ON THIN ICE
By
PJ Sharon
Dedication
To my mother and father,
Thank you for the sacrifices you made, and for teaching me about forgiveness.
Acknowledgements
To my critique partners, Jane, Christine, Katy and Huntley—you all help me to find my best writing. To my RWA, YARWA, Indie Romance Ink, and WANA Minions buddies—it takes a village. Thank you Kristan Higgins for believing in me and supporting me. Special thanks to Jennifer Fusco, author of the Market Or Die series. My gratitude to you for making yourself available and always having just the advice I need.
To Carol, for being diligent with your red pen, the ladies in my yoga class who are faithful followers and fabulous beta readers, and my cheerleaders Myrna, Gina and Nancy—you gals are the bomb!
And finally, to my family and friends who love and support me even when I’m not perfect, and to my husband and sons, who love me for exactly who I am.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, or as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission from the author.
Cover design by Addy Overbeeke. Cover photo purchased with Extended Licensing through Big Stock Photos.
On Thin Ice
PJ Sharon
Copyright 2011 by PJ Sharon
Smashwords Edition
Chapter 1
Journal Entry,
May 15th
I’m a liar. I know it, I hate it, and I can’t seem to help myself. I feel the lies piling up as if I’m being buried, each one a stone that keeps me pinned in a shallow grave.
God knows I have my reasons for hiding from the truth. Truth is hard and ugly. The lies are easier. As Mom gets sicker, my world grows smaller and the lies grow bigger. The uneven ground beneath my feet leaves me unsteady, and I’m waiting for the earthquake that will disrupt my life and change it forever.
At school, I’m expected to get all A’s. On the ice, I’m expected to pass tests, compete, and win. At home…well, I’m expected to be strong, help out, take charge, and be an inspiration—like one of Mom’s Celine Dion slit-my-wrists songs. If I am “Perfect Penny,” maybe everything will be okay, but I know that I’m lying, even to myself. Because no matter how hard I try, I will never be good enough to change the truth.
I hit the ice at 8:00 a.m. Monday morning. Summer camp was one more step on the path to Olympic Gold. At least that’s what Mom has been telling me since I was eight. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that we would never have the money it would take to get me to the Olympics no matter how talented I was. I started keeping track of our costs in little journals when I was about ten. After calculating the thousands of dollars my parents had spent over those first few years, it was clear to me that unless we found a wealthy sponsor who saw my potential, the best I could hope for was the ice show circuit or teaching.
That idea didn’t bother me the way it did Mom. I hated competing, but telling her that would have broken her heart. She had such high hopes for me, and with her cancer, I couldn’t let her down. So I worked hard and stuck to the plan.
But plans have a way of changing. I could spin with the best of them, but after my second concussion when I was fourteen, I developed a phobia of axels. I had no trouble with all of the other double jumps, but every time I tried to kick through to come off of that forward outside edge, my body balked. Without a double axel in my program, pursuing a competitive freestyle career was futile. Despite trying every trick in the book, including the use of a jump harness and off-ice training, I was unable to overcome my fear. “Instinctual avoidance” my coach called it. So, Mom got me started ice dancing, hoping I’d have a better chance at landing a partner—a possibility as slim as me escaping the horrors of daily life in the trenches at number four Barrett Street, also known as home sweet home. At least that’s what the sign above the kitchen door said.
A group of girls stood behind me waiting for the Zamboni to finish cleaning the ice. They were townies like me, but much younger, ranging in age from eight to thirteen, girls I helped teach basics to as part of our club’s mentoring program. Chad, a twelve-year-old boy with cute dimples and well-groomed, short blond hair, stood among the girls trying to blend in. I had noticed some hockey players teasing him earlier and saw the hurt in his eyes. Before I’d had a chance to go put the brats in their place, another guy in a hockey uniform had scattered the little beasts with a few choice words. I would have to remember to thank him.
Chad was the token practice partner for the younger group, but none of them would be able to land him as a permanent partner. There were ten girls to every one boy on the ice. It was an unspoken assumption that the boys got their pick of partners, and it only made good sense to choose a rich girl who could pay all of their expenses along the way.
This was clearly the case with our premier ice dance team, Kent and Daphne, who stood off to the side arguing about costumes for the upcoming show. Daphne had her hands on her hips and a look on her face that meant the argument would be short lived, and she would be choosing the colors they would wear.
The lights overhead dimmed and crackled as they pulsed to full force in their effort to warm up in the cold rink. The Zamboni finished its final round. Carl, the Z driver and all around rink rat, jumped off and shoveled the residual pile of slushy snow out the double doors. We had to wait until the doors were closed and the puddles had dried before we opened the gate and took to the ice.
To my left, another group of girls closer to my age crowded in and pressed me up against the boards, subjecting me to their usual rants. The nasally voice of Cassie Phelps grated in my ear.
“This rink is so totally lame. If it weren’t for having the best coach around, I’d be skating over in Simsbury instead of this crappy little town.”
“C’mon, Somerville isn’t that bad—if you like the smell of cow manure,” Portia Whitman chimed in, as she worked her long dark hair into a French braid and shot me a dirty look. I followed her gaze as she glanced up at her bleacher mom who was dressed in a business suit and was busily pecking away at her Android, probably scheduling Portia’s next fitting for a custom skating outfit, and ignoring her daughter’s antisocial snarkiness.
There were several of this type of mom in the stands. Mine was conspicuously absent—just as she had previously been conspicuously present. She took pride in the way she refused to put up with anyone who thought they were better than her because of money. Mom’s bold color choices and her Wal-Mart bargain rack clothes were a dead giveaway that she could care less about fitting in. My heart gave a sad lurch, remembering how proud I was that my mother was so strong and confident and how much had changed in the past few years.
Portia nudged me aside, opening the gate so she could be the first to get on the ice. I competed against Cassie and Portia for a dance partner and I couldn’t stand their superior attitudes, as if money and living in a big house made them better than me. I felt sorry for the unlucky boy who got saddled with either of them. I smiled and nodded, ignoring the jab to my ribs and stepping aside to let the others pass.
It served me best to keep to myself and focus on being the best that I could be—which would likely never be good enough. It wasn’t that I didn’t have talent or didn’t work hard enough, but at seventeen, my window of opportunity was all but closed. I knew I wasn’t cut out for the dog-eat-dog world of competitive skating. In the shark tank of figure skating, I was a guppy.
The early morning fog hanging over the ice dissipated once the dozen or so skaters blasted out a few laps. By the time the music started, I was all warmed up. My blades sang across the ice, cutting a deep edge as I swung my right leg through. I pulled my arms in tight and spun in the opposite direction to complete the twizzle that defined the Argentine Tango. I pushed hard to gain speed out of the turn. With my chin lifted and my head tipped to the right, I looked down my nose at the gracefully extended fingers of my right hand. I finished the third pattern of my dance and ended with a lunge followed by a sharp T-stop as the music ended abruptly.
“That was a mess! You were flat going into the end pattern, and you need to keep those toes pointed with every stroke.” George Stewart was well known for his nationally ranked ice dancing teams—not so much for his patience or tact. Tall and slender, George wore middle age well, always dressed for a camera and ready with a breath mint. His hair was slicked back and dyed a dark brown; his nose was long and prominent. He clapped his hands together on the beat as the music started again. “You’re still off time on the progressive-chasse sequence. Let’s see it again.”
I rested my hands on my thighs, trying to catch my breath. To my eternal regret, I had the stupidity to ask, “Three full patterns?”
He eyed me with the disdain of a man who believed I was a waste of his precious time. “You’ll do it until you get it right.” Thank God, my lesson was only an hour long.
Three and a half hours later, I’d completed an hour lesson, an hour of power skating, a half hour of off-ice drills, and an hour ballet and stretch class. I was exhausted and exhilarated. It felt good, although I knew I would pay for it with new blisters and sore muscles the next day.
Skating was the closest thing I could imagine to flying. The sensation of the wind in my face and the barriers whizzing by, made me feel like I had wings. I felt light when I was on the ice, a wisp of air spinning and flowing like a spirit set free. If only the skating was all that mattered. I might not make it to the Olympics, but I knew that someday, I would teach. When I did, I’d be kind, patient, and supportive. And I’d never tell anyone they were fat.
Giggles and chatter filled the dance room behind me as I made my way out the door, already anticipating whatever disaster awaited me at home. Mrs. Russell, our neighbor and Mom’s best friend, had agreed to stay with her until one o’clock. My internal clock ticked the time away. I slung my bag over my shoulder and waved to Tiffy and her little band of friends huddled together on the bench. They all chimed in together, “See you tomorrow, Penny!” I smiled in return.
Then I collided with a solid object.
“Hey! Look where you’re…” a boy with dark, sweat-soaked hair, and long-lashed hazel eyes stopped and looked from me to the front of his hockey jersey, now soaked with orange soda. I recognized him as the boy who had stepped in to help Chad earlier.
“Oh! I’m so sorry,” I backed away, watching him brush the dripping soda off his shirt. The crushed cup lay between us in a puddle on the floor. He had a helmet under his arm and a hockey stick in his hand and appeared dumbfounded about what to say or do next. I sympathized. “Let me get that,” I said. I reached in my bag and grabbed the towel I used to dry my blades. I dabbed at the front of his shirt, avoiding looking up at his face, which I was pretty sure was crimson with rage or at least annoyance. How could I be so clumsy? Good going, Gracie, I heard my sister Rachel say from the recesses of my brain, causing my own cheeks to flush with heat.
“I’ve got it,” he said. He took the towel from me and finished wiping his orange stained shirt. His eyes met mine and his look of annoyance melted away. “No big deal.”
Then he smiled. I felt something click inside me like the lock being opened on a safe—and the treasure inside seemed both thrilling and dangerous. His eyes were the color of a frozen lake, a deep blue-green that sparkled like the sun shining through ice. My breath caught and I bit my lip to stop the stupid grin that threatened to surface.
I swallowed and looked down at the puddle. “I’ll tell Carl about the mess. He’ll take care of it,” I said, working my eyes up to his face again, happy I hadn’t stumbled over my words.
As if my ovaries weren’t in enough of a twist, he cocked his head to the side slightly, the light catching the shades of deep red and gold in his brown hair, which was quickly drying into wild curls and waves. “If you know the cleaning crew on a first name basis, can I assume this isn’t your first collision?” He looked amused, which somehow embarrassed me more than if he’d been annoyed. He handed me back my towel, his fingers brushing against mine. I could feel his warmth and it sent goose bumps trailing up my arms.
With his skates on, he towered over me by almost a foot, his wide shoulder pads making me feel like a five-foot-two-inch shrimp in comparison. It was hard to judge his age, but he didn’t seem like a high school boy and I didn’t recognize him as a local. I held the sticky rag in my hand. I wasn’t planning to put it back in my bag. “I try to stay on my toes,” I said. He was right about the clumsiness, but I wasn’t about to admit it.
“That’s very funny. A figure skater…on your toes…I get it.” He laughed, a sound that sent an unexpected jolt to my already edgy nerves.
I glanced down at my flip flops, skating skirt and leggings, and cringed since I hadn’t really meant to be funny. But whatever it took to see him smile like that again, I wanted to do it. My face went a degree hotter and I looked at his feet. The beat up hockey skates were still splattered with a few orange drops. Like an idiot, I bent down and wiped the tops of his skates. Not knowing what else to do, I resorted to cleaning up the mess on the floor. The rag was going in the trash anyway.
“You don’t have to do that. It’s really no big deal.” He said, resting a warm hand on my shoulder. “Like you said, they have employees here that can take care of it.”
“I am an employee. I work here on weekends.” I stood and faced him, but my mind went blank when I looked in his eyes again. What I’d said had come out sounding stupid or arrogant or…why was my brain not working? I could usually talk to people and sound reasonably intelligent, or at least muddle my way through a normal conversation.
“Do you work the front desk?” he asked. He had a lumpy little scar on the corner of his upper lip that drew my attention to his mouth as he spoke, which totally made my brain hiccup and want to tell him every last detail of my short but sordid life.
“Huh? Oh. No. I work the snack bar…three to eleven on Friday and Saturday, sometimes Sunday mornings from six to two or a week night shift when they need me. I’m working tonight…later.” TMI—he didn’t ask for my schedule, for God’s sake. Why was I blabbering on? I should have just said yes. Working the snack bar sounded lame. “I also teach some younger kids,” I said, feeling somewhat redeemed. “By the way, thanks for sticking up for Chad earlier.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. No big deal. I can’t stand bullies.”
“Me either,” I said, unable to think of anything else useful to say. An uncomfortable silence settled between us and I stared at the rubber mats on the floor.
“Well, maybe I’ll see you around,” he said.
I glanced up as a hopeful spark ignited in my heart. He smiled a lopsided smile and stepped around the residual puddle, looking back over his shoulder as he shuffled toward the locker room.
“Yeah, maybe.” I called after him, “I owe you a soda. The next one’s on me!” Oh, God, did I actually just say that?
He laughed again and looked back one more time before disappearing into the hive of buzzing hockey players. My heart fluttered madly behind my ribs. I watched him go, wondering who he was, and wishing I had asked his name.
Chapter 2
“Sit over there where I can’t reach you!” My mother shouted from across the kitchen table. Brain tumors cause mood swings and irrational behavior.
I held my breath and dropped my butt into the wooden chair, a table cluttered with newspapers and magazines between us. The last time she had said those words to me, I was thirteen. I had come home an hour late, and she grounded me for a month, making me miss my first school dance and the possibility of a date with Bobby Russell. He lived across the street and was the first boy I’d kissed when I was six. Puberty and my mother’s short fuse had put an end to a beautiful relationship. Four years later he was still dating the girl he’d taken to that dance. With my luck, he would probably marry her.
Mom’s voice ripped through the small kitchen, making me flinch. “You’re grounded, Penny! I told you I needed you home by 10:00. If I can’t count on you to be here when I tell you to, how can I trust you with my car?” She lowered her voice and sighed, her temper draining away like dirty dishwater gone cold. I sat silently, knowing she didn’t really expect an answer and that she would likely cut me off if I tried. “You know it’s your father’s night out. He won’t be home until late and what if I’d needed something?”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I stayed late at the rink to help close up.” A pang of guilt twisted in the pit of my stomach at how easily the lie escaped my lips. My shift had been over at 9:00. I squirmed in the hard chair. The fear of getting caught in my lies edged its way into my brain. “I know I should have been here on time…but you can’t ground me.
I’m almost an adult. I’m driving for God’s sake.”
“You can go to work or skating, but that’s it. I want you here ON TIME. I’m tired of you taking advantage of the situation. This isn’t like you. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately.”
The kitchen stank of cigarette smoke and the dishes from supper sat on the counter, tomato sauce stuck to the plates. I gazed at yellowed wallpaper peeling in the corner and my mind drifted away from my mother’s voice and the smoke that burned in my nose. The thought of dirty dishwater gave me an idea. She wouldn’t make me sit there if I put myself to good use. The involuntary bouncing of my knee sent me into action. Keeping my eyes focused on the minor details of bread crumbs on the counter and the dusty angel figurines on the shelf above the sink, I put a few feet of distance between us and began filling the sink with hot water while she continued her tirade.
“School has only been out for a week and you’ve already been late three times. I’ve given you the privilege of driving the car and I expect you to be responsible. I don’t need to be worrying about where you are at night.”
I snapped my head up, noticing the clock about to hit midnight. How had I not known the time? I always knew what time it was—like I had a clock ticking in my head that measured my life in tiny increments. Seconds and minutes passed by and disappeared into some dark abyss. Was I becoming someone else? Someone even I wouldn’t recognize?
I had no real defense for being two hours past curfew. None that would take that disapproving look off my mother’s face. I couldn’t say I was making sure my drunken friend Sami got home safely, or that I didn’t want to leave her at a party with a guy who wanted to get into her pants. Sami had called me for a ride and I couldn’t say no. What kind of friend would I be if I had said no? If I told my mother the truth, she would only remind me to find a new best friend and that my responsibilities were here at home—as if I needed reminding of my responsibilities.
My mother’s diagnosis of cancer five years ago had changed our lives completely. Yet here I was in the same dingy kitchen, looking at the same old clock, sucking in the same second hand smoke and wanting to throw up. The moments that had ended my childhood flashed in the face of the clock as the minute hand ticked past the top of the hour and I plunged the dirty dishes into the hot water.
“I have lung cancer, Sweet Pea,” Mom had told me on a summer day when I was twelve. Then she stubbed out her cigarette in the nearly full ashtray and let out a stream of smoke. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to die.” I remember she had sipped her coffee and stared at me from across the round oak table, a sturdy antique passed down through four generations that had come all the way from Italy. Scattered burn marks, old food stains, and deep dark knife grooves decorated the distressed surface of the table like tattoos—proof that age and scars added character.
Mom said, “Everything will be fine, I promise.”
If I had to say when the lies started, that was the moment. It was also that moment that I realized where I’d gotten my persistent optimism, and with her next sentence where my knack for sarcasm had come from.
“I guess that’s what I get for twenty-five years of two packs a day,” she’d said, her chocolate brown eyes turning misty and sad.
My world tipped upside down and had not been right side up since.
I should’ve been used to death and loss by then. When I was ten, Grandpa Fred Giordano, who had lived with us since I was born and had been like a nanny to me, had died quietly in his bed at the crusty old age of ninety. My grandfather taught me to read and write by the time I was five, and had instilled in me the virtues of a clean and orderly home, a concept in direct opposition to Mom’s love of clutter, knick-knacks, and chaos.
Before I could adjust my compass, the rest of my family dwindled away, leaving gaping holes in the landscape of everyday life. My three sisters had flown the coop one by one, a chirping flock of birds headed for less troublesome skies. Rachel got married and moved away, Marie entered a convent, and Sarah left for college. None of them had returned home for more than a brief visit since. I had come along seven years after Sarah was born, and I was obviously a mistake. Unplanned, Mom called it.
On the upside, I finally had my own room, lots of hand-me-down clothes, and no line for the bathroom. Being the last of four girls living at home had its perks. However, being left behind to care for a sick mother wasn’t one of them. I guess no one ever really gets used to death and loss.
The dishwater cooled and my hands turned pruny by the time I was brought back to the moment. Mom coughed—a harsh barking sound like a seal that jarred me to attention. A deep rumbling spasm wracked her body and made me shudder. The kitchen became quiet then. The only sound was the second hand of the clock ticking on and the sloshing of water as I silently scrubbed the plates clean.
When she recovered, Mom picked up where she’d left off. “You’re only seventeen, and if you want to be treated like an adult, act like one.” She coughed and gagged again as she reached a shaky hand toward her coffee cup.
Removing the lower lobe of her left lung hadn’t stopped the cancer from spreading. Neither had the three years of hospital visits or all of the chemotherapy that had stolen her hair and thirty pounds off her body. Six months ago, the cancer returned and metastasized to her brain—inoperable, the doctors said. She was only forty-seven. Brain tumors can affect vision and balance. No more driving.
I’d been so excited when I passed my driver’s test, but now, not so much. It seemed that Dad had an ulterior motive for teaching me how to drive. Almost overnight, I found myself in charge of most of the household errands.
As if she’d heard my thoughts, she added, “I can ground you, and I will. You seem to think you’re in charge around here lately.” Then her voice cracked and I knew tears would follow. “I’m still your mother, and as long as I’m alive and you’re living in this house, you will do as I say. Is that understood?”
I stared out the window into the darkness, and thought of ways to lie or bargain my way out of prison. Not that it mattered. Escape was not an option. All I could do was endure the tirade and wait for it to pass. Besides, she would probably forget by tomorrow that she’d grounded me. Brain tumors can affect memory, speech, and co-ordination. I nodded and swallowed hard. “I understand.”
Mom continued the lecture but my brain disconnected. I stared at my shriveled and raw cuticles and tried to think about how she used to be, to picture a time when cancer wasn’t a part of her—a part of us. The sick, irrational, angry woman at the table was not my mother. The mother I remembered had taught me to skate and hiked with me down by the river. She brushed my hair at night, tucked me into bed, and read me stories of Greek gods and goddesses. She made snowmen in the winter and took me to the beach in the summer. She laughed and sang and danced while she vacuumed. A dozen pictures of her flashed through my mind and my resolve to stay strong faltered.
The slow burn of tears rose to my eyes and I blinked hard to stop them. In some ways, that mother was already gone. I occasionally caught glimpses, but I had given up expecting to see someone I recognized.
The disappointment alone had turned my heart to ice, an impenetrable block that preserved the few perfect memories I kept locked away. If I saw her as my mother, it would all be too real. The hollow cheeks, fragile skin and her nearly bald head made me think of the pictures I’d seen of prisoners of war in a concentration camp. My throat closed to stop the bile from rising up and my mind went somewhere else.
I rinsed the suds from a pot and set it on the dishtowel to dry. I had a moment to wonder if I’d been dumped here by some alien to test the limits of human patience and compassion. Sometimes it was hard to imagine my parents were really even my parents.
I’d inherited Mom’s olive complexion and deep brown eyes, our Italian Giordano half of the gene pool. I didn’t have much of her mother’s Irish Duggan side, other than a sprinkling of freckles, light brown hair and a touch of her empathetic nature. I looked nothing like my dad, who had hard lines etched into his brow and a beak of a nose I was glad I’d been spared. I figured I landed with mostly Mom’s genes since we looked so much alike—at least, we used to. Now, all we had in common was stubbornness and weight loss.
Her tirade had ended and the silence pulled me back into the moment. Brain tumors can cause blackouts and seizures. Did I have a brain tumor too? My ability to concentrate and be present in the moment seemed to be seriously impaired. I glanced over my shoulder to test the waters and see if she was finished berating me. Anger rose to the surface as I watched her take another drag off her Winston.
“If you ground me, does that mean I don’t have to go grocery shopping tomorrow?” I asked, focusing my attention back to a stubborn clump of burnt sauce on the bottom of the pan. Since Dad’s idea of a healthy meal consisted of liver and onions, buttered egg noodles, and canned peas—food not fit for human consumption—I had taken over the grocery runs. “Or I suppose we could just starve,” I added. Sarcasm is a coping mechanism to hide anger, my guidance counselor once said.
“Don’t be a wise-ass, Penelope,” she said, her eyes boring holes into the back of my head. Then she added in a softer voice, “I was worried about you.”
I clamped my teeth shut. Worried I had run away, maybe. Dad barely got himself to work and handled doctor’s appointments. Sarah only drove in from the city once a month. There was Celia, the home health aide, a robust black woman with a thick Jamaican accent who came to help out with bathing a few times a week, but I was on the front lines. Laundry, cleaning up puke, and food prep were on my duties list. Did she really not have any idea how much I did? In my spare time, I vacuumed, dusted, and washed dishes. Yup, Cinderella on speed—that was me.
I wiped the counters down, scrubbing more vigorously than was necessary, my mind spinning with confused emotions and bitter thoughts.
With my weekend job, a grueling course of AP classes, and a fifteen to twenty-hour a week skating schedule, I needed more than a fairy godmother’s magic wand to make my life manageable. Clenching my teeth brought on the start of a headache. I forced my jaw to relax and sighed. At least school was out for the summer—one less time-sucking responsibility.
How much more did she expect of me? I had come home after skating that afternoon, made dinner and then went to work. Why did she have to make such a big deal about curfew? Hadn’t I earned a little freedom? I kept my mouth shut and didn’t say any of what I was thinking. My stomach churned and fatigue made my bones ache. I finished drying and putting the last pot in the cabinet before turning to face my mother.
With a plastered on version of my skater’s smile and eyes filled with innocence, I said, “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ll try harder. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m not a little kid anymore.”
Perfect Penny whispered in my ear. My stomach cramped.
Mom’s shoulders slouched in defeat and her eyes filled with tears. “I love you, and I only want what’s best for you, Sweet Pea. I don’t want to see you make the same mistakes I made.”
The cold that built inside me grew bigger and became a softball sized mass of ice in my gut. I didn’t want to hear about what a mistake I’d been. It wasn’t my fault she hadn’t finished school, that she’d married the wrong guy, had too many kids…whatever. I stuffed the urge to cling to the insult when it hit me again that she was going to die—soon. A heavy and familiar spike of fear gripped and squeezed my heart, stealing the fire from the words I held back.
Tears trickled down my throat, burning to get out. “I know you love me. I’m okay, Mom, really. You don’t need to worry about me.” I said what she needed to hear. The kindest form of lying I knew.
“I want you to do something for me, Penny.” She set down her cigarette and a swirl of smoke rose up between us. “I want you to go on and live your life. Be successful. Put your heart and soul into everything you do.” Tears spilled over and her voice became barely a whisper.
“Don’t talk like that, Mom.” I hung the dish towel over the edge of the sink and curled my fingers tight into my palms, hoping the sting of my nails would keep my emotions down.
Her face hardened with purpose, her shoulders straightening. “Make every day count—promise me.” I saw the desperation in her eyes and a sharp pain tore through my chest, sending a splintering crack across the ice.
I hesitated, my voice small and unsure, “I will. I promise.”
She let out a breath and her shoulders slumped again. “I know you will. You’re a good girl, Penny. You’re smarter than I was.” A tired smile curled her lips as she pushed up from the table with considerable effort. “If you still want to sleep over Sami’s this weekend, your grounding will be over by then.”
She left me alone in the kitchen with the coffee pot still on, and a cigarette burning in the ashtray.
Chapter 3
Tuesday was Celia’s day at the house, so I had the whole day off after making Mom breakfast and rushing off to skate for a few hours. I didn’t see the mysterious hockey guy again and nobody at the rink seemed to know him. Since I nearly plowed him over, I hadn’t been able to think of much else and I hoped I hadn’t missed my chance. Not that I had time for a boyfriend, but the new idea put a spark of life into me I hadn’t felt in a long time—a sense of hope in something good waiting around the corner.
I had all but given up on the idea of meeting anyone special enough to make the effort. The neighborhood boys and guys from school seemed so immature. I guess my life experiences had aged me in some way, as if I were on the accelerated plan for emotional growth. An old soul, Grandpa Fred had called me.
I sighed at the unlikelihood that I would find happiness in some relationship with a guy I didn’t know and might never see again. Not that I needed the complications of a romance at this point. If it was meant to work out, it would. I couldn’t get my hopes up for possibilities that were out of my control. Living life in the moment was a promise Mom and I had made to each other when she decided to stop chemo. Enjoy all of the little miracles life has to offer, she’d said. Everything happens in its own perfect timing.
As I suspected, Mom either let the grounding go, or forgot about it, because she didn’t say anything when I said I was going to Sami’s after skating.
So there I was on a beautiful June afternoon, enjoying a brief respite from my life as a caregiver. I kicked back in the plastic chair, lifting the front legs off the ground and putting my feet up on the splintered railing. It felt good to relax, the sun warm on my face. My first real summer day, and the sky was filled with white, fluffy clouds floating on a sea of blue.
“Check out the hottie!” Sami leaned against the post staring across the street. A look came over her face that made the hair on my arms stand to attention. I had other friends I knew from school, but Sami and Katie were my crew. We had been together since kindergarten—a friendship forged from our proximity as neighbors and classmates more than stuff we had in common. We couldn’t be any more different.
“Which one?” I popped my head up, peering over the railing of Sami’s front porch at number twenty-two Barrett Street. Katie leaned forward to see who our flirty friend was mooning over this time. In the driveway of the green cape on the corner at number twenty-seven, three guys stooped, their heads together under the hood of a classic ‘69 Nova. I couldn’t help noticing the shiny metallic blue paint of the muscle car. Hmmm, my favorite color.
Cars were one thing my dad and I had in common. I’d spent many Sundays after church assisting him with car repairs, being a gofer, and handing him tools while he instructed me in the importance of automotive maintenance. Maybe knowing the difference between a carburetor and a distributor cap would finally have some practical application.
“You see the one with the gray tank top and the cute butt?” Sami eyed the guy with shoulders like a linebacker who wore baggy jeans that revealed half his boxers. She licked her lips and sighed, “Mmmm.”
“You mean the big guy?” I asked. “Your mom would freak.”
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt me.” She laughed, pulled a Marlboro Menthol from the pack and then stuffed the box back into her purse.
I cringed at the thought of her lighting up. “Unlike those nasty things,” I crinkled my nose at her. As usual, Sami ignored me, though I knew she felt bad flaunting my mother’s killer in my face. I of all people knew how addictive nicotine was. So instead of making another useless and unwelcomed comment, I glared and made a face at her. She shrugged and stuck the cigarette between her lips.
A faded plaid flannel hung off her shoulders, covering her tight, black tank top. Even though Sami habitually wore dark, heavy clothing, she always managed to reveal some serious boobs. I sat up straighter, self-conscious that my plain tee made my chest look flatter. “Besides, I like ‘em big and bulky like that,” she added in a muffled tone as the cigarette bobbed up and down.
“I wasn’t necessarily referring to his size.” I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “He’s a little old for you, isn’t he?”
“They all are.” Katie chimed in, eyeing us both severely and adjusting her shorts, pulling the hems down to an inch above her knees. Why someone with long gorgeous legs would try so hard to hide them was beyond me. I guess we all had our hang-ups. “Stop gawking at them and mind your business,” she added.
Sami flashed her a dirty look. “School’s out; lighten up Kat. It’s summertime, and I, for one, plan to make the most of it.” She flipped her hair off her shoulders and reached in her bag for a lip gloss, the unlit butt now stuck between her fingers. “Really, Kat, live a little.” She puckered, ran the pink shimmer over her lips, and then tucked it back into her purse. “Besides, boys are my business.”
Katie turned to me, pouting at the implied insult. She put up with Sami’s nickname of “Kat,” but her patience wore thin when it came to prowling for guys. “Pen, are you just going to sit there and let her lead us into another hornet’s nest?”
I raised a brow at her reference to an unfortunate bee incident that occurred when Sami convinced us to throw rocks at a log down by the river when we were ten. I took another peek at the three guys, still bent over the car and showing a considerable amount of plaid boxers. “Sami’s got a point. It is summer. And they look harmless enough. It wouldn’t hurt to welcome them to the neighborhood.”
Sami nodded and smiled, clearly pleased I had taken her side.
Katie chewed the side of her thumb, her eyes disappearing behind a thick curl of red hair. Maybe she’d spent too much time in catechism class, or heard too many of her mother’s sermons about the evils of “cavorting with boys,” but Katie shriveled at the very idea of dating, much to the disappointment of most of our junior class males. Sami, who hadn’t suffered under the heavy thumb of a religious upbringing, lived every moment like it was her last—probably because she’d seen enough tragedy to last most people a lifetime.
Sami let her flannel drop onto her chair and broke away from our pack. She skipped down the steps and cut across the street before Katie and I could protest. Her voice rang out in the quiet heat of a summer afternoon. “Hey, anybody got a light?” She ran her hands through her blue streaked, blonde hair, fluffed it out, and wiggled her hips up the driveway. Her midriff showed white against the black tank like cream spilled on a granite countertop. Low riding shorts exposed sharp hip bones and a pierced navel. I wished I could be that comfortable in my skin. Instead, I stood and pulled up the drooping waistline of my jeans and tugged my tee shirt down to cover my butt.
Sami approached the tall, burly guy who had straightened at the sound of her voice and allowed him to light her cigarette. She eyed him with interest as she took in a deep drag. Katie and I had followed on her heels, not wanting to look stupid lurking from across the street. The shorter guy turned as we came up beside Sami, checking us out with a shark-like grin.
I stood in the middle of my two best friends, in the role I knew best. Somewhere along the line, I had become the bridge between Sami’s wild side and Katie’s perpetual innocence. At that moment, I wasn’t sure which side I wanted to be on. I had more than my share of troubles in life, but some fun sounded really good. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually done anything for fun.
“What’s your name?” The linebacker tucked the green Bic into his jean’s pocket and grinned at Sami. He had a buzz cut with a nice fade, the sandy blonde flat top standing on end in short spikes. He crossed his arms over his chest, biceps bulging, and leaned back onto the car. The third guy kept his head down, the clink of his wrench his only focus.
“Samantha, what’s yours?” Her voice had taken on a seductive tone that spelled trouble to anyone with half a brain. Katie and I stared at the grass.
“I’m Bull.” Of course he was. “And this is my roomy, Tom.” Bull motioned to his short, shaggy friend, forcing me to look up and smile politely. Tom had a bad haircut, like someone had put a salad bowl upside down on his head and tried to follow a straight line. He also looked to be averse to using a razor. A sparse moustache ran down the sides of his mouth to his chin. He gave me a quick nod, but his eyes went straight over to Katie, whose fair skin instantly turned red to match her hair. She had the looks of a girl who might someday resemble Nicole Kidman and yet had no idea she was beautiful.
“And this is my cousin, Carter, but we call him Mac.”
A familiar voice rose up from under the hood of the car. My complete attention turned to the third guy. “Carter McCray. And I go by either name.” My heart rate doubled. The hockey player from the rink swung around and faced me, wrench and rag in hand. He was shirtless and smudged with grease but definitely the same cutie I had met yesterday. He gave me a quick once over, a look of recognition dawning, and then smiled. “Hi.”
That one single word and I felt my toes curl in my Nikes. When I looked up into his eyes, I felt myself tumbling—like my jump harness had failed and I was crashing to the ice. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, and couldn’t form a coherent thought. I realized simultaneously that I was staring like the undead and that my watering mouth was dangerously close to spilling over into a drool. I couldn’t stop my gaze from wandering down to his bare feet and back up to his eyes. The six pack abs, lean muscled arms and bare chest made me swallow—twice. He was definitely wasn’t just another boy, though he did look smaller and younger without all of the hockey equipment.
Managing to extract some memory of social grace, I stuttered, “Hi, I’m Pen. Penny Trudeau. I live down the block...number four…second house on the right...” Great, now I was babbling again. I let my bangs fall down over my eyes. “Cool car by the way. I love old muscle cars.” You are trying way too hard. Shut up—now. Thump-thump, thump-thump, my heart pounded in my ear.
“And this is Kat.” Sami interrupted and nodded toward Katie who smiled briefly and then examined the overgrown grass again, her freckled face growing redder by the second. Not waiting for Katie to respond, Sami kept the conversation moving. “You guys lived here long?”
I looked back and forth between Carter, Tom, and Bull, waiting for someone to answer. The guys all seemed mesmerized by Sami’s not so subtle smoke rings that accentuated her plump, glossy lips.
“We moved in last month,” Carter said, finally turning his attention back to me and making my heart leap again. “We’re renting the house from our grandmother. She goes by Sunny. She says she’s too cool to be called Grandma.”
Bull laughed—a hearty, good natured sound that made me think he wasn’t altogether very bright. I could have been wrong, but he seemed exactly like Sami’s type.
“That’s cool.” Sami laughed, too. She always seemed to know what to do around guys. At least I thought so until she opened her mouth again. “We just finished our junior year…at Northfield State. Do you guys want to hang out sometime?”
I blinked, my face freezing in a neutral expression Grampa Fred would have called my “cheating at cards face.” I thought Katie was going to faint on the spot. We’d actually just finished our junior year at Somerville High. The three of us were all smart enough to be in honors classes though you might not know it at the moment. Probably not the smartest move, hanging out with these guys, one of whom had to be at least twenty-one judging by the cooler filled with Coronas.
I felt a little bad for Katie who was frozen with mortification. As her friend, my rescue mode kicked in. Before I could suggest that Sami was only joking, Mac spoke, his voice running warm along my skin like I’d stepped out of the shade and into the sunlight.
“We’re having a party Saturday night. Would you like to come?” His eyes pulled me in and held me steady, a sensation that overrode any apprehension I’d had the moment before when I wondered if I should come clean and walk away from this potential disaster. “That is if you’re not working. You did say you worked Saturday nights,” he said, a teasing smile spreading his lips wide. The sun caught the highlights in his hair, the dark curls shimmering gold and red with the rays shining down. He had an almost angelic quality that made me feel peaceful somehow. Impressed that he’d not only listened to me but remembered my work schedule, I ignored my doubts and abandoned my rescue attempt. And I decided that Carter suited him better than Mac.
“Yes. I mean, no,” I blurted. “I mean—yeah, we’d like to come, and no, I’m not working this Saturday.” I glanced at Sami who shrugged and nodded. I had planned a sleep over at her house, so I already had the day off. And now fate had dropped an unmistakably wondrous miracle in my lap. Miracles being in short supply, I wasn’t about to waste one, even if I had clearly fallen on Sami’s side of the flirting-with-disaster fence. I avoided looking at Katie and ignored the daggers I felt piercing the side of my head.
Carter’s face lit up. “Great. So we’ll see you ladies any time after 6:00. Don’t worry about bringing anything. We’ll have it covered.” His grin widened. “Um…and I won’t have any orange soda in the house, so I think we’ll both be safe.” He wiped his hands on a rag and stuck one out to me. I couldn’t remember the last time any guy I knew offered me a handshake. At least he had manners. “It was nice seeing you again, Penny.”
Everyone looked at us funny and warmth crept up my cheeks. “Right,” I said. I took a deep breath, the scent of his sweat registering as a sweet and familiar aroma I found appealing rather than offensive. “Why don’t we consider this a fresh start?” I forced my hand forward and felt it disappear into his. “It was nice meeting you, Carter.” I studied the straightness of his nose, the curve of his lips and his defined jaw line, imagining what it might feel like against my cheek—until his gaze dropped to our joined hands.
“I might need that back if I’m going to get any work done.”
With my face on fire, I let go, feeling a little dizzy. I turned to Katie, who was looking anywhere but at Tom’s probing gaze and I nodded to Sami. “Let’s go. These guys are busy. They don’t need us hanging around distracting them.”
Bull eyed Sami up and down. “I don’t know about that. I love a distraction. You ladies come by any time.”
Chapter 4
After a half-hearted skating practice on Friday morning, I had a protein shake for lunch and picked up Sami and Katie to head out to the lake since I was the only one with a driver’s license and a car. Sami said that she had seen Bull, and that he’d said that he and Carter and Tom would be at Thompson Lake on Friday afternoon. I didn’t have to be at work until six, and Dad was taking care of supper—which basically consisted of ordering out—so I had the afternoon free. I hadn’t been able to think of anything else all week.
The best local hangout on a hot June day was only a ten-minute drive into the next town. Thompson Lake had a pristine beach and dozens of small inlets around its edge where summer residents docked their kayaks, canoes and sports crafts. Houses ranged from small cottages to secluded mansions.
When I skated there in the winter, I would imagine I was in Colorado Springs practicing on a pond in the Rockies, preparing for the Olympics—a ridiculous dream that had no hope of being realized. I looked out over the lake to the beautiful houses and sighed, wishing I lived in one of the houses on the lake instead of the cluttered cape I currently called home.
My friend Jordan from school lived in an old farmhouse on the other side of the lake where she worked at the family’s antique shop. She’d just lost her brother in Iraq—a reminder to me that everyone had their problems and that life and death were simply a matter of timing and chance. I’d stopped asking why a long time ago.
The lake was surrounded by woodlands that were leased by the property owners and marked with a dozen private hiking trails. I parked my mom’s ten-year-old Honda Accord next to the newer, shinier cars that filled the crowded parking lot.
“Hey, isn’t that the car those guys were working on the other day?” Katie pointed to the dark blue Nova with its shining rims and dual exhaust.
“I think so.” I dragged a blanket out of the trunk, my heart rate speeding up at the thought of seeing Carter again. Sami and I hadn’t told Katie that the guys would be there. She probably wouldn’t have come with us if she had known. Sami was right. Katie needed to lighten up and have some fun.
We quickly located the Barrett Street boys, as Sami had dubbed them. It wasn’t hard. They were flanked by the two prettiest girls on the beach. Young women, I corrected. I recognized Cindy Moran. I didn’t think she knew me, but I’d seen her riding a motorcycle around town. She’s several years older than I am and the kind of girl who draws attention. In a string bikini that left little to the imagination and boastfully showed where most of her ten percent body fat was, she was sitting on a blanket talking with Carter. Something tightened in my stomach and I had an urge to pull her long, honey blonde hair out by the roots.
Bull looked up from the short brunette who was yapping away at him like a Chihuahua. “Hi, Samantha, I wasn’t sure I’d see you here.”
Sami eyed the brunette coolly, “Looks like you’re keeping busy.” She spread the blanket out right next to theirs and stripped off her shorts and tank top. Bull stared, a brainless grin on his face. I had to give it to her. She knew how to use her assets to her advantage. In swimsuit model fashion, Sami rested a hand on her hip, posed for effect, and then made a show of folding her clothes and bending to set them down. Her boobs nearly fell out of her pink bikini top.
I dropped my towel and water bottle, looking for Katie to protest. She said nothing but exchanged a sharp glance with me. Sami arranged her belongings and slinked through her best stripper moves, drawing the attention of every guy within a thirty-foot radius. I suddenly felt bad I hadn’t warned Katie and could see she was thinking that we were all doomed to hell. I sank down onto the blanket and my friends settled in on either side of me. Carter stared past Cindy and smiled in my direction. Tom lay snoozing, oblivious on the far side of their blanket.
Sami insinuated herself into the conversation and before long, she and Bull had ousted the brunette right out of the middle of it. Recognizing her cue, the girl stood and gathered her things. “Let’s go, Cindy. I’ve got to get to work.”
“So what’s stopping you?” Cindy barely took her eyes off Carter to glance at her friend.
“You’re my ride, remember?” The brunette fisted her hands on her hips, flustered and bordering on a hissy fit.
Releasing a sigh, Cindy rose like an Egyptian goddess, all tanned and long limbed, her makeup perfect in the eighty-degree heat. “I’ll see you around, Mac.”
Carter returned the smile and nodded, “Later.”
I hoped my relief didn’t show when she was out of sight and roaring out of the parking lot on her Kawasaki roadster, the brunette hanging on like a koala. “So, how do you know Cindy?” I asked, giving Carter my full attention.
“She works first shift at Fed Ex. I work the three to eleven, so we see each other in passing once in a while.” He moved over onto my blanket so we could have a separate conversation from Bull and Sami who were huddled together as if they were the only two people on the beach. Katie had sprawled out on the other side of the blanket next to me, fully clothed, her hat shading her pale, freckled skin. She already had a book open, engrossed in a Kristan Higgins novel.
“Do you like working at Fed Ex?” I asked, turning my attention to Carter.
He laughed. “Loading trucks for eight to ten hours at a time? It’s a job. It earns me enough to pay the bills and save some money to go to school.” Slinging packages had also given him a sinewy bulk and well developed biceps that made me want to squeeze his arms to see how firm they were.
Instead, I asked, “What do you want to go to school for?”
“Mechanical Engineering.” Reading my quizzical look, he added, “I’m good at math and I’ve been taking apart motors and putting them together as long as I can remember. It seems the logical choice. What about you?”
I answered automatically—the same answer I’d been giving since I was twelve. “I want to be a doctor.” Although I wasn’t sure how true that was anymore. After everything I’d seen my mother go through, I’d had enough of doctors and hospitals to last a lifetime. I looked out over the lake where my mother had taught me to skate long before I’d started taking real lessons. A deep ache settled in my chest.
“Wow. That sounds ambitious.” My attention was drawn back to Carter as he leaned on his forearm, the muscles of his chest bunching and stretching as he shifted to rest his head on his hand.
“I was just thinking that,” I said, letting my bangs fall over my eyes. “I’m not really sure what I want to do. I guess I wanted to be a doctor because I thought it’s what my parents expected.”
“Do you always do what’s expected?” His eyes met mine, the edges crinkling as his smile widened, showing slightly crooked canines.
“I’m afraid I do—most of the time, anyway.” I shifted the conversation, embarrassed by the honesty. “Where did you move here from?”
“Michigan. When the auto makers closed down the local plants, I lost my job along with thousands of other guys. I‘d graduated from high school and was training to be a machinist, hoping I could make enough money to put myself through school, but there weren’t many jobs available in and around Detroit, so I moved here. Bull said they had openings at Fed Ex and he needed a roommate to help him take care of Sunny’s house.”
“Are you guys really cousins?” There wasn’t much family resemblance between them. Carter was dark haired and maybe 5’10”—tall in comparison to my 5’2”—but not even close to Bull, who was at least 6’3” and housed about 230 pounds of muscle.