Ambrose grabbed Fern's book from her hands and immediately opened it to where Fern was reading. She grabbed at him, mortification flooding her, not wanting him to see what had so captured her attention. He just held the book up in front of his face and wrapped one arm around her, effectively pinning her as if she were five years old. He was like a big ox, immovable and brawny, and all Fern's squirming to free her arms and retrieve the book was entirely useless. Fern gave up and hung her head in dejection. The heat from her cheeks radiated out around her face and she held her breath, waiting for him to howl in laughter. Ambrose read in silence for several minutes
“Huh.” Ambrose sounded a little flummoxed. “So . . . that was interesting.” His arm loosened slightly, and Fern ducked out beneath it, tucking a stray curl behind her ear and busily looking at everything except Ambrose.
“What's interesting?” she asked breezily, as if she hadn't been wracked with embarrassment only seconds before.
“Do you read a lot of this kind of thing?” Ambrose countered with a question of his own.
“Hey, don't knock it 'til you've tried it!” Fern said meekly and shrugged as if she wasn't dying inside.
“But that's just it.” Ambrose poked Fern in the side with one long finger. She squirmed again and slapped at his hand. “You haven't tried it, any of it . . . have you?”
Fern's eyes shot to his and her lips parted on a gasp.
“Have you?” Ambrose asked, his eyes locked on hers.
“Tried what?” Fern's voice was a shocked hiss.
“Well, let me see.” Ambrose thumbed through a couple of pages. “How about this?” He started reading slowly, his deep voice rumbling in his chest, the sound making Fern's heart pound like a frantic drummer.
“. . . he pushed her back against the pillows, and ran his hands along her bare skin, his eyes following where his hands had been. Her breasts rose in fevered anticipation . . .”
Fern swatted at the book desperately and managed to dislodge it this time, sending the book careening across several registers and landing in the back of a shopping cart.
“You've tried that?” Ambrose's expression was deadly serious, the corners of his mouth flattened in consternation. But his good eye gleamed, and Fern knew he was silently laughing at her.
“Yes!” Fern blustered, “I have! Many times, actually. It's . . . it's wonderful! I love it!” She grabbed a spray bottle and a rag from beneath the counter by her register and immediately started squirting and scrubbing away at her already pristine workspace.
Ambrose drew close and whispered in her ear, making the tendrils that had escaped from her ponytail tickle her cheeks as he spoke. “With who?”
Fern stopped scrubbing and looked up furiously, her face only inches from his.
“Stop it, Ambrose! You're embarrassing me.”
“I know, Fern.” Ambrose chuckled, revealing his endearingly lopsided grin. “And I can't help it. You're just so damn cute.”
The moment the words left his lips, Ambrose straightened as if his flirtatious comment had surprised him, and he turned away, suddenly embarrassed, too. The canned music overhead morphed into something by Barry Manilow and Fern instantly wished she hadn't reprimanded Ambrose. She should have just let him tease her. For a moment, he'd been so light-hearted, so young, and now he was rigid again, his back to her, hiding his face once more. Without another word, he started moving back toward the bakery.
“Don't go, Ambrose,” Fern called out. “I'm sorry. You're right. I haven't tried any of those things. You're the only guy who's ever kissed me. And you were kind of drunk, so you can tease me all you want.”
Ambrose paused and turned slightly. He pondered what she had said for several seconds and then asked, “How does a girl like you . . . a girl who loves romance novels and writes amazing love letters,” Fern's heart ceased beating, “how does a girl like you manage to sneak through high school without ever being kissed?”
Fern swallowed and her heart resumed its cadence with a lurch. Ambrose watched her, obviously waiting for a response.
“It's easy when you have flaming red hair, you're not much bigger than a twelve-year-old, and you wear glasses and braces until senior year,” Fern said wryly, confessing the truth easily, as long as it took the look of desolation from his eyes. He smiled again, and his posture eased slightly.
“So that kiss up at the lake, that was your first?” Ambrose asked hesitantly.
“Yep. I got my first kiss from the one and only Ambrose Young.” Fern grinned and waggled her eyebrows.
But Ambrose didn't laugh. He didn't smile. His eyes searched Fern's face for a long moment.
“Are you mocking me, Fern?”
Fern shook her head desperately, wondering why she couldn't seem to ever say the right thing. “No! I was just . . . being . . . silly. I just wanted you to laugh again!”
“I guess it is pretty funny,” Ambrose said. “The one and only Ambrose Young . . . yeah. Wouldn't that be something to brag about? A kiss from an ugly son of a bitch that half the town can't stand to look at.” Ambrose turned and walked into the bakery without a backward glance. Barry Manilow cried for a girl named Mandy and Fern felt like crying along with him.
Fern closed the store at midnight, just as she always did, Monday through Friday night. She had never had reason to feel nervous or even think twice about locking the store at midnight and riding home on her bike that she left chained by the employee entrance. She didn't even look sideways as she pushed through the heavy exit door and locked it, her mind already on her ride home and the manuscript that waited.
“Fern?” his voice came from her left and Fern had no chance to react before she was being pushed back against the side of the building. Her head banged against the block wall and she winced as her eyes flew to her assailant’s face.
The parking lot was poorly lit out front, but the lighting on the employee side of the building was non-existent. Fern had never even thought to complain. What little moonlight there was did little to illuminate her surroundings, but she could make out Ambrose’s broad shoulders and shadowed face.
“Ambrose?”
His hands cupped the back of her head, his fingers soothing the hurt he'd caused when her head had connected with the wall behind her. Her head barely reached his shoulder and she pressed her head back into his hands, lifting her chin to try to discern his expression. But the darkness kept his motives hidden, and Fern wondered briefly if Ambrose was dangerous and if his injuries were more than skin deep. But the thought had no time to simmer as Ambrose bent his head and lightly touched his lips to Fern's.
Shock and surprise bloomed in her chest, crowding out the brief moment of fear, and Fern's attention narrowed instantly to the sensation of the brush of Ambrose's mouth against her own. She catalogued the prickle of stubble on his left cheek, the whisper of his exhale, the warmth of smooth lips and the hint of cinnamon and sugar, as if he had sampled something he’d baked. He was hesitant, his gentleness at odds with his aggressive display. Maybe he thought she would push him away. When she didn't, she felt his sigh tickle her lips and the hands that held her head relaxed and slid to her shoulders, pulling her into him as he pressed his lips more firmly against hers.
Something unfurled itself low in Fern's belly, a shaky heat that curled and twisted its way through her stunned limbs and clenched hands. She recognized it immediately. It was desire. Longing. Lust? She had never experienced lust. She'd read about it enough. But feeling it firsthand was a whole new experience. She stretched up and held Ambrose's face between her palms, holding him to her, hoping he wouldn't come to his senses any time soon. She registered the contrast between his left cheek and his right, but the ridges and bumps that marked the right side of his face were of little consequence when his beautiful mouth was exploring her own.
He stopped abruptly, pulling his face from her palms and manacling her wrists with his big hands. Fern searched his face in the darkness.
“There. That was much b
etter than the first one,” he murmured, his hands still locked around hers.
Fern was dizzy from the contact, drunk on sensation, and at a complete loss for words. Ambrose released her wrists and he stepped back and walked to the bakery entrance without so much as a see you later. Fern watched him go, saw the door swing shut behind him, and felt her heart skip along after him like a lovesick puppy. One kiss wasn't going to be nearly enough.
The very next night, Bailey Sheen rolled into the bakery at midnight like he owned the place. Fern had obviously let him in, but she wasn't tagging along behind him. Ambrose told himself he wasn't disappointed. Bailey did have a cat though. It scampered along beside him like a co-owner.
“You can't have an animal in here, Sheen.”
“I'm in wheelchair, man. You gonna tell me I can't have my seeing-eye cat with me? Actually, it can be your seeing-eye cat, since you're blind and all. One of the perks to being a pathetic figure is that I tend to get what I want. Did you hear that, Dan Gable? He called you an animal. Go get him, boy. Sic him!”
The cat sniffed at one of the tall metal shelves, ignoring Bailey.
“You named your cat Dan Gable?”
“Yep. Dan Gable Sheen. Had him ever since I was thirteen. My mom took us to this farm for my birthday and Fern and I each got to pick one from the litter. I named mine Dan Gable and Fern named hers Nora Roberts.”
“Nora Roberts?”
“Yep. Apparently she's some writer. Fern loves her. Unfortunately for Nora Roberts, she got knocked up and died giving birth.”
“The writer?”
“No! The cat. Fern's never had very good luck with animals. She smothers them with affection and care and they thank her by croaking. Fern hasn't figured out how to play hard to get.”
Ambrose liked that about her. There wasn't any pretense with Fern. But he wasn't going to tell Bailey that.
“I've been trying to teach Dan Gable a few wrestling moves, in honor of his namesake, but so far all he can do is sprawl. But hey, sprawling is one of the basics–and it's more than I can do,” Bailey said with a chuckle.
Dan Gable was a wrestler who had won an Olympic gold medal. In fact, he didn't surrender a single point during the whole Olympic games. He graduated from Iowa State with only one loss, coached the Iowa Hawkeyes, and was a legend in the sport. But Ambrose didn't think he would be especially honored to know a cat had been named for him.
Dan Gable, the cat, rubbed himself against Ambrose's leg but abandoned him immediately when Bailey patted his knees with the tips of his fingers. The cat jumped up on Bailey's lap and was rewarded with stroking and praise.
“Animals are supposed to be good therapy. Actually, I was supposed to get a puppy. You know, man's best friend, a dog to love only me, the kid who couldn't walk. Cue the violins. But Mom said no. She sat down at the kitchen table and cried when I asked her.”
“Why?” Ambrose asked, surprised. Angie Sheen was a damn good mom, as far as he could tell. It seemed a little out of character for her to refuse a dog to the kid who couldn't walk, who needed a loyal companion . . . cue the soft lighting and the farmhouse on Christmas morning.
“Do you know that I can't wipe my own ass?” Bailey said, looking Ambrose straight in the eye. He wasn't smiling.
“Um. Okay,” Ambrose said uncomfortably.
“Do you know that if I lean down too far to get something, I can't sit back up? I got caught once for a half hour just hanging limp over my knees until my mom came back from running errands and sat me back up again.”
Ambrose was silent.
“Do you know that my 120 pound mother can pick me up under the arms and move me into the chair in my shower? She washes me, dresses me, brushes my teeth, combs my hair. All of it. At night, she and my dad take shifts coming in and turning me throughout the night because I can't roll over, and I get sore if I lay in one spot. They've done that since I was about fourteen, night after night.”
Ambrose felt a lump forming in his throat, but Bailey carried on.
“So when I said I wanted a puppy, I think something kind of broke in her. She just couldn't take care of anyone else. So we compromised. Cats are low maintenance, you know? There's cat food and a litter box in the garage. Most the time Fern is the one who feeds Dan Gable and changes his litter. I think she made a deal with my mom when we got the kittens, though I can't pin either one of them down on it.”
“Shit.” Ambrose ran his hands over his bald head, agitated and distraught. He didn't know what to say.
“When are you going to start wrestling again, Brosey?” Bailey used the name the guys had called him. Ambrose had a feeling he did it on purpose. “I want to see you wrestle again. Having a cat named Dan Gable just doesn't cut it.” Dan Gable meowed and hopped off Bailey's lap as if he didn’t appreciate Bailey’s comments.
“And just like that, he abandons the cripple.” Bailey sighed tragically.
“I can't hear or see on my right side, Bailey. I can't see anyone coming! Hell, my legs would be tied up so fast I wouldn't know what hit me. Add to that, my balance sucks. The hearing loss has thrown it all out of whack, and I would really rather not have an entire arena of people looking at me.”
“So you're just going to make cupcakes?”
Ambrose glared at Bailey, and Bailey grinned back.
“How much can you bench, Brosey?”
“Will you quit calling me that?”
Bailey looked genuinely confused. “Why?”
“Because it . . . it . . . just . . . call me Ambrose.”
“So 400, 500 pounds? How much?”
Ambrose was glaring again.
“You can't tell me you haven't been lifting,” Bailey said. “I can tell. You may have a naturally good physique, but you're shredded. You've got serious size and you're hardened down.”
This coming from a kid who'd never lifted a weight in his life, Ambrose thought, shaking his head and pushing another tray of cupcakes into the oven. Yeah, cupcakes.
“So what's the point? I mean, you've got this amazing body–big, strong. You just going to keep it to yourself? You gotta share it with the world, man.”
“If I didn't know better, I would think you were hitting on me,” Ambrose said.
“Do you stand naked in front of the mirror and flex every night? I mean, really, at least go into the adult film industry. At least it won't go completely to waste.”
“There you go again . . . talking about things you know nothing about,” Ambrose said. “Fern reads romance novels and you are suddenly Hugh Hefner. I don't think either of you has room to lecture me about anything.”
“Fern's been lecturing?” Bailey sounded surprised and not at all offended that Ambrose had basically told him he didn't know jack crap because he was in a wheelchair.
“Fern's been leaving inspirational quotes,” Ambrose said.
“Ahhh. That sounds more like Fern. Like what? Just Believe? Dream big? Marry me?”
Ambrose choked and then found himself laughing, in spite of everything.
“Come on, Bros–Ambrose,” Bailey amended, his tone conciliatory, his face serious. “Don't you even think about it? Coming back? My dad unlocks the wrestling room for open use in the summer. He would work with you. Hell, he'd wet himself if you told him you wanted to drill some shots. You think all this hasn't been hard on him? He loved you guys! When he heard the news . . . Jesse, Beans, Grant . . . Paulie. They were his too. They weren't just yours, man. They were his boys. He loved them too! I loved them too,” Bailey said, vehemence making his voice shake. “Did you ever think about that? You aren't the only one who lost them.”
“Don't you think I know that? I get it!” Ambrose said, incredulous. “That's the problem, Sheen. If I was the only one who had lost . . . if I was the only one in pain, it would be easier. . . “
“But we didn't just lose them!” Bailey interrupted. “We lost you! Don't you think this whole damn town mourns for you?”
“They mourn for the superstar. Herc
ules. I'm not him. I don't think I can wrestle anymore, Bailey. They want the guy that wins every match and has Olympic prospects. They don't want the bald freak that can't hear the damn whistle being blown if it's on his bad side.”
“I just explained to you how I can't go to bathroom by myself. I have to depend on my mother to pull down my pants, blow my freakin' nose, put deodorant on my armpits. And to make matters worse, when I went to school, I had to rely on someone to help me there too, with almost every damn thing. It was embarrassing. It was frustrating. But it was necessary!
“I have no pride left, Ambrose!” Bailey said. “No pride. But it was my pride or my life. I had to choose. So do you. You can have your pride and sit here and make cupcakes and get old and fat and nobody will give a damn after a while. Or you can trade that pride in for a little humility and take your life back.”
Bailey said he'd never been to the memorial for Paulie, Jesse, Beans and Grant. Ambrose could see why. It involved a bit of a climb up a little dirt road that was far too steep going both up and down for a wheelchair to traverse. Elliott told Ambrose the city was working on having the road paved, but it hadn't happened yet.
When Bailey told him about the spot, Ambrose could see how much Bailey wanted to go, and Ambrose told himself he would take him. But not yet. This time, this first time, Ambrose needed to go by himself. He had avoided it since coming home to Hannah Lake almost six months before. But talk of cupcakes and humility and Bailey's lack of pride had convinced Ambrose that maybe it was time for small steps. And so he put one foot in front of the other and climbed the hill that led to the pretty overlook where his four friends were buried.
They stood in a straight line, four white headstones looking out over the high school where they had all wrestled and played football, where they had grown to maturity. There was a little stone bench situated near the graves where family or friends could sit for a while and the trees were thick beyond the clearing. It was a good spot, quiet and peaceful. There were flowers and a few notes and stuffed animals placed around the graves, and Ambrose was happy to see that others had frequently visited, though he hoped no one would visit today. He needed some time alone with his friends.