His Surprise Son

Instead of asking him whether he’d eaten lunch, Izzy both spoke and signed back, “There’s strawberry cheesecake in the walk-in fridge. Help yourself.”

Eli’s eyes, hazel-green, like his mother’s, widened in surprise. “Cool.” She never offered him dessert before a healthful meal or, at the very least, a snack. Eli taught swim classes at the local parks and rec. She was always harping on him about healthful refueling. Now he trotted toward the kitchen, stopped and looked at her. I had a sub sandwich with lettuce, tomato, spinach and pickles, he signed. In case you were wondering. With a grin, Eli said hello to a waitress, dodged around her, then rounded the counter and disappeared into the kitchen calling, “Yo, O!” to Oliver, the lead cook, who had once bought Eli a set of child-sized saucepans and played “chef” with him for hours.

Oh, God, how she loved her little family. Nate’s presence here could threaten everything she’d defied the odds to build.

“I’m on duty tonight,” Derek said, keeping his voice low, “but I’ll see you tomorrow. I expect a full debriefing.”

He had never asked about Eli’s father. Derek had too many of his own ghosts to request that Izzy dredge up hers, but once, during a vulnerable moment, she had told him a little bit about the summer she was seventeen.

“Tomorrow?” Derek had been a good friend for years, but would she be ready to tell him—or anyone—the truth by tomorrow night? Not likely. She needed time, time to find out how long Nate was going to be in town...time to figure out how to protect her son, because this wasn’t just about her. “I’m...not sure I’m free tomorrow.”

“What’s the problem?” Derek asked. “You close at sundown on Friday nights.”

“Yes, but I’m... I’ve got to... There’s a very important—”

“Cut it out, Izz. You’re a crap liar.”

That’s what you think. She chewed the inside of her lip.

Derek crossed his arms. “You’re making me so curious I might stop by tonight on my shift.”

“No.” Eli would be home tonight. “Tomorrow,” she relented.

Reappearing, Eli carried a plate of the deli’s mile-high cheesecake. “This is the bomb,” he said, pointing to it with his fork. Setting the plate aside so he had both hands free, he asked, Mom, is it okay if I sleep at Trey’s tonight? His dad said he’d drive us to Portland in the morning.

Eli and his friend Trey were attending the same summer camp in Portland. After tonight, she wouldn’t see him for two whole weeks.

“I can drive you.” Glad to think of something other than Nate, she focused on the plans she’d already made. “I took the morning off. I thought we’d stop at Voodoo Doughnuts for maple-bacon bars.” She smiled, for the moment just another mom trying to tempt her teenager into spending a little more time with her.

A flash of guilt crossed her son’s features. Typically more comfortable with signing than oral speech when he had more than a few words to say, he used a combination of ASL and finger spelling to explain, Trey’s dad was a counselor for Inner City Project when he was our age. He’s going to introduce us around.

“Ah.” For the past several summers, Eli had attended a camp for deaf kids. This summer, he’d insisted on “regular camp.” The fourteen-year-old was the one thing in Izzy’s life that had turned out absolutely, perfectly right. Refraining, with difficulty, from telling him he was already way, way better than “regular,” Izzy had spent more money than she should have to register Eli for the camp with Trey.

“Traveling with Trey and Mr. Richards sounds like a great idea,” she said. “You have a good time. In fact, I’ll take off early and help you pack.”

I’m already packed. I can sleep at Trey’s so we can get an early start tomorrow. His mom invited me to dinner.

“Oh. Well...great. Great, because I wasn’t even sure what to make tonight.” His favorite monster burritos, actually. Have a fabulous time, First Mate, she signed without speaking.

Aye, aye, Skipper, he signed back, playing along with the endearments they’d been using since he was in third grade and they’d eaten their dinners at the coffee table, watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island. She probably ought to stop calling him cutesy names that would make a less patient kid gag.

I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, Mom. He looked at Derek. Take care of her for me, Uncle Derek.

Derek both signed and spoke back, “I’ll do that, buddy.”

Eli made a move toward his mother, then looked uncertain. I’m not sure how to hug you when you’re a pickle.

Solving the problem, she tossed her arms around her son, gave him a warm squeeze, then began to run through the list of safety precautions he needed to take at camp.

Eli nodded for a while before interrupting, Mom, I got the memo. Literally. He looked at Derek and splayed his fingers. “She wrote five pages.”

Izzy blushed. “It’s easy to forget things when you’re away.”

Mom, I’ll be safe, respectful and aware of my surroundings. I won’t lose my hearing aid, ’cause it’s really expensive, and I’ll be back in two weeks with all my body parts. And then, just so she would have a memory to reduce her to tears every day that he was away, Eli kissed her on the cheek and said with his most careful enunciation, “See you, Skipper.”

She refused to cry. Until he was out the door.

After exchanging a manly hug with Derek, Eli jogged out of the deli. Izzy didn’t start sniffling audibly until the glass door closed behind her only child, leaving her with her worries and a sense of loneliness that made her feel hollow as an empty tomb.

“Aw, come on, Pickle. He’ll be home soon.” Derek’s arm went round her in what turned out to be a kind of stranglehold. “Do you know pickles have no visible shoulders? Makes it hard to be friendly.” He adjusted his arm a bit more companionably. “If I wasn’t on duty tonight, I’d keep you company. I’ll bring pizza tomorrow. The works?”

“Sure.”

Willa walked by carrying a lox platter, and Derek’s attention instantly swerved to the petite redhead. “For pity’s sake, ask her out already,” Izzy whispered. “You stare at her every time you come in.”

“She doesn’t stare back.”

Izzy shook her head, content to focus on someone else’s fears instead of her own for a while. “Sheriff Neel, are you telling me a big, strapping lawman like you is afraid of a tiny, little woman who hasn’t uttered an unkind word since she’s been here?”

Derek grunted.

“When was the last time you went on a date?” she needled. “You can’t be a sheriff 24/7, buddy. You need a reason to wear street clothes once in a while.”

One of Derek’s brows arched. “Look who’s talking. You’re a pickle. How’s your date card these days, Isabelle? Do I need to find someone else to watch Shark Tank with?”

The last time Izzy had felt motivated to take a good hard look at her love life, she’d wound up alone in the back office, eating a quart of matzo ball soup and putting a sizable dent in a chocolate chip babka. “Fine. Never mind,” she muttered. “I was trying to be helpful.” She and Derek lapsed into grumpy silence for several seconds, disgusted far more with themselves than with each other.

Finally, Derek spoke. “If you need something before tomorrow, call me. I mean, with the kid leaving.”

She nodded. “Thanks. I better get back to work,”

“Me, too. Lives to protect and all that.”

“Yeah. Pickles to serve.”

With one last, not-very-subtle glance at Willa, he headed toward the coatrack at the front of the deli, where he’d hung his hat.

Izzy sighed. All right, so they were both terminally pathetic when it came to romance. At least Derek had a town to watch over, and she—

I have a restaurant and a family to save. Here in this dying deli were people she loved who loved her back. That was something. More, in fact, than she’d ever thought she would have. She intended to protect what was hers, no matter what.

First, though, she had to get out of this pickle suit, which felt like a personal sauna, and go somewhere alone so she could think clearly.

Waddling to the counter, she told Audra, who had worked at the deli longer than she had, “I’m leaving for a couple of hours. If you can hold down the fort, I’ll be back in plenty of time for the dinner shift.” Without Eli at home, she’d be better off working instead of worrying. Maybe if she took a break, she could figure out what to do about Nate Thayer and the child they’d made together.

* * *

“We can do this, no problem,” Izzy grunted, standing on the pedals of her bike. “Going uphill is good...for...us.” Her teeth ground together. Every downstroke was harder to come by than the one before as she pumped determinedly up Vista Road. “We’re going to start...doing this...every...day,” she panted to her beloved dog, Latke, a Shar-Pei rescue whose ambivalence toward physical activity gave credence to the distinction nonsporting breed.