Moon-Touched

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

It might have been a decade since Thomas Durling had last driven the road into Mellowbush, but time had chosen to ignore the town, leaving it so similar to his last visit, his stomach churned in rebellion. The Amoco upgrades still hadn’t been finished, which meant Rudy was probably still driving down to Mt. Pleasant to hit the reservation for gambling every weekend, and the pothole that had ripped out his transmission the last time he’d visited had been filled in and then broken down again, the darker concrete at its jagged edges defying anybody to object. He avoided it easily, but the urge to keep on going when he hit the four-way stop had him clutching at the steering wheel until his knuckles hurt.

It wouldn’t be hard. Turn around, head back to Philadelphia, forget the phone call that had turned his world upside down.

Live the rest of his life haunted by the fact that he’d been a selfish bastard all the way to the end.

He made the turn onto Oak automatically, blind to the few properties he passed for the first mile. The road narrowed and stretched, refusing him the room to turn around safely even if he tried. When he finally spotted the house, his heart lurched.

Weeds had overgrown the ditch that channeled the front yard, nearly obstructing the drive from view. The delicate yellow flowers rustled in the summer breeze, offering an illusion of welcome that tightened the vise around his chest even more. He was ten years older, but he felt like he’d just stepped into one of the family photo albums he’d permanently borrowed when he’d moved away.

Two cars sat on the dirt drive. He didn’t recognize either the rusty pickup or the tan Corolla, but the latter made him smile. Its rear bumper was masked beneath an array of stickers— Tolerance: Believe in it, Practicing Rampant Non-Judgmentalism, and his personal favorite, God is an equal opportunity lover. Only one man in Mellowbush decorated his car like that.

He parked behind it and got out, still wearing the smile. The humidity choked his breath way, but not even that was enough to wipe away his relief at the sight of the portly man sitting on the front porch.

“You’re early,” Pastor Schmader called out. He lumbered to his feet when Thomas came up the two steps, reaching for his hand in greeting. “Good to see you, Thomas.”

“Same here, Pastor.”

He said that with honesty. While he wasn’t thrilled about being in Mellowbush, Pete Schmader was one of his better memories of the place, a bulwark from his teenage years and every visit since. At sixty-one, he liked his food too much to give it up for his health, but the grip of his short, stubby fingers was as strong as ever. The ready smile was the same, too, friendly to one and all. Seeing Pastor Schmader was like getting a hug when least expected. Warm. Accepting.

He was very glad Pastor was the first person he met today. It made the inevitable easier to face.

“How is she?” No reason to beat around the bush.

“Today’s a good day.” He clapped Thomas on the shoulder, a reassuring gesture that also proved to steer him toward the front door. “Let’s let her know you’re here.”

The screen door creaked when he pulled it open, but the netting he always remembered being torn at the corner was intact, blocking egress for the flies and mosquitoes so common this time of year. The inner door was already flung wide, but that hadn’t seen the same sort of repair as its counterpart. Scuff marks from heavy boots marred the bottom. It even had the gouge in the wood from when Thomas had slipped on the icy porch his senior year of high school and his keys had scored a path downward as he tried to catch himself from falling.

So many memories he’d conveniently stored away. Would these be the thoughts he lived with when he was in her shoes?

The small living room was empty, but the sound of movement came from the kitchen. He followed the clink of dishes and the soft thud of cupboards shutting to the rear of the house, with the scent of baking sugar wafting out to greet him. Pastor Schmader came behind.

She sat at the kitchen table, using dental floss to cut even slices off a roll of cookie dough. It wasn’t the refrigerated kind that now prevailed upon the market. Oh, no, not in the Durling household, regardless of how Amy Durling was feeling. The cookies she placed on the waiting baking sheet were pinwheels of chocolate and mint, rolled out thin before combined into a single log. He couldn’t count how many batches he’d helped her with growing up, or how many variations. Vanilla and strawberry. Chocolate and peanut butter. Lemon and lime. The mint/chocolate combination had always been his favorite, though. How had she known to make them today of all days? Nobody but Pastor Schmader knew he was coming. Had he told her about his arrival? He almost hoped not. He didn’t want to face the disappointment of her not remembering in case he had.

Her gray hair had more white threaded through it, but the thick braid she wore it in was exactly the same. His hair would probably do that, too. He’d started going gray at thirty, just like she had. Upon his entrance, she glanced up, but when her gaze caught on him hovering in the doorway, her blue eyes widened with delight and recognition.

His throat closed, and tears pricked the back of his eyes. She knew him. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how afraid he was that she wouldn’t.

“Thomas!” Grabbing a kitchen towel, she hurriedly wiped her hands as she rose from the chair and came toward him. She tossed it aside at the last moment and threw her arms around him in an all-encompassing hug. “What’re you doing here?”

He wasn’t known for being an affectionate person. More than one previous boyfriend had complained that he shut down in public. But with the familiar smell of his mother’s White Diamonds filling his nose, and her embrace swallowing his reservations about coming back to Michigan, he returned the hug without a second thought.

“I came to see you, of course.” He pulled back to hold her at arm’s length, the better to get a good look at her. “How are you, Mom?”

“Can’t complain.” Said with a smile. The refrain of her life in more ways than one. “Are you staying long enough to have some cookies?”

He ignored the tug at his heart her innocent question provoked. “Now would I skip out when you’re making my favorite kind?”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I asked Andre to pick me up some mint at IGA this morning.”

“Andre?”

Pastor Schmader cleared his throat. “That’s who I’ve had helping Amy out here.”

“He’s been more than helping. He’s staying in your old room, Thomas.”

The announcement shocked him into letting her go, stepping away to cast a sweeping assessment over the kitchen. When he’d received the call, he hadn’t pressed when Pastor Schmader said, “We’re keeping a good eye on your mother, Thomas. She’s being taken care of for now.” He hadn’t even considered it. Pastor had been an authoritative figure his entire life, one Thomas was actually proud to look up to. Maybe this time, however, he should’ve asked questions.

“Such a good boy,” she was saying. “You’ll like him. He reminds me of you at that age.”

Something about the grim set of Pastor’s mouth stopped Thomas from posing the question that initially sprang to mind. Instead, he said, “So where is he? I’ve got to meet this paragon.”

She turned around as if the boy in question was right behind her, then frowned when she was met with an empty room. “He was just here. He took that last batch of cookies out for me.”

The potholder was still caught beneath the fully laden tray on the Formica countertop, the spatula underneath a cookie in its corner. The tableau was a moment frozen in time. Perfect for Mellowbush. Ironic for Mom.

“He probably didn’t want to interrupt your reunion,” Pastor said. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.”

“Maybe my room,” Thomas replied dryly.

She hadn’t moved. She remained fixed on the cookies, her hand fidgeting at her side, twisting in and out of the edge of her apron.

“Mom?”

At the sound of his voice, she glanced back at him. Her features were blank for several seconds, then her eyes widened. “Thomas? What are you doing here?”

His earlier hopes died, but his practiced bedside manner kept it from showing on his face. “I’m here for a visit, Mom.” All the research said to use a person’s name whenever they were addressed. It helped ground them in the present, reminding them of their identity. The doctors he’d spoken to at the hospital where he worked as a surgical nurse had said it was common practice anyway, especially with older or terminal patients, but right now it only served to remind him that things weren’t normal. “I’m going to get my stuff out of the car. Why don’t you sit down and finish cutting the cookies? I’ll be right back.”

She followed his gesture when he waved at the dough log on the table, brightening when she spotted it. “Oh, this’ll be a nice treat for this afternoon. What a wonderful idea.”

He retreated to the doorway, reluctant to leave until she was back at work. A good day, Pastor had said. He did not look forward to seeing a bad one.

On the front porch, Pastor caught his arm. “You don’t have to worry about Andre. He’s a good young man.”

“Who is he?”

“One of my parishioners. You wouldn’t remember him. He’s not local. But he’s been doing odd jobs for me at the church, and when your mother met him, they got along so well he started coming out here on his own to check on her.”

So he wasn’t related to anybody Thomas might know, which only ratcheted his anxiety about the stranger in his mother’s house higher. “I want to meet him.”

Pastor nodded. “He’s probably out back. But honestly, he isn’t a threat. I think having him around has been very good for Amy.”

The weeds had overgrown the side of the house, too, catching on Thomas’s jeans as they made their way around the building. He made a mental note to do some yard work over the next few days. For Mom, not for any practical purpose.

Living outside of Mellowbush, they’d never bothered with fences. The backyard butted up onto the fields owned by Mr. Parker—or at least, Mr. Parker had owned them when Thomas had moved away—leaving it wide and open for anything the Durling family might want. A clothesline was strung between the two maples, and the old-fashioned tubular swing set sat crookedly on a knoll. Nothing anchored it down. When he’d gotten old enough to pump himself high on it, it had a tendency to tip over. That sensation of falling had been the most exhilarating thing in the world to him until he turned fifteen and touched his first c**k that wasn’t his own. It still created a swirl of whimsy in his gut when he looked at it.

Now, someone leaned against the metal A-frame on the nearest end, staring out over the fields toward the trees that formed the forest in the distance. The male body was long and lean, with faded jeans molding over his legs and small, tight ass. A threadbare white T-shirt stretched over his back, the butterfly wings of his shoulder blades jutting out as if he was about to take flight. He bordered on the right side of skinny, with hands and arms as long as the rest of him. Hair the shade of wheat about to be harvested hung in loose waves down to his shoulders, and the bit of profile Thomas could make out showed a strong chin and a slightly aquiline nose.

From the way Mom and Pastor had been talking, he’d expected a teenager. This so-called boy was easily into his twenties.

“Andre.”

At Pastor’s call, the young man glanced back, and all the air disappeared from Thomas’s lungs. Stranger or not, Andre was stunning. A long, angular jaw, just like the rest of him. Bee-stung lips women would kill for. And eyes such a pale blue, they felt electric, all the way across the yard.

“This is Thomas, Amy’s son,” Pastor said as they approached. Andre straightened, and while he easily matched Thomas’s height, he held himself like a skittish animal, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. “Thomas, this is Andre Nezat.”

Thomas held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

A moment of hesitation. Andre’s gaze dropped to Thomas’s offering. Long, almost girly, eyelashes became more visible as they fanned across his cheeks.

But the shifted attention did the same to Thomas’s, driving it downward to catch on the young man’s exposed throat. Instead of a smooth column to match the rest of him, Andre’s neck was a map of scars, bone-white against his tanned skin, puckered with age. Thomas jerked his eyes away as soon as Andre lifted his again, but curiosity burned inside as they finally shook hands.

“I don’t suppose you know sign language,” Pastor said.

“No.” He couldn’t look away. Andre couldn’t be deaf. He’d turned around at the sound of Pastor’s voice. “You can’t speak?”

With a shake of his head, Andre reached into his front pocket and pulled out a small notepad, its pages bent and crinkled from having been shoved into his jeans repeatedly. A stubby pencil appeared as if from nowhere, and he scribbled out a message to hold out in front of him.

If you want me to go, I will.

Thomas frowned. That wasn’t what he’d asked, and he was a little ashamed that his distrust of a stranger in his impaired mother’s home shone so clearly. “Where would you go?”

Andre shrugged.

“Your mother’s the one who invited him to stay.” Pastor came up to stand between them, and again, Thomas wondered how belligerent he must be coming across if Pastor felt the need to referee or protect the young man. “I think having him around is a good idea.”

“She certainly likes him. You,” he added directly to Andre.

More scribbling. Mrs. Durling has been nice to me. I like to help her.

Suggesting others hadn’t necessarily been as nice. Those responsible for his scars, maybe?

“Where’s your family?”

Gone.

“But you’re not from around here.”

A shake of his head.

“Andre’s the one who told me what happened at the doctor,” Pastor explained. “He drove her to her last appointment.”

“If you know what’s wrong, then you know why I’m here.”

Someone needs to take care of her.

“Right.”

I can help.

The direct statement jerked Thomas’s gaze back up to Andre’s expectant eyes, though after holding them for several seconds, Andre ducked his lashes. His fingers curled protectively around his notepad, and his arm fell to his side, ready to retreat at the slightest provocation. Skittish. That really was the best word to describe him. He claimed to have no family, so maybe he was the product of the foster care system. Abuse would certainly explain the scarring and attitude.

He could kick Andre out without remorse. The guy was a stranger, and Thomas was the actual son in this equation. But he’d befriended Mom when she likely needed him most, and from the looks of it, he could use the sense of accomplishment helping out provided. Plus, both of them were right. Thomas couldn’t do this alone. He’d almost lost it just driving into town. It killed him to realize he was on the verge of losing his mother to Alzheimer’s. She was too young for such a debilitating disease.

“I don’t want to disrupt her routine more than I already am,” Thomas said. “You can stay.”

“Good call.” Pastor clapped each of them on the shoulder, his arms a bridge though Andre flinched at the firm contact. “You won’t regret it, Thomas. Andre’s a fine young man.”

Color crept into Andre’s cheeks at the compliment. If Thomas had met him under different circumstances, he would’ve been charmed enough to consider buying Andre a drink or asking for a dance.

These were not the right circumstances, though, and any attention he paid to Andre had to be on a strictly fraternal basis, regardless of how attractive he was. Mom saw him as a surrogate son, so Thomas would treat him like the kid brother he never had. Help him out. Protect him.

Those wide pale eyes locked on his for a long moment. Almost like he could read Thomas’s thoughts.

Thomas suppressed the shiver that wanted to erupt. He smiled at the guy instead.

“Why don’t you go help her with the cookies while I unload my car? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

With a brisk nod, Andre slipped out of Pastor’s grip and skirted around them to the back door. He hesitated on the small porch, but as soon as Thomas met his eye again, he darted inside.

“I know he seems a little nervous.” Pastor’s observation snapped Thomas out of his reverie. “But he’ll relax soon enough. He’s just worried about getting on with you.”

“You did tell him I was coming, right?”

“Oh, sure. He knew about that. It was tough keeping it from Amy, though. He might not be able to talk, but he’s a hundred percent transparent. You can see everything he’s thinking on his face.”

Though Thomas silently agreed, Pastor was mistaken about one thing. Andre Nezat might wear his heart on his sleeve, but he still harbored secrets, details of a life he’d had before setting foot in Mellowbush.

It was up to Thomas to decide whether or not that was going to be a problem. For Mom, or for himself.