Of Autumn Leaves and New Beginnings

Chapter 1 “Peter Higgins?” I raise my voice to make myself heard over the rock ‘n’ roll music booming in the garage, but the man crouched by the motorcycle resembling something you’d buy at Ikea before it’s assembled hears me and snaps up his head. He shadows his eyes against the bright light with his hand, then he holds up his index finger in the universal sign for “hang on a minute.” He jumps to his feet and jogs to the bench at the back of the garage, where I’m assuming the stereo is located, considering Robert Plant gets cut off in the middle of a magnificent moan. As the man approaches me, his long legs quickly eating up the distance, I take in his appearance. Dark brown, tousled hair as though he just ran his fingers through it when he stepped out of the shower. A full beard with strands of silver, albeit still more pepper than salt. Laugh lines bracket his mouth and sprawl out in the corners of his hazel eyes. He’s fit; his thigh muscles play under the faded denim and an oil-stained T-shirt clings to defined abs. My mouth waters and I struggle to keep my face neutral. I don’t want to get caught ogling the man before I’ve had the opportunity to thank him. But he is damned fine, that’s for sure. “I’m Pete Higgins,” he says. “Can I help you?” His tone is as friendly as his face; he shows no sign of irritation over being interrupted in the middle of assembling—or disassembling—the five-thousand-piece bike puzzle. “I’m Oren Walker.” I smile and extend my hand. “Daphne Walker’s son.” “Oh! Ms. Daphne! How is she? Is she all right?” He moves to take my hand but stops himself with a grimace. “Sorry,” he says and holds out his oil-stained palms for me to see. “I’d better not shake your hand. I don’t want to get your suit all dirty.” I chuckle and lower my hand, ignoring the pang of disappointment in my stomach that I won’t be allowed to touch him and see for myself if his palms are as callused as I hope they are. “Yeah, I came right from work.” I finger my blue-striped tie and feel out of place wearing my two-thousand-dollar suit in his garage. “I figured. The day is too hot for a suit. Heck, this entire summer has been too hot for a suit. I’m glad fall is around the corner, so we’ll be able to breathe again. Let’s go inside. The air is cranked up.” He flashes me a smile and waggles his eyebrows. “I’m thirsty, and you can tell me all about your mom without the risk of being boiled to death.” “Sounds great.” With my eyes glued to his ass—it’s round and squeezable, and if I don’t look away soon, I’ll be in trouble—I follow him into the garage, through a utility room, and into a big, cozy kitchen, with pale green cabinets, gleaming appliances, and a round kitchen table standing beside a bright bay window. He nods at the fridge. “Help yourself to whatever’s in there. Grab a longneck for me, will ya? I’ll wash my hands and be right back.” He disappears into the hallway before I have time to answer. Feeling rude and nosy for opening a stranger’s fridge, I do my best not to snoop and take out the first two bottles of beer I find. There’s a bottle opener magnet on the fridge door, and I pop off the caps and return it to where I found it. The only other thing on the fridge is a photo that must be a family picture—Peter Higgins with his arm around a dark-haired teenaged girl who’s the spitting image of him, minus the beard and the crow’s feet. Next to the girl stands a tall, blond boy, probably a little older than his sister, and last but not least, a beautiful blonde, wearing a wide smile and a smart business suit that screams power-woman. Pete Higgins strolls back into the kitchen wearing a fresh T-shirt. I glance at his hands, now reasonably clean, and my gaze continues up his arms—I’ve always had a thing for arms—before I remember the family photo and force myself to look up and meet his gaze. “Great, you found the beer!” he says. I nod and hand him one. “You have a beautiful family.” I tilt my head toward the photo. He looks at it with a fond smile. “Yeah, they’re a great bunch. It’s a few years old now, though. Both rascals are in college, can you believe it?” “I don’t have kids, but I can imagine it must be…tough?” He chuckles and plops onto a chair at the kitchen table. “Someone should have told me that men suffer from empty-nest syndrome, too. Please sit.” I join him and take a swig of the beer; it’s cold and bitter and perfect for a hot day like today. I enjoy his company—he exudes friendliness—and he’s easy on the eyes, so I’m not in a hurry to get out of here. “So, no wild celebrations on your part? Party all night now that you don’t have to keep an eye on rebellious teenagers?” I ask as a way of stalling. He grins. “Nah, man, that was never my style anyway.” “That makes two of us.” I return his smile. He holds out his beer and I clink my neck against his bottle. “Cheers to two old farts,” he says, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Who are you calling old, dude?” I fake-scowl at him, sensing he can take a joke, but his warm gaze and teasing smile makes my mouth twitch. “Well, you know—” he gestures toward my hair and beard ”—when the gray starts taking over completely, it’s rarely a sign of youth.” I burst out laughing. “Ain’t that the truth!” We both drink from our bottles again before I remember why I’m even here in the first place. “Listen. I want to thank you for what you did for my mother.” “No need. I’m just glad I was home. And not in the garage for once, or I probably wouldn’t have heard her. That was some scary s**t. I almost fainted when I saw her leg.” “Yeah.” My chest tightens at the thought. My seventy-five-year-old mother, more stubborn than an old goat, decided to go out to the shed and pick up a box of…I’ve already forgotten what. With her arms full, she couldn’t see where she was going and stumbled over something, fell, and broke her femur. Her phone was on the counter in the kitchen, so she couldn’t call for help, and when she tried to get on her feet, the pain was blinding, and she couldn’t get her limb to obey. The left foot flopped around as though she had rubber instead of bones in her leg—her words, not mine. Fortunately, her neighbor, Peter Higgins, was in the garden and she cried out to him for help. He called 911 and even went with her to the hospital so she didn’t have to be scared and alone. He called me, too, but I was out of town and in a meeting and couldn’t take the call. When I listened to my voicemail after the meeting was over, I almost fainted. Then I cancelled the rest of my trip and got on the first plane home. That was three days ago. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here earlier to thank you. First, I had to take care of Mom, and then I had a five-alarm fire kind of emergency to handle at work, which is what happens when you bail on meetings that’ve been arranged for weeks.” He waves off my apology. “No worries. I know how hectic life can be. I’m just glad she’s all right. She is, isn’t she?” “Yes. She’s surprisingly upbeat and keeps bugging the poor doctors and nurses to let her go home.” Mr. Higgins chuckles. “I can imagine. Your mother’s a spitfire.” “That she is, Mr. Higgins.” “Pete, please.” “All right. Call me Oren. I’m immensely grateful. I can’t imagine what would’ve happened if you hadn’t…” My voice cracks, but I don’t care. I love my mom and I’m not afraid to show it. Pete leans forward, clasps my shoulder, and gives it a squeeze. “Like I said, I’m glad I could help. I hope she’ll make a speedy recovery.” “She will. She’s never met an obstacle she couldn’t conquer.” We empty our beers in comfortable silence. The kitchen is blessedly cool—I’m starting to think this summer will never let go of its grip on us—despite the rays of sunshine finding their way into where we sit, bathing Pete in a golden light, making his hair shine and his eyes sparkle. Sitting here with him, enjoying a cold beverage together, is relaxing and I’m desperately trying to think of something to say so I can stay a bit longer, but I have things to attend to, and I shouldn’t crush on the married man anyway. So, I do my best to return to my usual professionalism and smile—hoping it doesn’t look as regretful as it feels. “I won’t take up any more of your time, Pete. I just wanted to express my gratitude. And I need to pick up a couple things for Mom before I go to the hospital.” “Oh. You sure you don’t want another beer?” His gaze wanders, lingering on my chest, continuing down before he snaps it back up to meet mine. Did I imagine that, or did he just check me out? I want to say “yes.” But while it’s no sin to look at other people when you’re married, hitting on someone’s husband is, and if I stay here too much longer, I won’t be able to stop myself. Fuck, I need to get laid; it’s been far too long. “I appreciate the offer, and as much as I’d like to accept, I can’t. I’m sorry.” “Of course. We can’t keep Ms. Daphne waiting!” I nod, as though that’s the only reason I declined his invitation to stay. We stand and go outside the way we’d entered. I take a business card from my pocket and hand it to him. “If I can do anything to repay you, don’t hesitate to call. This is my work phone, but my private number is on the back.” I show him my handwritten cellphone number. “Thanks.” He accepts it graciously, and after a quick glance at it, puts it in the back pocket of his jeans. Then he holds out his hand. “Maybe we can shake now? When I won’t smear oil all over you?” I grab his hand. A shiver races down my spine as his palm presses against mine—callused, just as I’d hoped. I can tell he’s strong, but he’s aware of it and uses his strength with economy. I don’t want to let go, but he’s married—he’s married, Oren!—and I’m not that kind of a guy, so I release his hand and take a step back. “It was really nice to meet you, Pete. Thanks again.” “Anytime. Say hello to your mom for me.” “I will.” After a final glance of his tanned arms, his wide chest, and happy smile, I turn my back to him and walk toward Mom’s house. As I unlock the door, Robert Plant resumes his moaning in Pete’s garage, and I sigh. Why are all the good ones taken?