"But other than that, my life was pretty typical. I lived with my mom, I went to Catholic schools, shopped with my friends, went to the proms, and worried every time I got a pimple that people wouldn't like me anymore."
"You call that typical?"
"It is if you're a girl."
"I never worried about things like that."
She shot him a sidelong glance. "You weren't raised by my mother."
"No, but Judy's mellowed some in her old age. She was a little more stern when I was younger."
"She said that you were always getting into trouble."
"And I suppose you were perfect."
"I tried," she said playfully.
"But you weren't?"
"No, but obviously I was better at fooling my mother than you were."
Taylor chuckled. "That's good to hear. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's perfection."
"Especially when it's someone else, right?"
"Right."
There was a brief lull in the conversation before Taylor spoke again.
"Do you mind if I ask you a question?" he said almost tentatively.
"It depends on the question," she answered, trying not to tense up.
Taylor glanced away, toward the edge of the property again, pretending to look for the raccoons. "Where's Kyle's father?" he asked after a moment.
Denise had known it was coming.
"He's not around. I didn't really even know him. Kyle wasn't supposed to happen."
"Does he know about Kyle?"
"I called him when I was pregnant. He told me straight up he didn't want anything to do with him."
"Has he ever seen him?"
"No."
Taylor frowned. "How can he not care about his own child?"
Denise shrugged. "I don't know."
"Do you ever wish he was around?"
"Oh, heavens, no," she said quickly. "Not him. I mean, I would have liked Kyle to have a father. But it wouldn't have been someone like him. Besides, for Kyle to have a father--the right kind, I mean, and not just someone who calls himself that--he'd also have to be my husband."
Taylor nodded in understanding.
"But now, Mr. McAden, it's your turn," Denise said, turning to face him. "I've told you everything about me, but you haven't reciprocated. So tell me about you."
"You already know most of it."
"You haven't told me anything."
"I told you I'm a contractor."
"And I'm a waitress."
"And you already knew that I volunteer with the fire department."
"I knew that the first time I saw you. It's not enough."
"But there's really not much more than that," he protested, throwing up his hands in mock frustration. "What did you want to know?"
"Can I ask whatever I want?"
"Go ahead."
"Well, all right." She was silent for a moment, then met his eyes. "Tell me about your father," she said softly.
The words startled him. It wasn't the question he'd expected, and Taylor felt himself stiffen slightly, thinking he didn't want to respond. He could have ended it with something simple, a couple of sentences that meant nothing, but for a moment he didn't say anything.
The evening was alive with sound. Frogs and insects, the rustling of leaves. The moon had risen and now hovered above the treeline. In the milky light, an occasional bat skittered by. Denise had to lean in close to hear him.
"My father passed away when I was nine," he began.
Denise watched him carefully as he spoke. He was speaking slowly, as if gathering his thoughts, but she could see his reluctance on every line of his face.
"But he was more than just my father. He was my best friend, too." He hesitated. "I know that sounds strange. I mean, I was just a little kid and he was grown, but he was. He and I were inseparable. As soon as five o'clock would roll around, I'd camp out on the front steps and wait for his truck to come up the driveway. He worked in the lumber mill, and I'd run for him as soon as he opened his door and jump into his arms. He was strong--even when I got bigger, he never told me to stop. I'd put my arms around him and take a deep breath. He worked hard, and even in winter I could smell the sweat and sawdust on his clothes. He called me 'little man.' "
Denise nodded in recognition.
"My mom always waited inside while he asked me what I did that day or how school went. And I'd just talk so fast, trying to say as much as I could before he went inside. But even though he was tired and probably wanting to see my mom, he never rushed me. He'd let me say everything on my mind, and only when I was all talked out would he finally put me down. Then he'd grab his lunch pail, take my hand, and we'd head inside."
Taylor swallowed hard, doing his best to think about the good things.
"Anyway, we used to go fishing every weekend. I can't even remember how old I was when I first started going with him--probably younger than Kyle. We'd go out in the boat and sit together for hours. Sometimes he'd tell me stories--it seemed like he had thousands of them--and he'd answer whatever questions I asked as best he could. My father never graduated from high school, but even so he was pretty good at explaining things. And if I asked him something he didn't know, he'd say that, too. He wasn't the kind of person who had to be right all the time."
Denise almost reached out to touch him, but he seemed lost in the past, his chin resting on his chest.
"I never saw him get angry, I never once heard him raise his voice at anyone. When I'd act up, all he had to do was say, 'That's enough now, son.' And I'd stop because I knew I was disappointing him. I know that probably sounds strange, but I guess I just didn't want to let him down."
When he finished, Taylor took a long, slow breath.
"He sounds like a wonderful man," Denise said, knowing she'd stumbled upon something important about Taylor, but uncertain of its shape and meaning.
"He was."
The finality of his voice made it clear that the subject was closed to further discussion, although Denise suspected there was far more left to be said. They stood without speaking for a long time, listening to the music of the crickets.
"How old were you when your father died?" he asked finally, breaking the silence.
"Four."
"Do you remember him like I remember mine?"
"Not really, not the way you do. I just remember images, really--him reading me stories or the feeling of his whiskers when he kissed me good night. I was always happy when he was around. Even now, not a day goes by when I don't wish I could turn back the clock and change what happened."
As soon as she said it, Taylor turned to her with a startled expression, knowing she'd hit it right on the head. In just a few words, she'd explained the very thing he'd tried to explain to Valerie and Lori. But even though they'd listened with compassion, they'd never really understood. They couldn't. Neither of them had ever awakened with the terrible realization that they'd forgotten the sound of their father's voice. Neither had cherished a single photograph as the only means of remembrance. Neither one of them felt the urge to tend to a small granite stone in the shade of a willow tree.
All he knew was that he'd finally heard someone else echo the things that he had known, and for the second time that evening he reached for her hand.
They held hands in silence, fingers loosely intertwined, each afraid that speaking would break the spell. Lazy clouds, silver in the moon, lay scattered in the sky. Standing close, Denise watched shadows play over his features, feeling slightly unstrung. On his jaw was a small scar she'd never noticed before; there was another just below his ring finger on the hand that was holding hers, a small burn, perhaps, that had healed long ago. If he was aware of her scrutiny, he gave no notice. Instead he simply stared out over the property.
The air had cooled slightly. A sea breeze had blown through earlier, leaving a stillness in its wake. Denise sipped her tea, listening as insects buzzed noisily around the porch light. An owl called from the darkness. Cicadas sang in the trees. The evening was coming to an end, she could feel that. It was almost over.
He finished his glass, the ice cubes clinking, then set it on the railing.
"I should probably go. I have an early day tomorrow."
"I'm sure," she said.