Lifelines: Kate's Story by Vanessa Grant Page B

hammers
stopped, the evening air lifted the scent of the sea to them, and she heard
laughter and exotic music from somewhere unseen.
    Her
father took her hand securely in his, and they walked out to his battered
pickup truck. They sat in the truck and stared at the almost-finished house for
maybe five minutes before he started the engine.
    “If
we took a sail on the harbor,” he said, “we’d be able to see this wall.”

    T he
cement mixer departed and Mac sent his workers home. “You were a help,” he told
Kate, although his frown made her wonder if he thought he should pay her.
    “I
enjoyed it.” For a few hours, she’d forgotten the emptiness at home. “Let me
know if I can help again.”
    He
didn’t say any time . Silly to think he would, because she didn’t belong
on his job. She certainly shouldn’t feel rejected because he hadn’t invited her
for an encore.
    Grow
up, Kate. You’re not a girl, aching for approval.
    “What
about a cup of your coffee?” When Kate reached for the thermos, Socrates looked
at her with the same disapproval he’d given the concrete-pouring operation.
She’d brought extra cups and she poured Mac one, then herself. She felt the
pleasant sting of abrasion on her hands, overlaid by the clear knowledge that
she didn’t belong here.
    He
tossed his coffee off fast.
    “I’ll
be going,” she said.
    He
handed her the cup. Not a man of words, but he patted Socrates with three
man-dog slaps, and the dog leaned into him.
    When
Kate walked away with Socrates setting the too-slow pace, she felt Mac’s gaze
on her back. “Move it, Socrates,” she muttered. “We need to get out of here.”
    Go
home, set that third goal.
    A
personal relationship goal. Something to do with her mother? With Jennifer? She
felt powerless to change either relationship, but Jennifer, being younger,
should be the easier relationship to work on.
    Today
was Saturday, January 12. Jennifer’s birthday.
    Kate
had forgotten to send flowers.
    She
began to run, but when she looked back, Socrates had plunked his rump on the
gravel road.
    “You
stupid dog. Come on!”
    They
returned to the house faster than Socrates wanted, slower than Kate needed.
Inside, she grabbed the phone book and flipped through the yellow pages for the
local florist’s number.
    “April?
... I need flowers delivered to Seattle today. I—  ... You can’t guarantee it? Can
you give me the name and number of a Seattle florist?”
    Five
minutes later Kate had exchanged her credit card number for a birthday
arrangement of delphinium, bells of Ireland, gerberas—whatever they were—and
larkspur. The florist promised delivery by two this afternoon.
    Thank
God she’d remembered.
    She
dialed Jennifer’s number, listened to four rings, then Jennifer’s recorded
voice. Was Jen out celebrating with a friend?
    Kate
self-consciously sang the words of Happy Birthday to her daughter’s machine,
then said, “Hi, honey, it’s Mom. I called to wish you a happy birthday. I’m
sorry I missed you. Have a wonderful day.”
    Today
is the first day of your new life. Do something different.
    She’d
just called her daughter, pretending she’d remembered Jennifer’s birthday all
along. A deceitful telephone call didn’t qualify as something different.
    What
are you avoiding, Kate?
    David’s
study.
    Then
that’s where you need to go.
    Not
yet.
    Baby
steps. First the garage. Kate grabbed a handful of plastic bags from the
pantry. She slammed the back door behind her as she went out.
    Socrates.
She’d forgotten the damned dog again.
    She
turned back and yanked the door open. “Are you coming?”
    Bad
daughter. Bad mother. Bad dog mistress. Guilt or not, she couldn’t walk at his
pace. She burst through the side door into the garage, left the door open for
him to follow when he got around to it. Boxes everywhere. She couldn’t set up
anything here without clearing out twenty years of cast-offs.
    David’s
books. Clothes. Boxes of files, marked with