Kindred (The Darkwoods Trilogy 2)

Everyone looks away, pretending to be interested in anything other than Uncle Carl’s handicap.

Nathan is saved by his vibrating cell phone. He excuses himself and slips outside onto the porch.

“Isaac,” I say walking over to him as he stands at the foot of the stairs. He smiles across at me with those bewitching, bright blue eyes that I swear put some kind of voodoo hex on me every time I look into them.

“Yes?” he says, his mouth slowly pulling into a smile. I feel his fingers slip through mine. He’s never failed to make me blush so deeply that the blood behind my eyes feels boiling hot.

I pull him into the hallway, out of Uncle Carl’s view.

“I’ll probably stay here tonight,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Isaac presses his lips to my forehead.

“I know,” he says. “You’ll need to hang out at home more often now that he’s back. And you should.”

“Yeah, Aunt Bev will need my help, though I get the feeling she’ll deny it.”

He nods slowly, agreeing with me. His hands cup my elbows and he pulls me closer, but this time I fight the urge to give in to the smallest show of affection with Uncle Carl being in the house again. Despite the wheelchair, I feel like he might come around the corner and catch us. A faint, knowing grin warms Isaac’s eyes and his hands fall away, the warmth of his fingertips lingering on my skin long after they had been there.

“I’ll be on the porch with Nate,” he says as he slips quietly out the front door just feet from where I stand.

I still can’t believe he’s mine. Every night that we’re not together, I lie in bed and stare across the room out the window and think of Isaac Mayfair. About the extraordinary events that unfolded seven months ago that still to this day, I usually have a hard time accepting. I think of my short life with him and can’t help but feel as though already it’s been a lifetime. Trauma and death has a way of speeding up how life’s natural balance usually works. It fills in the little gaps usually reserved for more trivial things, like break-ups and the trials of trying to fit in. It speeds things up like growth and experience and love.

I think in the beginning, the loss of my sister was what forced me so easily into Isaac’s world and into his heart. Where she tore my heart to pieces, Isaac was there to put it back together again. But there’s one thing that constantly gnaws at the back of my mind about that. To love someone so deeply means also that it will hurt a thousand times more when he disappoints or leaves you.

I try not to think about it, but it’s unavoidable.

One day, Isaac Mayfair will hurt me whether with words or ways or that inevitable goodbye.

Because nothing lasts forever.

I look toward the tall, thin window beside the front door and watch Isaac’s figure move across it, obscured by the sheer, lacy white curtain. I can hear his voice faintly, going on with Nathan about how they’re going to start repairing the barn.

Beverlee’s voice snaps me back into Uncle Carl’s homecoming.

“Adria, can you get Carl a glass of tea?”

I move back toward the den and let the light from the opened windows warm my face once more.

“Sure, Aunt Bev.”

“Beverlee,” Uncle Carl says, motioning one hand in protest, “I’m not thirsty—I’ve got coffee.” He turns to me then. “Really, don’t worry about it.”

“Oh hush,” I say, beaming at him. “Don’t try that shamefully independent stuff on me. Until you can walk again—and you will; watch and see—I’m here to do your bidding. Besides, if I were the one in the wheelchair, I’d fully expect you to wait on me hand and foot.” I smirk playfully at him.

Uncle Carl sighs, surrendering, but I can tell in the softness of his face that he’s appreciative.

Beverlee winks at me and heads upstairs.

Harry and Daisy are sitting at the bar when I make it into the kitchen, Daisy’s curly blond hair draped over Harry’s shoulder. She raises her head from his shoulder and eyes me as I cross over to open the refrigerator. Harry is still stuffing his face with chocolate chip cookies. The one thing he does better than skate is eat.

“Have you talked with them about Portland?” Daisy says.

I slide the tea pitcher off the top rack, set it on the counter and then pull a clean glass from the nearby dish drainer.

“I don’t know if I should go,” I say. I press the glass under the ice dispenser in the refrigerator door and the ice clanks noisily into the bottom. “It’s a bad time to be going anywhere, really.”

After filling the glass with tea, I trade the pitcher for a lemon from the fridge and cut a wedge just how Uncle Carl likes it.

Harry looks up at me. “Hey, I’m in agreement,” he says, licking the last few crumbs from his lips, “but you have to go with us, and besides, Aunt Bev will probably force you to go anyway.”

“Harry’s right,” Beverlee says as she rounds the corner. “You’re not hanging around here while your friends are having a good time and that’s that.”

I didn’t expect her back downstairs so fast; probably felt guilty for leaving Uncle Carl alone for too long. Just in case he needed something. Sooner than later, I know she’s going to drive Uncle Carl crazy.

Beverlee takes the glass from me. “Where did you plan to go?” After gently squeezing the lemon juice into the tea, she positions the wedge neatly on the rim of the glass.

“Portland,” Harry answers. “My sister has a house right on the beach—Mind if I get a glass of milk?”

Beverlee smiles and nods.

Harry is like a brother to me and Aunt Bev has a soft spot for him, too. He pretty much earned his own residence in the Dawson house and often takes advantage of it when he isn’t with Daisy. Of course, I love having him around. He’s the other missing half of me that Alexandra took with her when she left. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had. I don’t know what I’d do without him.

While pouring himself a glass of milk Harry says, “She invited me down and said I can bring some friends along.”

I notice Beverlee’s gaze stray toward the kitchen window, which looks out onto the front porch where Isaac is still with Nathan.

“Who all will be going?” she says, trying not to make her concerns so obvious. She has to know she’s failed miserably

I wring my hands and then reach up to scratch the base of my neck, feeling slightly nervous about admitting the truth about Isaac. I don’t know why it still feels so awkward around Aunt Bev after so long—maybe I just know deep down that her worries are more justified than I want to admit.

From the corner of my eye, I see Harry and Daisy look at each other. Daisy stands up from the stool then and reaches out her hand, taking the glass of tea from Beverlee.

“Come on Harry,” Daisy says, gesturing to him with the movement of her head, “let’s take Mr. Dawson his lemon tea.”

Harry catches on and slips into the den with her.

Beverlee dives right in.

“I’m not going to lie and say it doesn’t scare me,” she says. “It scares me every time you stay over with Zia.”

Beverlee moves onto the stool that Daisy just left and rests her arms across the bar top, folding her hands together.

I dive right in, too.

“Aunt Bev,” I say, looking right into her eyes so she can feel the sincerity in the words I’m about to say, “I really do love him. I know I can’t make you fully understand it and you probably think it’s just a phase and that because I’m only seventeen—”

Beverlee puts up her hand to stop me, but I can detect something else in her thoughts other than words of wisdom that mean only to discredit my feelings.

Her face softens behind the mask of worry that she wears. “You’re more grown-up than I was at seventeen,” she says and pauses only for a moment. “I can’t imagine going through what you’ve gone through and I feel guilty sometimes that I had such a better life than you did.”

I didn’t expect any of this and I start to speak, to tell her that she has no reason to feel guilty for something she had nothing to do with, but she stops me once more. These are words that she desperately needs to say, whether for my benefit alone, or maybe there’s a deeper-rooted meaning behind them that I can’t possibly understand.

I let her go on.

“You were taking care of your mother when she should’ve been taking care of you. You and Alexandra had to live under the same roof as an abusive drunk and for that, I can never have any respect for your mother and her choices.” She scoffs then, looking away from me and toward the kitchen window again. “The worst I had to deal with when I was growing up was hating the hell out of dishes and going to bed at nine o’clock on school nights.” Her eyes meet mine again and she sighs. “What I’m trying to say is that you’ve earned your right to love whoever you want as much as I’ve earned mine and I’m not going to question it.”

I’m thankful for her views and feel my heart warm at the thought of her, of the person she is, but I’m still not sure what she’s getting around to saying.

“You believe me?” I say, carefully probing for the conclusion without letting her think I simply want her to get it over with.

“Adria,” she says, “I can tell that you love each other and that it’s real. That’s what scares me.”

I’m confused and bring up the only thing I think it could be. Because it’s what anyone would think.

“You’re scared I’ll have sex with him.”

It doesn’t feel as awkward and embarrassing saying it out loud as I thought it would. In fact, it feels perfectly normal and this is when I realize that Aunt Bev is more to me than a caregiver and a mother figure. She is truly my friend.

Beverlee’s face warms with her smile.

“Well, yes, that’s one thing, but really what worries me the most is falling so fast and hard for someone only to get your heart broken later. That kind of love is the most dangerous.”

Has she been inside my head somehow? I had been thinking this just moments ago. If only she knew the true depth of the situation and that my love for Isaac was fueled by more than a broken home life and a backstabbing sister.

Beverlee looks at me sternly for a moment and I can’t turn my eyes away.

“Just be careful,” she says. “I was a wreck shortly before I met your uncle—never let the love of a man define you, Adria.”

The intensity in her face reveals much more to me than I think she intended to give away. I want to reach out to her, encourage her to spill all of her deepest, darkest secrets to me, but I know when finally she stands up again that she has no intentions of talking about it anymore. Her serious expression softens as she ends the moment.

“When are you leaving for Portland?” she says, beaming. The question is also a demand that I not argue with her about staying behind. She will have it no other way and I know better than to protest.

“Next Friday,” I say. “We’ll drive there and spend the weekend—be back sometime on Monday.”