Homecoming Wife. Joan Kilby
it,” Nate said. “Make the same mistake twice and I’d be a fool, wouldn’t I?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Aidan said. “Too bad, though. I always thought you two were great together.”
So had Nate. He sighed. “Some things just aren’t meant to be.”
ANGELA LEANED BACK from her laptop, yawning and stretching. Ricky was being awfully quiet. Then she glanced at the clock. Could it really be eleven p.m.?
Nate hadn’t called.
She saved her work and, pushing back her chair, went to the living room. Ricky was asleep on the couch in front of the TV where a movie unsuitable for ten-year-olds was playing. Recriminations flooded through her. She shouldn’t have let him stay up this late. She should have monitored what he was watching.
“Ricky, wake up. It’s time to go to bed.”
The boy yawned and mumbled sleepily. “Just a little longer.”
“No, it’s after eleven.” Angela reached for the control and clicked the TV off. In the silence she could hear the patter of raindrops being blown against the windowpane. “Tomorrow we’ll do something fun, I promise.”
Suddenly he looked wide awake, a crafty light in his eyes. “Mom always reads to me before bed.”
“But it’s so late.”
“I’m on holiday.”
“Aren’t you old enough to read by yourself?” She suspected he was stalling but she couldn’t be sure. Janice had left pages of detailed instructions regarding Ricky that Angela hadn’t had time to go over yet.
“Yeah, but I like it when Mom reads.”
“Oh, what the heck. Go get ready for bed first.”
Ricky disappeared down the hall and came back a few minutes later dressed in his pajamas and smelling of toothpaste and soap. He looked sweet, not terrifying at all.
Angela followed him to his bedroom and sat on the bed. “Do you have a book?” she asked, expecting him to produce something like Lassie Come Home.
He handed her a slim volume with a lurid cover. She read the title. “The Day My Bum Went Psycho? Are you serious?”
“It’s really funny.”
“I’ll read one chapter, okay?”
She ended up reading five chapters because Ricky kept pleading for more and because the zany story was surprisingly amusing. Finally her throat got sore and she set the book aside. “Time to say your prayers.” That much she knew Janice insisted on.
Ricky hopped out from under the covers and kneeled by the bed, bowing his head. “Now I lay me down to sleep…” His high-pitched voice mingled with the steady beat of rain on the shake roof.
Angela listened, remembering herself and Janice at a very young age as they kneeled by their cots on a threadbare rug to repeat those familiar comforting words.
“…God bless Mom and Dad and keep them safe on the airplane. God bless Auntie Angela and keep me safe so she doesn’t worry.”
Angela smiled but she had to glance away; Ricky’s slender nape above his pajama collar looked so vulnerable it made her heart hurt. When had she stopped saying her prayers? Probably around her seventh birthday when her father walked out and her mom started drinking and Angela had learned prayers didn’t get answered. Night after night she’d comforted her little sister, pretending to Janice that everything would be all right when inside she felt terrified and utterly abandoned.
Why hadn’t Nate called?
“…God bless Tim and keep him safe so…well, just so he’ll be safe. Thank you, Lord. Amen.”
Ricky clambered back into bed and Angela wondered if he would hate it if she tried to kiss him good-night. She tickled him instead, making him giggle.
On impulse she said, “Tomorrow we’ll go down and register you for the bike course.”
She thought he would be delighted but his young forehead furrowed with worry. “How are we going to pay for it?” he asked. “I heard Dad tell Mom before they left that they were so far over dawn they’d never see daylight again. It doesn’t make sense but I’m pretty sure he was talking about money ’cuz he had his checkbook out.”
“He meant overdrawn.” She bit her lip to stop herself from smiling at his mistake. There was nothing funny about a kid having to worry about his family’s finances.
How often in her own childhood had her mother told her they couldn’t afford something? Daily, at least. Not things like mountain-bike courses or the latest fashion, but more basic items like exercise books for school or shoes. Sometimes they couldn’t even afford food until the next welfare check. Even though her mother was long dead and those days far behind her, Angela could still remember the shame.
“Don’t worry. I’ll pay for the course as an early birthday present. And I’ll buy you your own elbow and shin pads so you can use them afterward.”
Ricky’s face lit. He sat up in bed and flung his arms around her waist, pressing his head against her chest. “Thank you, Auntie Angela. Thank you so much!”
Angela, treasuring the feel of his small body, clung a moment too long and he squirmed out of her embrace. “Quit calling me ‘Auntie,’” she scolded to cover her awkwardness. “It makes me feel a hundred years old instead of twenty-nine. Just Angela will do.”
“Okay. Thanks, Angela. You’re the best.”
“You’re welcome.” At least she’d gotten something right where he was concerned.
The next morning Angela and Ricky drove into Whistler Village with Ricky’s bike in the back of the station wagon. They parked in one of the day lots and walked the bike through the pedestrian-only streets, looking for Nate’s store.
Cycle Sports was a long narrow shop off the Village Square. Bikes were hung around the perimeter, shock absorbers and wheel forks covered the ceiling and every inch of available floor space was packed with rows of tires or shelving containing biking shirts, shorts, gloves and other paraphernalia. Customers browsed or stood about in small groups, talking trails and bikes. Nate wasn’t the only one around here obsessed with mountain biking.
Ricky gravitated to a shiny new bike set up on display. Angela went to the front desk where a girl with short blond braids was stocking a display of sunglasses. Dressed in a halter top and lycra shorts she had the slim, hard body of an athlete and a killer tan.
“Excuse me…Rachel,” Angela said, glancing at the girl’s name tag. “I’m looking for Nate. Is he working today?”
“I’ll get him for you.” Rachel poked her head through a curtained doorway behind the desk. “Hey, boss. Someone to see you.”
Boss. A blunt-fingered hand pushed the curtain aside and Nate appeared, his dark hair a sharp contrast to the pale blue of his bike shirt. Even after all this time he still set her pulse racing.
“Are you the manager here?” she asked incredulously.
“I own the store.” There was more than a hint of satisfaction in his voice.
Angela vaguely recalled Janice saying something about a bike store but when it came to Nate and mountain bikes she’d always tuned out. She couldn’t get over the change in him from the free and easy young man she’d married. Back then he’d worked only until he had enough to pay the bills, sometimes not even that much in the prelude to a big race. Now she marveled at Nate’s confident air of authority—a maturation of his youthful cockiness she hadn’t anticipated.
“Can I help you with something?” he asked.
“I’ve been thinking your class might be good for Ricky, after all. We’ve brought in his bike for you to look over.”
Ricky,