makes Jackson laugh.

  There’s no doubt that Jackson is Franklin’s son. Jackson has his father’s laugh. And his thoughtful eyes. And the same serious expression Franklin got whenever he was thinking about something.

  I get choked up a bit and it catches me off guard.

  “Are you okay?” Fisher asks.

  “I’m not sure.” Jackson’s words echo in my head. I saw Mommy kiss Daddy a lot. They were a family. At least when Franklin wasn’t with me. All the holidays and breaks when he told me he was spending time with the family he made up, he was actually spending time with a family he kept secret.

  Such an important part of his life and it didn’t include me.

  “Do you want to sit down?” Fisher offers.

  “I think I need to get some air.”

  I just about make it out the back door before it hits me and I start balling. A big, ugly cry. I’ve seen other people cry like that, but I always thought they were weak.

  Now I’m the pathetic one.

  I cry until there’s nothing left inside. I want to get it all out.

  “She’s crying,” I hear a small voice say.

  When I turn back I see Fisher and Jackson staring at me from the back porch.

  “Go inside and play with your toys for a few minutes while I talk to Chloe, okay Kiddo?”

  “Okay,” Jackson agrees before he turns and bolts back into the house.

  Fisher doesn’t waste any time hurrying over to me and taking me into his arms. He doesn’t say anything. He just holds me.

  And I melt into him.

  After a few last snivels and heaves Fisher looks into my eyes. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it has to be.”

  He wipes the tears from my cheeks then pulls a few tissues from his pockets and hands them to me. “Blow.”

  I do as I’m told and hand him back the used tissues.

  “You’re learning. I like that.”

  When our eyes meet again I can feel my heart start to race. Sparks are starting to fly between us.

  I swallow hard, but my throat still feels tight.

  “I want to kiss you,” he says as he pushes my hair behind my ears.

  “Maybe you should,” I suggest.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

  “Not really. But I think you should anyway.”

  Without hesitating another moment he places his lips on mine.

  Fisher tastes so sweet and it takes me a moment to realize he tastes like apple pie. He must have taken a sample before he came out to check on me.

  His lips and tongue are filled with hunger and possessiveness that is both frightening and enticing. All kinds of thoughts swirl through my mind. How can I feel so much longing and so much uncertainty at the same time?

  Is it possible to betray someone who isn’t even alive?

  But wasn’t our entire relationship based on betrayal anyway?

  I know I’m falling into something with Fisher, and it’s much too fast, yet I can’t say no.

  And I don’t want to. I like the way he feels and I like how I feel when he touches me.

  And he’s touching me everywhere. His hands are wandering all over my body and heating every plac
e where they land.

  When he grabs my ass and pulls me into him I can feel exactly how aroused he’s getting. And for a brief moment I panic.

  It’s been four years since I’ve been with anyone but Franklin. I thought he was the only man I’d ever be with again.

  “Is everything okay?” he whispers into my ear. “Just tell me if you want me to stop.”

  I put a hand on his rock hard chest and push away slightly. “I just need a little breather.”

  He nods.

  “This is…I don’t know…it’s just weird, isn’t it?”

  He places a soft kiss on my forehead. “I’m just trying to make you feel better.”

  I shake my head. “I realize I’m pathetic, but I don’t need your pity. And I definitely don’t want pity sex.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He cups my face in his hands. “Look at me.” When our eyes meet, he continues. “That’s not what this is. I don’t ever want you to think that.”

  “I’ve already been assured that I’m not your type,” I remind him. “I’m not really sure right now that I’m anybody’s type.”

  “Well, you’re definitely Randy’s type,” he jokes. “He looked pained that you didn’t have a sister.”

  “Funny.” I give him a big, fake grin.

  “You are by far the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on, Buttercup.”

  “You’re really going to call me Buttercup? You’re going to make that a thing.”

  “I’m definitely going to make that a thing,” he assures me. “You know what’s most impressive about you, though, Buttercup? It’s your spirit. You are just so bold in everything you do. Even when you’re being completely ridiculous you’re still so audacious about it. There’s no doubt you’re going to be successful in life.”

  I laugh. “I don’t have a choice. I have to be successful. It’s what I’ve been programmed to do from an early age. My parents didn’t raise a loser.”

  “You can be and do whatever you want to do. That’s the great thing about free will. You just have to take responsibility for your actions, whatever they may be.”

  I move my hand along his abs. “I just don’t know what’s right in this situation.”

  “Maybe there isn’t a right or wrong thing to do. Maybe you should just go with your feelings.”

  I smile. “My feelings could get me in a lot of trouble.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “I like the sound of that. As long as the trouble includes me.”

  I lean over and place a soft kiss on his lips. The gesture seems to ignite something between us and before I realize it, we’re making out in the backyard again.

  “I want some pie.”

  We both freeze when we hear Jackson’s voice.

  “How much do you think he saw?” I whisper.

  “Enough,” he whispers back.

  Fisher grabs my hand and we both walk back into the house.

  As he slices the pie I feel a tug on my legging. “What is it, Jackson?”

  “I knew you would like kissing Fisher.”

  Was it that obvious, even to a three-year-old, that there’s something happening between us?

  Just as we’re about to dig into our slices of warm apple pie and ice cream Sherry opens the front door and hurries inside.

  “So this is what you call dinner?” She points to Jackson’s slice of pie.

  “You’re home early,” Fisher notes.

  “Shep decided to help me close. The man is supposed to be retired, but he just can’t stay away from his store.”

  “Can’t stay away from the store or can’t stay away from you?” he jokes.

  Sherry rolls her eyes in response. “He’s twice my age. Maybe more. Nobody knows exactly how old he is.”

  She grabs a plate from the cabinet. “Pie any good?”

  “It’s terrible,” Fisher teases. “I don’t think you should have any of it.”

  “Nice try,” she replies as she serves herself a slice.

  “There’s vanilla ice cream,” Fisher offers.

  She waves the suggestion away. “I’m trying to watch my girlish figure.”

  There doesn’t seem to be an ounce of fat anywhere on Sherry. If anything she’s too thin. Not like I’m one to talk. I’ve been known to be called a stick myself.

  Sherry hasn’t said a word to me. She hasn’t even looked in my direction. I don’t know whether to be offended or relieved. For now I’ll stick with the latter.

  We all eat our pie in silence for a few moments. Then Sherry says, “So how was your day, Jackson.”

  “Good.” His hands and face are covered in apple pie filling and ice cream. For a split second I imagine how sticky he must feel and it completely freaks me out. But then I remind myself he’s a three-year-old and it probably doesn’t bother him like it does me.

  “Did you like baking pies?” Sherry continues.

  “Pies are love!” he announces. And I remember that Fisher said the exact same thing. I need to ask him what that means.

  I’m surprised to see Sherry actually crack a smile albeit a very small one. “What else did you do today?”

  “I saw Chloe kissing Fisher.”

  It’s as if the air is completely sucked out of the room in that instant. Fisher and I look at each other and then we both look over at Sherry.

  In an instant her face turns to stone and I know I’m going to get pounded. My stomach clenches in response and I feel like I’m going to be sick.

  Or pass out.

  Maybe both.

  When she finally looks over at me her eyes are burning with fury. “One of my sons just wasn’t enough for you? You’re going to destroy Fisher too?”

  Fisher grabs his mom’s arm. “It’s not like that.”

  She tears her arm from his grasp. “I know exactly what it’s like.” Then she points a finger in my direction. She’s so angry that her body is shaking. “Franklin hasn’t even been buried yet.” Turning back to Fisher she says, “You’d better get this whore out of my house before I make her leave.”

  “What’s a whore?” I hear Jackson say as I bolt for the front door.

  I just make it out to the front yard before I throw up. In an instant Fisher has me in his arms. I try to wrestle myself from his grasp, but he’s holding me too tightly. I quickly realize the struggle is futile because he has no intention of letting me go.

  It takes a few moments for me to calm down, but Fisher has that effect on me. He has a way of making me less neurotic, less obsessive compulsive and more human.

  “Your mom hates me,” I say finally.

  “My mom hates that Franklin is dead. You just happen to be someone she can blame for him being gone too soon.”

  “Maybe she’s right. Maybe it is wrong for us to—do whatever it is we’re doing.”

  “You make me smile, Buttercup. You make me feel things I’ve never felt before. How can that be wrong?”

  I shrug because I’m not sure what else to say. If his mom thinks I’m a whore will other people think that too?

  Do I think that about myself?

  “Let’s go back to my place,” he suggests. “You can get cleaned up. And then we’ll decide about going to Haymakers. How does that sound?”

  Four

  After some coaxing and a bit of prodding Fisher talked me into going out. And I could really use a drink or three right now.

  Even though it’s still early by West Coast club standards the parking lot of Haymakers already looks pretty full. I have a brief moment of panic when I notice that every vehicle in the lot is some brand of pickup truck, not a luxury car, or even a midrange sedan, amongst them.

  “Are you sure I’ll fit in?” I ask as he grabs my hand and leads me toward the entrance.

  “I doubt it.” He laughs as we make our way inside.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “We’re just here to have a good time. Relax and try to enjoy yourself.”

  The place is a weird mixture of an
tique and modern which is a bit disconcerting. It’s obvious that the bar was built in another century. It’s old wood and has the feel of an historic saloon. But the tables all look brand new and there’s a huge modern looking stage in the back corner, which is where I assume they have bands play.

  As I glace around at the other patrons I notice that everyone is wearing jeans and mostly cowboy boots. There are a few guys in work boots, like Fisher, but even the women are in various styles and colors of cowgirl boots.

  “Good to see you, Fish.” A beautiful blonde with the body of a swimsuit model gives Fisher a hug. She’s wearing the tightest jeans I’ve ever seen with bright pink cowgirl boots and a bright pink top that leaves little to the imagination. She’s smoking hot in every way imaginable and she acts like she knows it. “So sorry about your brother.”

  “Thanks,” Fisher replies.

  I’m surprised when I feel the slightest pang of jealousy that she hasn’t actually let Fisher go yet, until I notice the massive diamond wedding ring on her finger.

  “Jake is around here somewhere.” She quickly scans the bar. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  “Let me introduce you to Chloe,” Fisher says.

  The girl looks me up and down. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  She points to my pumps. “No one wears shoes like that in Old Town. Are you from the city?”

  I cock my head as I consider her question. “I’m from a city. I’m not sure I’m from the city. What city is that?”

  She just laughs in response.

  “She means New York City,” Fisher explains.

  “I’m from the West Coast.”

  She looks me up and down again. “Nice T-shirt.”

  “I’m trying to blend in.”

  “Good luck with that.” She touches Fisher’s arm again. “Let me find Jake.”

  “That’s Harley,” Fisher says as she hurries away. “She and her husband, Jake, run the place.”

  “Tough girl.”

  “She can be a little hard on the outside until you get to know her.” He points to an open table in a more secluded corner of the place. “Let’s grab a seat before they completely fill up.”

  “Is it always this busy?” I ask as we take our seats.

  “It’s the only bar in town,” he explains. “And this is nothing. Wait until the band starts playing. Standing room only.”