Still, it was obvious that Denise had done her best to make it as presentable as possible. It was clean and well kept, that much was clear. Every dish was put away, the countertops had been wiped down, a ragged washcloth was folded neatly in the sink. Over by the phone was a stack of mail that looked as if it had already been sorted through.
By the back door he saw a small wooden table with a series of textbooks arranged across the top, held in place by two small flowerpots, each housing a small geranium. Curious, he walked over and scanned the titles. Every one of them had to do with child development. On the shelf below was a thick blue binder, labeled with Kyle’s name.
The water shut off and Denise returned to the kitchen, conscious of how long it had been since she’d been alone with a man. It was a strange feeling for her, one that reminded her of her life from long ago, before her world had changed.
Taylor was perusing the titles when she picked up her glass and made her way toward him.
“Interesting reading,” he said.
“Sometimes.” Her voice sounded different to her ears, though Taylor didn’t seem to notice.
“Kyle?”
She nodded, and Taylor motioned toward the binders. “What are those?”
“Those are his journals. Whenever I work with Kyle, I record what he’s able to say, how he says it, what he’s having trouble with, things like that. That way I can follow his progress.”
“It sounds like a lot of work.”
“It is.” She paused. “Would you like to sit?”
Taylor and Denise sat at the kitchen table, and though he didn’t ask, she explained what—as far as she could tell—Kyle’s problem was, just as she’d done with Judy. Taylor listened without interruption until she was finished.
“So you work with him every day?” he asked.
“No, not every day. We take Sundays off.”
“Why is language so hard for him?”
“That’s the magic question,” she answered. “Nobody really knows the answer to that.”
He nodded toward the shelf. “What do the books say?”
“For the most part, they don’t say much. They talk a lot about language delays in children, but when they do, it’s usually just one aspect of a bigger problem—like autism, for instance. They recommend therapy, but they’re not specific in what kind of therapy is best. They simply recommend a program of some sort, and there are different theories as to which is most useful.”
“And the doctors?”
“They’re the ones who write the books.”
Taylor stared into his glass, thinking back on his exchanges with Kyle, then looked up again. “You know, he doesn’t talk all that bad,” he said sincerely. “I understood what he was saying, and I think he understands me, too.”
Denise ran her fingernail through one of the cracks in the table, thinking it was a kind—if not completely true—thing to say. “He’s come a long way in the last year.”
Taylor leaned forward in his seat. “I’m not just saying it,” he said earnestly. “I mean it. When we were throwing the ball back and forth? He was telling me to throw the ball, and whenever he caught it, he would say, ‘Good job.’ ”
Four words, essentially. Throw it. Good job. Denise could have said, That’s not much if you think about it, is it? and she would have been right. But Taylor was being kind, and right now she didn’t really want to get into a discussion about the limitations of Kyle’s language abilities. Instead she was more interested in the man sitting across from her. She nodded, collecting her thoughts.
“I think that has a lot to do with you, not just Kyle. You’re very patient with him, which most people aren’t. You remind me of some of the teachers I used to work with.”
“You were a teacher?”
“I taught for three years, right up until Kyle was born.”
“Did you like it?”
“I loved it. I worked with second-graders, and that’s just such a great age. Kids like their teachers and are still eager to learn. It makes you feel like you can really make a difference in their lives.”
Taylor took another sip, watching her closely over the rim of his glass. Sitting in the kitchen surrounded by her things, observing her expressions as she talked about the past—it all made her seem almost softer, somehow less guarded than she had been before. He also sensed that talking about herself wasn’t something she was used to.
“Are you going to go back to it?”
“Someday,” she answered. “Maybe in a few years. We’ll have to see what happens in the future.” She sat a little straighter in her seat. “But what about you? You said you were a contractor?”
Taylor nodded. “Twelve years now.”
“And you build homes?”
“I have in the past, but generally I focus on remodeling. When I first started, those were the only types of jobs I could get because no one else wanted them. I like it, too—to me, it’s a little more challenging than building something new. You have to work with what’s already there, and nothing is ever as easy as you suspected it would be. Plus, most people have a budget, and it’s fun to try to figure out how to get them the most for their money.”
“Do you think you could do anything with this place?”
“I could make it look brand-new if you wanted. It depends on how much you wanted to spend.”
“Well,” she said gamely, “I just happen to have ten bucks burning a hole in my pocket.”
Taylor brought his hand to his chin. “Mmm.” His face assumed a serious expression. “We might have to eliminate the Corian countertops and the Sub-Zero refrigerator,” he said, and they both laughed.
“So how do you like working at Eights?” he asked.
“It’s all right. It’s what I need right now.”
“How’s Ray?”
“He’s wonderful, actually. He lets Kyle sleep in the back while I work, and that takes care of a lot of problems.”
“Has he told you about his kids?”
Denise raised her eyebrows slightly. “Your mother asked that exact same question.”
“Well, once you live here long enough, you’ll find out that everyone knows everything about everyone, and in time, everyone’s going to ask the same questions. It’s a small town.”
“Hard to stay anonymous, huh?”
“Impossible.”
“What if I keep to myself?”
“Then people will talk about that, too. But it’s not so bad, once you get used to it. Most people aren’t mean, they’re just curious. As long as you’re not doing anything immoral or illegal, most people don’t really care, and they certainly don’t dwell on it. They’re just passing the time because there’s not much else to do around here.”
“So what do you like to do? In your spare time, I mean?”
“My job and the fire department keep me fairly busy, but if I can get away, I go hunting.”
“That wouldn’t be popular with some of my friends back in Atlanta.”
“What can I say? I’m just a good ol’ boy from the South.”
Again Denise was struck by how different he was compared with the men she used to date. Not only in the obvious things—what he did and how he looked—but because he seemed content in the world he’d created for himself. He wasn’t yearning for fame or glory, he wasn’t striving to earn zillions of dollars, full of hungry plans to get ahead. In a way, he almost seemed to be a throwback to an earlier time, a time when the world didn’t seem as complicated as it did now, when simple things were what mattered most.
While she was thinking about him, Kyle called out from the bathroom, and Denise turned at the sound of his voice. Glancing at her watch, she saw that Rhonda would be by to pick her up in half an hour and she wasn’t ready yet. Taylor knew what she was thinking, and he finished the last of his glass.
“I should probably be going.”
Kyle called out again, and this time Denise answered.
“I’ll be there in a second, sweetie.” Then to Taylor: “Are you going back to the barbecue?”
Taylor nodded. “They’re probably wondering where I am.”
She gave him a mischievous smile. “Do you think they’re whispering about us?”
“Probably.”
“I’m going to have to get used to this, I guess.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure they know that it didn’t mean anything.”
Her eyes leapt to his, and under his gaze she felt something stir inside, something sudden and unexpected. Before she could stop the words, they were already out.
“It meant something to me.”
Taylor seemed to study her in silence, considering what she’d said, as an embarrassed blush began to surge through her cheeks and neck. He looked around the kitchen, then toward the floor, before finally focusing on her again.
“Are you working tomorrow evening?” he finally asked.
“No,” she said a little breathlessly.
Taylor took a deep breath. God, she was pretty.
“Can I take you and Kyle to the carnival tomorrow? I’m sure Kyle would love the rides.”
Despite the fact that she’d suspected he would ask, she still felt a rush of relief when she heard the words aloud.
“I’d like that,” she said quietly.
Later that night, unable to sleep, Taylor mused that what had started as simply an ordinary day had turned into something he hadn’t anticipated. He didn’t really understand how it had happened . . . the whole situation with Denise had just sort of snowballed, almost beyond his control.
Sure, she was attractive and intelligent—he admitted that. But he’d met attractive and intelligent women before. There was just something about Denise, something about their relationship already, that had caused his normally tight control to slip just a notch. It was almost like comfort, for lack of a better word.
Which didn’t make any sense, not really, he told himself, flipping his pillow over and mashing it into shape. He barely knew her. He’d had only a few conversations with her, he’d seen her only a couple of times in his life. She probably wasn’t anything he imagined her to be.
Besides, he didn’t want to get involved. He’d been down that road before.
Taylor shook off his blanket in sudden irritation.
Why on earth had he asked to drive her home? Why had he asked her out tomorrow?
And more important, why did the answers to those questions leave him feeling so uneasy?
Chapter 15
Sunday was mercifully cooler than the day before. Hazy clouds had blown in that morning, keeping the sun from venting its full fury, and the evening breeze had picked up just as Taylor pulled up the driveway. It was a little before six when his truck bounced over the potholes, his wheels spinning gravel. Denise stepped out onto the porch, dressed in faded jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, just as he was climbing out of the truck.
She hoped she didn’t look as nervous as she felt. It was her first date in what seemed like forever. Okay, Kyle would be with them, and it wasn’t technically a real date, but even so, it felt like one. She’d spent almost an hour trying to find something to wear before finally making her decision, and even then she questioned it. It wasn’t until she saw that he was wearing jeans as well that she breathed a little easier.
“Hey, there,” he said. “I hope I’m not late.”
“No, not at all,” she said. “You’re right on time.”
Absently he scratched the side of his face. “Where’s Kyle?”
“He’s still in the house. Let me go get him.”
It took only a minute before she was ready to go. As she locked the door on the way out, Kyle took off running across the yard.
“Hewwo, Tayer,” he called out.
Taylor held the door open for him and helped Kyle up, just as he’d done the day before.
“Hey, Kyle. Are you looking forward to the carnival?”
“Ess a monstew twuck,” he said happily.
Immediately after scrambling onto the seat, he climbed behind the wheel again, trying unsuccessfully to turn it from side to side.
Denise heard Kyle making engine sounds as she drew near. “He’s been talking about your truck all day,” she explained. “This morning, he found a Matchbox that looks like the truck you drive and he wouldn’t put it down.”
“What about his airplane?”
“That was yesterday’s attraction. Today, it’s the truck.”
He nodded toward the cab. “Should I let him drive again?”
“I don’t think he’s going to give you the chance to say no.”
As Taylor made room for her to climb up, she caught the trace of his cologne. Nothing fancy, probably something from the local drugstore, but she was touched that he’d put it on. Kyle scooted over to make room for him, then immediately crawled into his lap once Taylor was situated.
Denise shrugged, an “I told you so” expression on her face. Taylor grinned as he turned the key.
“All right, little man, let’s go.”
They did the big figure S again, taking their time, bumping haphazardly over the lawn and around the trees before finally reaching the road. At that point Kyle scooted off his lap, satisfied, and Taylor turned the wheel, heading into town.
The ride to the carnival took only a few minutes. Taylor was busy explaining various items in the truck to Kyle—the CB, the radio, the knobs on the dash—and though it was clear her son didn’t understand what was being said, Taylor just kept on trying anyway. She noticed, however, that Taylor seemed to be speaking more slowly than he had the day before and was using simpler words. Whether it was because of their conversation in the kitchen or whether he’d picked up on her own cadence, she wasn’t sure, but she was gratified by his attentiveness.