magazines fanned on the old coffee table. Home and garden magazines, and since when had her father... ?
Stupid question, she admitted. Since Ella.
A little leery of what she’d find next, she started toward the kitchen, poked into her father’s home office. Bamboo shades in spicy tones replaced the beige curtains.
Ugly curtains, she remembered.
But the powder room was a revelation. No generic liquid soap sat on the sink, no tan towels on the rack. Instead, a shiny and sleek chrome dispenser shot a spurt of lemon-scented liquid into her hand. Dazed, she washed, then dried her hands on one of the fluffy navy hand towels layered on the rack with washcloths in cranberry.
He’d added a bowl of potpourri—
Her father had cranberry walls in the powder room. She might never get over it.
Dazed, she continued on to the kitchen, and there stood blinking.
Clean and efficient had always been the Tripp watchwords. Apparently fuss had been added to them since she’d last stood in the room.
A long oval dish she thought might be bamboo and had never seen before held a selection of fresh fruit. Herbs grew in small red clay pots on the windowsill over the sink. An iron wine rack—a filled wine rack, she noted —graced the top of the refrigerator. He’d replaced the worn cushions on the stools at the breakfast counter, and she was pretty damn sure the glossy magazines in the living room would call that color pumpkin.
In the dining area, two place mats—bamboo again—lay ready with cloth napkins rolled in rings beside them. If that didn’t beat all, the pot of white daisies and the tea lights in amber dishes sure rang the bell.
She considered going upstairs, decided she needed a drink first, and a little time to absorb the shocks already dealt. A little time, like maybe a year, she thought as she opened the refrigerator.
Okay, there was beer, that at least was constant. But what the hell, since he had an open bottle of white, plugged with a fancy topper, she’d go with that.
She sipped, forced to give it high marks as she explored supplies.
She felt more at home and less like an intruder as she got down to it, setting out chicken breasts to soften, scrubbing potatoes. Maybe she shook her head as she spotted the deck chairs out the kitchen window. He painted them every other year, she knew, but never before in chili pepper red.
By the time she heard him come in, she had dinner simmering in the big skillet. She poured a second glass of wine.
At least he looked the same.
“Smells good.” He folded her in, held her hard. “Best surprise of the day.”
“I’ve had a few of them myself. I poured you this.” She offered him the second glass. “Since you’re the wine buff now.”
He grinned, toasted her. “Pretty good stuff. Have we got time to sit outside awhile?”
“Yeah. That’d be good. You’ve been busy around here,” she commented as they walked out onto the deck.
“Fixing things up a little. What do you think?”
“It’s colorful.”
“A few steps out of my comfort zone.” He sat in one of the hot-colored deck chairs, sighed happily.
“Dad, you planted flowers. That’s acres outside your zone.”
“And I haven’t killed them yet. Soaker hose.”
“Sorry?”
“I put in a soaker hose. Keeps them from getting thirsty.”
Wine, soaker hoses, cranberry walls. Who was this guy?
But when he looked at her, laid his hand over hers, she saw him. She knew him. “What’s on your mind, baby?”
“A lot. Bunches.”
“Lay it on me.”
She did just that.
“I feel like I can’t get a handle on things, or keep a handle on. This morning, I thought I did, then it started slipping again. I’ve been having the dreams about Jim again, only worse. But with everything that’s gone on this season, how am I supposed to put that aside anyway? Everything Dolly did, then what happened to her. Add on her crazy father. And the thing is, if he did what they say he did, if he killed her, the preacher, started the fires—and he probably did—why am I more pissed off and disgusted that he ran, left his wife twisting in the wind? And I know the answer,” she said, pushing back to her feet.
“I know the answer, and
“You always have been,” he said when she turned to him.
“I’m tangled up with Gull so I’m not sure I’m thinking straight. Really, where can that go? And why am I even thinking that because why would I want it to go anywhere? And you, you’re planting flowers and drinking wine, and you have potpourri.”
He had to smile. “It smells nicer than those plug-in jobs.”
“It has berries, and little white flowers in it. While that’s screwing with my head, Dolly’s mother’s giving the baby to the Brayners because she can’t handle it all by herself. It’s probably the best thing, it’s probably the right thing, but it makes me feel sick and sad, which pisses me off all over again because I
“I may be jumping fire in Alaska tomorrow, and I’m stuck on pumpkin-colored cushions, a baby I’ve never even seen and a guy who’s talking about being with me after the season. How the hell did this happen?”
Lucas nodded slowly, drank a little wine. “That is a lot. Let’s see if we can sift through it. I don’t like hearing you’re having those nightmares again, but I can’t say I’m surprised. The pressure of any season wears on you, and this hasn’t been just any season. You’re probably not the only one having hard dreams.”
“I hadn’t thought about that.”
“Have you talked to L.B.?”
“Not about that. Piling my stress on his doesn’t work for anybody. That’s why I pile it on you.”
“I can tell you what we talked about before, after it happened. We all live with the risks, and train body and mind to minimize them. When a jumper has a mental lapse, sometimes he gets lucky. Sometimes he doesn’t. Jim didn’t, and that’s a tragedy. It’s a hard blow for his family, and like his kin, the crew’s his family.”
“I’ve never lost anybody before. She doesn’t count,” she said, referring to her mother. “Not the same way.”
“I know it. You want to save him, to go back to that jump and save him. And you can’t, baby. I think when you’ve really settled your mind on that, the dreams will stop.”
He got up, put an arm around her shoulders. “I don’t know if you’ll really be able to settle your mind until this business with Leo is resolved. It’s in your face, so it’s in your head. Dolly tried to put the blame for what happened to Jim on you, and it looks like her telling him she was pregnant right before a jump contributed to his mental lapse. Then Leo came at you about Jim, about Dolly—and the cops think he’s the one responsible for her murder. Time to use your head, Ro.” He kissed the top of it. “And stop letting the people most responsible lay the weight on you. Feeling sorry for Irene Brakeman, that’s just human. Maybe you and me tend to be a little more human than most on that score. Ella’s over there right now helping her get through it, and I feel better knowing that.”
“I guess it’s good that she—Mrs. Brakeman—has somebody.”
“I had your grandparents, and I leaned on them pretty hard. I had my friends, my work. Most of all I had you. When somebody walks out, it leaves a hole in you. Some people fill it up, the good and the bad, and get on that way. Some people leave it open, maybe long enough to heal, maybe too long, picking at it now and then so it doesn’t heal all the way. I hate knowing it as much as you, but I think we’ve been like the last.”
“I don’t even think about it, most of the time.”
“Neither do I. Most of the time. Now you’ve got this guy, who’d be the first one you’ve ever mentioned to me as giving you trouble. And that makes me wonder if you’ve got feelings for him you’ve managed to avoid up till now.
