Feels like Home (Lake Fisher Book 2) Read online

  “Hey Eli,” Bess says, and her cheeks color prettily. “Can you close your eyes so I can get my clothes?”

  I grin. “Make me.”

  She laughs lightly and says, “Please.”

  So I make a show of closing my eyes and covering them with my hand.

  “Thanks,” she says quietly, and I hear her feet as she pads across the floor.

  “Can I open them now?” I ask, when I already know she hasn’t had time to get dressed.

  “Eli!” she scolds, but she’s laughing too. It’s been a long time since I heard Bess laugh, and it feels good inside when I realize what it is.

  Bess is happy.

  “Okay, okay, fine,” I pretend to grouch.

  “Will you put some ointment on my back and shoulders?” she asks. “I got pretty chewed up by bugs last night chasing Sam through the brush.”

  She wants me to put ointment on her bug bites? Sign me up! “Since you asked so nicely,” I say, and I open my eyes to find her standing in front of me. She’s in a pair of jean shorts and a bra, and she has a clean t-shirt clutched in front of her breasts.

  She pushes the ointment tube into my hand and turns away, reaching up to drag her long dark hair over her shoulder. I stare at her back. This is the most I’ve seen of Bess in years. It feels almost foreign, performing such an intimate task for her.

  She’s covered in bug bites. “Why didn’t you tell me you were this bad last night?”

  “Honestly, Eli…” She looks at me from over her shoulder. “My heart was broken, and I just wanted to be held.”

  And I wanted to be held back. I wanted it desperately.

  “Did you mean what you said last night?” I ask as I touch ointment to all of her bites, one by one. I go slowly because I’m happy to take care of Bess, and I want this moment of intimacy to last.

  She looks at me over her shoulder again and her brow furrows. “What did I say last night?”

  “You said you were tired of hating me,” I remind her. “Did you mean that?”

  She nods. “I meant it with all of my heart and soul.”

  “So, where do we go from here?”

  She shakes her head. “I have no idea. I can’t tell you that we’ll be miraculously fixed, Eli. I don’t have any idea how things are going to go. But I can tell you that I don’t want to hate you anymore. It’s exhausting, carrying all that around.”

  “Okay, Bess,” I say slowly. I touch the last bite with the ointment, put the cap on the tube, and hand it to her over her shoulder. “All done.”

  “Thanks,” she mutters. She pulls her shirt on over her head and turns to face me. “Eli—” But she stops, bites her lip, and then stares at a spot on the wall behind me that has nothing on it. “Never mind.”

  “What were you going to say, Bess?”

  “Did you ever sign the divorce papers, Eli?”

  “Not yet,” I admit.

  “Why not?”

  I stare at her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Why didn’t you sign them, Eli?” Her voice is more breath than words and they touch me deep in my soul.

  I might as well tell her the truth. “Honestly, Bess, I don’t know why I haven’t signed them yet. I don’t know why I’ve held on as long as I have.”

  “I’ve been so mean to you.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek instead of responding.

  “Any sane man would have kicked me to the curb already.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “Are you calling me crazy?” I ask, but I’m grinning.

  She laughs lightly and rocks her head from side to side. “Maybe a little.”

  “Maybe I felt like I deserved what you were giving me. I failed at being a husband.”

  “No, Eli,” she rushes to correct me. “You didn’t fail.”

  “I made you hate me, Bess. That’s a failure all by itself.” I hold up my hand to stop the tirade of words I know she’s about to spew. “Stop,” I say gently.

  “Eli…”

  “Stop, Bess,” I say again. “I couldn’t give you anything you needed.”

  She stares hard at me. “Exactly what do you think I needed that you couldn’t give me?”

  “A family, Bess.” I heave out a breath. “I couldn’t give you a family.”

  She reaches up and touches the side of my face, and I lean into her hand because it has been so long since she’s touched me of her own free will and I am so fucking needy right now that I hate myself for it. “It wasn’t you that failed, Eli,” she says quietly. “It was me. It was my body that couldn’t give you a child.” She shakes her head. “It wasn’t you I was really angry at.” She blinks hard. “It was me.” She presses her fist tight to her chest, and says, “I was angry at myself. It was all my fault. Not yours.”

  Looking back, I’d assumed that if Bess ever claimed responsibility for our unhappiness, I’d rejoice in it. But there’s no joy at all in this. There’s only resignation.

  “Aaron said something to me the other day that really made me think,” she says.

  Aaron has been a fount of knowledge lately. “What was it?”

  “We were talking about my need for a family and how important that was to me. And he said that you and I are a family, with or without children. And that struck right in the center of me. I don’t know why. I’ve been fighting all these years to have a family, but we already had one.” She shakes her head like she’s swiping cobwebs from her path. “And I was willing to give it all up for some elusive dream that may or may not have been right for us.”

  “I can’t imagine that having children would have been wrong for us,” I say, slightly confused.

  “I felt like a failure, so I shut down.” She looks around the cabin like she’s seeing it for the first time in a very long time. “And I left you to suffer alone too. Why don’t you hate me, Eli?” she asks. She stares hard at me, like she’s searching for the truth at the very core of me.

  “Honestly, Bess,” I say slowly, because I know that what I’m about to say is going to hurt her feelings, “I did hate you at times. I hated you more than a little bit.” God, it hurts me to say that out loud.

  “Then why did you stay, Eli? Why did you keep trying?”

  I shrug. “I guess I hated myself more.”

  She sucks in a surprised breath. “Eli,” she whispers.

  “Then Lynda died. You had me served with divorce papers and Lynda had just died. And it really drove home for me all that I would lose if I gave up on us.” I take a step toward her. “After Lynda’s funeral, Aaron told me about his diagnosis. He told me that he’s going to die.”

  She looks like I slapped her. “You’ve known that long?”

  I nod, feeling guilty all of a sudden.

  “Why didn’t he tell me?” she whispers.

  “Because you and I were at a bad place. And he needed reassurance.”

  The vee appears between her brows. “Reassurance about what?”

  “Reassurance that I still wanted to try.” I look into her eyes. “Reassurance that his kids will be with a loving, committed family. He needs to know that we’re okay before he can make a choice about where they belong.”

  “He asked you if we would take them, didn’t he?” She sinks down to sit on the side of the bed, like her legs won’t hold her up any longer.

  “He asked me to bring you here. On one hand, he needed help with the kids. On the other, he wanted them to have one last happy summer. But, ultimately, he needed to know that we were okay.”

  Her eyes fill up with tears and she blinks them back. “He’s dying, and he felt the need to fix us.”

  “He wants us to raise his children, but only if we’re okay. Together. Happy.”

  “What if we never get there?” she asks.

  “Then he’ll come up with another plan for them.”

  “Who would be better?” She jumps to her feet. “There is no one else who can love them the way we can.”

  I say the next words slowly, so she’
ll understand. “But can we love them if we can’t love one another?”

  “So our being happily married is one of his conditions.” She growls low under her breath. “If he wasn’t already dying, I’d have to kill him.” Then she realizes what she said, and she looks like I just slapped her. “I didn’t mean that,” she rushes to clarify.

  I chuckle. “Yes, you did.”

  “Okay, I kind of did,” she admits. She stares directly into my eyes. “I can’t promise that we’re going to still be married after this summer.”

  “Okay, Bess.”

  Her stare turns into a glare. “Will you stop doing that?” she snaps.

  “Doing what?”

  “I say something terrible and you say, “Okay, Bess,” like you’re just resigned to bowing to my every word. Sometimes, Eli, I’d like for you to tell me what you’re feeling instead of just agreeing with me.”

  I nod. “Okay, Bess.”

  She stomps her foot. “Eli, damn it!” She growls again and throws up her hands.

  “You’d prefer if I fight with you?”

  “I’d prefer if you participate, yes.”

  “Then I’ll participate.”

  “Are you just okay-Bess-ing me without saying okay Bess?” She rolls her pretty green eyes. “You are infuriating sometimes.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not a bucket of sweetness and sunshine, freckles.”

  She freezes. “Freckles?” She stares at me like I’ve just kicked her in the chest.

  “What did I say?”

  “You haven’t called me Freckles in years.”

  “Well, you haven’t exactly made it easy to be around you.”

  She cocks her head to the side. “Touché.”

  “So, what do we do now?” I ask.

  “I have no fucking idea.” But she laughs lightly as she says it.

  “Since you’re not going with Aaron, what are you going to do today?” I start to gather my clothes I’ll need after my shower.

  “I guess I’ll call my boss and tell him I’ll need some time off.” She looks everywhere but at me.

  “You’re taking time off?” I figured she would just work from here.

  “Why not? Would you prefer if I work?” I know she has been working late at night because I can hear her from the bedroom as she sits on the couch. The last two nights, she has been in the bed with me, though.

  “I don’t really give a damn if you work or not.” She glares at me. “You did tell me to be honest with you, right?” I grin at her and motion from me to her and back again. “How’s this working for you so far?”

  “I just…” Her voice trails off as she stops to think.

  “You just what?” I prompt.

  “I think taking a week or two of vacation would be a good idea.”

  “So you do want to stay here.” I point to the floor of the cabin. “You don’t want to rush home.”

  “Eli,” she says, “my best friend is dying, the futures of his kids are uncertain, and I have no idea what’s going to happen between me and you. I think that a couple of weeks with no distractions to work on these things is a good idea.”

  “What’s your boss going to think?” Her boss is actually a nice guy.

  “I’ll find out when I call him, won’t I?”

  “I hope he’s up for it.”

  “Well,” she says, “it’s just a job. This is my life we’re talking about.”

  It’s our life, but I don’t correct her. “Okay, Bess,” and I grin when I realize what I’ve done. She picks up a scatter pillow and throws it at me. “You don’t have to get violent,” I say as I stalk over close to her. I make like I’m going to walk past her, but at the last instant I grab her and pull her close to me.

  She freezes in my arms, but she doesn’t pull away. When I realize how still she is in my arms, I realize my plan to grab her and kiss the shit out of her was a bad one. Instead, I press a kiss, softly and slowly, against the tender skin of her cheek. I linger there and take in the moment. I revel in the hitch of her breath and the quickening pulse at the base of her throat. I take it all in, absorbing it. She doesn’t shove me away.

  Then I leave the room.

  I look back at the last moment though, right before I walk out the door, and I’m pretty sure she’s grinning like a damn fool. “See you later, Freckles!” I call out as I go out the door.

  “Whatever,” she mutters back at me. But she’s still smiling, and I like that.

  Hell, I like her, and I haven’t liked her in a really long time.

  31

  Bess

  I don’t cook often, but when I do, I like to listen to music. I turn it up as loud as I can and then I dance around the kitchen while I cook. It’s something I used to do all the time. When Eli and I first moved in together, he came home from work one day and scared the shit out of me by walking up behind me and grabbing me while I was dancing. He ended up with marinara sauce dumped over his head and dripping down to ruin his favorite shirt. After that, he always announced his presence.

  I raise the large wooden spoon to my mouth like it’s a microphone and sing into it, shaking my hips to the beat of an old song from the nineties. I don’t know why, but it was on my mind, so I downloaded it from a streaming service just so I can listen to it on repeat over and over while I cook.

  I spin around and freeze when I see Eli standing in the doorway, his shoulder hitched against the doorjamb. I expect him to give me shit about it but he doesn’t. Instead, he stares at me intently, almost to the point where it makes me uncomfortable. I reach over and turn the music down.

  “What?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you looking at me funny?” I stick the spoon into the bowl of chopped potatoes and give it a good stir.

  He smiles a lazy smile. “I’m not looking at you funny.” He walks over to the refrigerator, where he retrieves a beer. Eli used to drink a beer or two in the evenings after work sometimes. Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen him do that in quite some time. But then again, I’m not sure I paid enough attention to Eli’s comings and goings lately to notice what he did or didn’t drink. And that’s my own fault.

  “You are definitely looking at me funny,” I say. I look at him from under lowered lashes. I have no idea what’s on his mind.

  “Didn’t mean to,” he replies. He walks toward me. “What are you making?” He stares into my bowl.

  “Loaded baked potato salad,” I say with a flourish and a chef’s kiss motion of my hand.

  “Seriously?” A smile breaks across his face. “That’s my favorite.”

  “I know.” I try not to grin, but I fail miserably. Heat creeps up my cheeks. “I remember.” It’s a recipe I found in a magazine right after we got married. It took me a few tries to get it right, but when I did, it became Eli’s favorite food. I made it at least once a week and he always ate every bite. Essentially, it’s just potato salad with cheese, green onions, bacon, and sour cream added to it, but Eli loved it. I hope he still does. “I do still remember some of your favorites,” I add quietly.

  He points to the bowl. “So this is for me?” he asks, and he looks so boyishly charming that I can’t help but feel sorry about the way our marriage has gone. We could have done such a better job. He reaches toward the bowl like he’s going to stick his finger in it, but I gently rap his knuckles with the spoon.

  “This is not just for you,” I tell him. “Katie and Jake invited us for dinner tonight.”

  “Oh,” he says, and I can see him deflate. “So I have to share…”

  I walk over to the fridge and take out a bowl of the same salad I just finished making. “Well, fortunately this one is for you.” I set it on the counter and say, “Ta-da!”

  He grins. “You made one just for me?”

  Back when I used to make this all the time, I always made Eli his own bowl of it to have at home if I was making one to take somewhere.

  “I can’t remember the
last time you made this, Bess,” he says as he stares at the bowl. Then he reaches into it and scoops some out using only two fingers instead of a spoon. He lifts it to his mouth and takes a bite. His face goes slack with pleasure and his eyes fall closed. “It’s just as good as you used to make it, if not better. Did you do something different?”

  “No,” I reply. “It’s just been a long time since I’ve made it. I might have forgotten how.”

  He talks around his full mouth. “You didn’t forget. It’s amazing.” I laugh at him as he takes another scoop of it. “You want some?” he asks as he holds his fingers out to me.

  “Off your dirty fingers?” I retort. “No, thank you very much.”

  “My fingers aren’t dirty,” he protests.

  “Yeah, right,” I reply, and I take his hand in mine and lift it up to study it. His fingers close around mine and he steps so close that he’s almost touching me. Almost, but not quite. I sniff his fingers. “Have you been fishing?” I scrunch my face up in what I assume will look like a comical disgusted expression.

  “Yes, but I washed my hands after we cleaned the fish.” He sniffs his fingers. “I still smell fishy,” he admits with a grimace. “But I swear my hands are clean.” He goes to the drawer and comes back with a spoon, and he pulls a barstool up to the counter so he can eat right out of the bowl. “This is amazing,” he says again, his mouth full.

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I like seeing you cooking again,” he tells me. But then he looks almost like he wants to take it back. “You used to cook all the time.”

  “I used to do a lot of things that I don’t do anymore,” I admit. I point my finger at him. “And I’m not promising that I’m going to go back to being the person I once was. I don’t even know if that person exists anymore. But I do want to be a little more awake from now on.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “What’s that mean?”

  “I don’t know how to explain it.” I can’t explain it to myself, so I know I can’t explain it to him. “But I kind of feel like…like I’ve been sleepwalking through my life, and I want to make a conscious effort to change that.”