If only Ella were here right now, taking care of this—of them. Yes, she babied Harry and pushed him to consider colleges that were an insult to his academic abilities, but Felix had missed her. Really missed her. Ella was always here, in their home, making sure their lives ran smoothly. Without her or Harry, the house had been cold and quiet, an abandoned shell. Loneliness, a forgotten emotion, had been Felix’s only companion.
“Harry. We have to park, go inside the terminal, and get to baggage claim. If we don’t leave right this minute, we will have failed to pick up your mother on time and she will be stranded like Orphan Annie.”
“Gotta go, dude.” Harry giggled. “Yeah. Dad’s waiting.”
Something about the way he said Dad’s waiting niggled. At least Harry had a father who wanted the best for him. What was Harry thinking, agreeing to look at UNC Asheville? What was Ella thinking, suggesting it?
Harry pocketed his phone and headed for the front door. “You’re wrong”—he paused with his hand on the doorknob—“Mom’s hardly Orphan Annie. Annie Oakley, maybe.”
Struggling to pay attention to anything after the word wrong, Felix followed Harry outside, slammed the front door, and snapped the key round in the lock.
Let it go, Felix. Let it go.
He pulled a small bottle of Pepto-Bismol caplets from his pocket, dumped two pink pills into his palm, and swallowed them dry. When had his stomach not been a dicky mess? Did he have an ulcer?
Walking down the steps of their freshly painted porch, Felix frowned at the combination of hot-tin-roof red against Westchester gray. All those hours spent agonizing over paint chips and still he’d chosen the wrong colors. However, the brushed-steel pots Ella had found at a going-out-of-business sale were close to perfect. She had stuffed them with ornamental cabbages and budded red pansies, as he had requested. Thankfully, his wife understood the importance of detail and never questioned his decisions regarding the house, which he had been rebuilding cabinet by cabinet, window by window, door by door since the day they’d moved in.
A pair of tiny, black-capped birds rose from the empty metal feeder, also painted in hot-tin-roof red. Ella would, no doubt, tut and ask why he hadn’t filled it. But why would he? He had his domestic jobs; Ella had hers. He pictured her raised on tiptoe, pouring sunflower seeds into the feeder, her huge hoop earrings dancing at her neck. When they met, he used to say no one designed earrings like Ella. Now he said no one wore earrings like Ella. Ella Bella.
A herd of white-tailed deer sauntered in and out of his sight line. The wildlife of Durham, dubbed the “flower of the Carolinas” by English explorer John Lawson, still amazed and thrilled the city boy in him.
With a backward glance, Felix headed for the street. As always, part of him yearned to stay in their shady house, his very own castle hidden on the edge of Duke Forest and connected to the city cul-de-sac by a narrow wooden bridge. Such memories he had of kite flying on Hampstead Heath with his big brother, Tom; but tame London parks could never compare to the primal wonder of Duke Forest. During their first year in the house, back when Harry had been a giggling baby and Ella a picture of motherhood, Felix had longed for the world beyond their half acre to disappear. He’d wished they could cross the bridge, close their front door, and never leave.
A hawk gave a single, haunting cry; its mate answered. Passing through shadows cast by towering, ivy-wrapped pines, Felix stepped onto the bridge. The water in the creek beneath was still and clear, but reflected nothing. He wobbled the railing that needed replacing. Maybe this spring, after the toads and the bullfrogs returned, and the dogwoods and redbuds brought color back to the forest, maybe then he would take the time to rebuild this bridge.
Felix aimed the key fob at his cream and black Mini Cooper, which bleeped to unlock. After yesterday’s washing, waxing, and interior cleaning, it sparkled. A four-hour job well done.
Harry bounced up and down with one hand on the passenger door, a human pogo stick set to hyperdrive. Plaid shirttails flapped from under his black leather biker jacket. How hard was it to tuck your shirt inside your jeans?