And Adam hadn’t exactly been an easy baby. He’d been premature and colicky, making the first few months of his life hell for everyone. If he wasn’t crying, he was projectile vomiting, and instead of smelling like a sweet, powdery baby, he mostly smelled like an old French fry.
It was Dylan who’d walked the floors with Adam at 3 a.m., rubbing his back and singing him old honky-tonk songs. As a result, when Adam got old enough to reach out, he reached for his father.
In the end, leaving Julie had been real easy. Maybe too easy, confirming what he’d secretly suspected. He’d stayed with her for Adam. His decision hadn’t been as easy for Julie, but she’d done what was best for all of them. She’d signed custody over to Dylan, making only one demand: that Adam spend the first two weeks in July with her.
Dylan had come home with his year-old son, and he’d never regretted his decision. As far as he knew, Julie didn’t have any regrets, either. She now had the life she’d worked so hard for, the life she’d always dreamed of having. When he’d talked to her the week before to confirm her plans with Adam, she’d sounded happier than ever. She had what she wanted, and so did he. He had his son he loved more than anything on the face of the earth. A little boy who made him laugh even as he made him scratch his head. Adam was normal and happy. He loved his dog, and had an obsession with rocks. He collected them everywhere he went, as if they were gold. He had shoe boxes full of them under his bed. He gave them out only to grownups he liked, or to the girls at his school he wanted to impress.
With the sun beating down on his bare back and shoulders, Dylan mowed the lawn below his deck and across his yard to the fenced pasture. Dylan and Adam’s horses, Atomic and Tinkerbell, stood beneath the shade of several pines, dozing, indifferent to the sound of the engine. When he was through, he pushed the mower to the weathered barn to the left of the pasture and stored it beside his John Deere.
He filled the trough with fresh water and then turned the hose on himself. Bent at the waist, he let the cold water run over his head, the back of his neck, and down the sides of his face until he felt his brain freeze. He straightened and shook like a dog, sending a spray of water in all directions. Droplets slid down his spine and chest and were absorbed in the waistband of the soft Levi’s hung low on his hips. He rinsed grass clippings from his boots, then reached for the spigot and turned it off. He thought of standing in Paul and Shelly’s kitchen earlier that day, washing his hands and listening to Ms. Hope Spencer.
“Flora and fauna,” he scoffed. Who in the hell ever used words like “flora and fauna”? And he’d bet his left gonad that her idea of communing with nature was to open the sunroof of her car as she tootled down Santa Monica Boulevard.
He wondered if she ever smiled, really smiled with her blue eyes shining, full lips tilting up. He wondered what it would take to put a smile like that on her face. Another place and another time, he would have liked to try.
She was too perfect. Her clothes, her makeup, her everything. She was the kind of woman his hands just itched to mess up real good, but for a lot of reasons, that kind of itch could get him into trouble. Especially with a woman like her. A writer spelled out big trouble in neon letters for him and Adam.
It wasn’t uncommon for writers to spend time in the wilderness area, working on travel guides or backpacking articles. Only MZBHAVN didn’t look like she spent much time in the great outdoors. He didn’t know the real reason for her move to Gospel, but he had a few doubts about her story. It was best if he just stayed away from her. Best if he didn’t even think about her, because when he did, it reminded him of exactly how long it had been since he’d made love to someone besides himself.
He walked around the side of the house to the front porch and reached for his shirt. Adam was making a mess out of the shrubs again, but Dylan couldn’t work up enough energy to care. He pulled his T-shirt over his damp hair and shoved his arms through the holes. The shrubs could wait for another day.
“Are you about done?” he asked as he tucked the ends of the old cotton shirt into his jeans. “I think it’s about time we cooked those trout we caught today.”
Adam put down the shears and dug into his pocket. “I found a pretty rock. Do ya wanna see?”
“Sure.”
Adam jumped off the porch as a Dodge truck turned into their dirt drive.
“Don’t be rude,” Dylan warned as he watched Paris Fernwood pull the truck to a stop. She got out and walked toward them with a cake in her hands.
“I don’t like her,” Adam whispered and shoved his rock back inside his pocket.
“Be nice anyway.” He looked up and smiled at Paris. “What have you got there?”
“I told you I’d bring you an Amish cake.”
“Well, now, isn’t that sweet?” He nudged his son. “Don’t you think that’s sweet?”
Adam’s idea of being “nice” wa
s to purse his lips and not say a word. He didn’t like women paying attention to his father. Not one little bit. Dylan didn’t exactly know why, but he figured that it more than likely had something to do with Adam holding onto a fantasy that his mama would someday come and live with them.
Dylan picked up his cowboy hat and brushed his hair back with his fingers. “I’d invite you in, but I’m afraid you’ve come at a bad time,” he said and pushed the hat down low on his forehead. “Adam and I are busy cutting back these shrubs.” He reached for a pair of hedge trimmers and whacked off some foliage. “Adam, why don’t you take that cake from Paris and run it in the house.” Dylan had to nudge him a few more times before he did what he was told.
“I really can’t stay anyway,” she said and turned her head to watch Adam walk away. Her braid fell over her shoulder. She’d woven daisies into her fine brown hair.
“Paris, you put flowers in your hair. I like a girl with flowers in her hair.”
She patted the braid and blushed. “Just a few.”
“Well, you look real pretty,” he said, which she took for an invitation to chat for a good half hour. By the time she left, Dylan had whacked the hell out of one shrub and had started on another.
That night, as he and Adam ate dinner, Adam looked up from his plate and said, “If you weren’t so nice to all those girls, they wouldn’t come around here.”
“All those girls? Who you talking about?”
“Paris and Miss Chevas and”-he held out his hands as if he were holding up watermelons- “you know who.”