Chapter 8

Sleep was often elusive and fitful for Patrick. The night was filled with images of his failure to recognize Julia's mental instability and the danger she posed. But this night was different. This time Michaela filled his dreams with her vitality and sensuality. In his dream, he'd done what he's wanted to do the night before and invite her into his cabin to see where that kiss could take them. For Patrick the kiss took him to waking with a hardon that refused to go away on its own. Feeling a bit like a hormonal teenager, Patrick dealt with that bit of his anatomy in the shower, then dressed and made coffee, ready to start the day. Short of fishing with Tate, he had no clue what the day would bring.

He sat at the small table off the kitchenette. The large window looked over the lake, covered in a mist as the light of the sun barely hinted at its arrival. It had a view of the dock, bringing the night before back to the forefront of Patrick's mind. He'd been wallowing last night. Hell, he'd been wallowing for years, if he was honest with himself. Everyday sinking deeper into the mire of guilt over Julia"s actions and the gnawing uncertainty of his future. His family"s expectations loomed over him. A smart man, a man who cared about family, would step in and fill the destiny started by his grandfather. But each time Patrick considered joining the family business, he couldn't breathe.

Here, with Michaela, he felt he'd taken the first breath in a long time. The thought of her was intoxicating in a way that was exciting and yet unsettling as well. That hadn't stopped him from wanting to bring her into his cabin and exploring where that kiss could lead. It wasn"t just physical attraction stirring inside him; it was the way she'd called him out for his self-pity. She was a splash of color against the monochrome backdrop of his existence.

She challenged him. More than that, she made him feel entitled and selfish for his ingratitude. She had greater hardship than he did and yet she found joy and beauty in life and here he was whining.

Her ability to see him, not the fa?ade or the degrees or the money or prestige, made him feel something he couldn't remember ever feeling. She saw him. Patrick. She made him look at himself and what he needed to confront. Wasn't that why he was here? To find himself and figure out his life. Yes, but it was no easy thing to delve into one's own soul and confront the darkness there.

As much as he didn't like being called out, he couldn't stop thinking about how with each passing moment since their lips had parted, he became more aware of how much he desired to delve deeper into whatever this connection with Michaela might be. Patrick couldn"t remember the last time someone had sparked such an array of emotions in him—confusion, admiration, desire.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Dr. Patrick?" Tate's voice sounded through the door.

Patrick rose and answered the door.

Tate grinned up at him with a missing tooth holding two fishing rods that were askew and looked like they'd fall out of his arms. In this other hand he held a tackle box. "Are you still gonna fish with me?"

"I am." Patrick knelt down to study the boy. "Are missing something?"

Tate pointed to his mouth. "I lost a tooth last night. The tooth fairy brought me five dollars."

Patrick whistled. "Wow, you're rich."

"I'm saving it for a new game."

"Smart. Let me get my shoes on and we'll go."

Sneakers on, Patrick exited his cabin following Tate around the lake. The path took him by the lodge, where Patrick glanced up hoping to catch a glance at Michaela. The newlyweds sat on the deck but no Michaela.

"The fish are bitin' best by the old dock. But we have to be careful. Paw Paw hasn't fixed the lose board yet."

They ended up at the spot where Patrick helped Mr. Kincaid bring the wood down.

Patrick was impressed at how confident and competent Tate was when it came to fishing. The boy seemed to know the best spot by the edge of the lake as he set his fishing box and rods down in the soft dirt.

"First things first." Tate handed Patrick a fishing rod, "You gotta bait the hook."

Patrick watched as Tate dug into a container of soil, unearthing wriggling worms with an expertise that belied his age. He handed one to Patrick with a nod.

"Just pinch it and slide it onto the hook," Tate instructed.

"Can you show me?" Patrick wasn't squeamish, but the slimy twisting worm gave him pause. He squatted down to Tate's level to get a better view.

"Okay." Tate's brow furrowed in concentration as he bent the worm and slid the hook through it. "See? Easy."

The worm squirmed in Patrick's fingers and with a bit of fumbling and words of encouragement from Tate, he managed to secure the bait.

"You did it." Tate patted Patrick on the shoulder.

Patrick nearly laughed at the turn of events.

"Now, you have to throw your line in the water. First you have to make sure no one is behind you, so you don't hit them with the hook." Tate moved to the right of Patrick, who took a few more steps to the left to make sure he was in a safe zone.

"Then you hold your line while you unlock the reel. Then you fling it like this and let go of the line." Tate led by example, and his wormed hook flew out until plopping down into the water several feet from the water's edge.

Patrick mirroredthe boy"s actions, casting into the lake although not quite as far as Tate.

"You did it again."

Patrick wasn't sure anyone had ever been so proud of him as Tate was in that moment. It was both sweet and sad.

"Now what do we do?" Patrick asked.

"Now we sit and wait." Tate sank down onto the soft ground. Patrick joined him and they sat in companionable silence watching their lines drift quietly in the water.

"You're pretty good at this," Patrick said.

Tate shrugged. "My dad taught me."

"He must be good too."

"He is. He can fish in the ocean too. Sometimes him and his friends go out on a boat in the ocean."

"That's impressive."

"He can hunt with a gun and a bow."

"Bow?" Did people still hunt with a bow and arrow?

"Yep. Can you hunt?"

"No, I can't."

Tate turned his face to Patrick. "What can you do?"

Patrick laughed. "I'm afraid my skills are more fitting for the big city."

"Like what?"

Patrick had no clue what skills he had that would interest a seven-year-old. "I can drive in in Manhattan."

"My dad can drive. He has a special car that can go fast when he's chasing bad guys."

"Your dad is very talented."

Tate nodded and sat quietly for a minute. "My mom died."

He said it the same soft way he'd had the day before.

"I'm sorry that happened. It's hard when we lose someone we love."

Tate leaned closer to him. "Some days I'm not sad anymore."

Patrick glanced at the boy, his heart going out to the youngster at having to deal with such significant loss so early in life. "Do you feel bad about that?"

Tate nodded.

"Do you think your mom or others in your life want you to be sad?"

He shrugged.

"The thing is, Tate, life keeps going. Yes, it's sad that your mom is gone, but it's okay for you to live and smile and have fun. That doesn't mean you don't love your mom."

"Sometimes it feels like I"m gonna forget her."

"Just because you don't think of her all the time, doesn't mean you'll forget her. My sister didn't die, but she's had to go away. I feel bad a lot about it. But right now, I'm with you, and I feel good. I'm grateful that you're here and I can be happy."

Tate's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Yes. I won't forget my sister. And I'll feel sad about her again, but right now, it's okay for me to be happy. What do you think?"

Tate's head bobbed up and down. "I think it's okay."

Patrick patted the boy on the back. "You're going to be fine. I know it."

"I'm sorry about your window."

"It's okay. It's all fixed. But I wonder, what had made you so mad?"

Tate straightened and looked out at his fishing line.

"If you don't want to tell me, it's okay."

Tate was quiet for a long moment before he said, "I didn't want my daddy to go."

"Why is that?" Patrick watched the boy, feeling like he could see the turmoil on the boy's face.

"My mommy went away and didn't come home."

Patrick wanted to wrap up the boy in a hug to guard against all the pain and fear he was carrying. "You're afraid your dad won't come home?"

"He's a deputy. Sometimes he has to fight bad guys."

"That would make me afraid to be away from my dad too."

"Really? You'd be afraid?"

"Yes."

"But you're grown up. Grownups don't get afraid."

"I don't know where you heard that, but it's not true. Grownups just have more practice hiding that they're afraid. Not that it's bad to show fear, because it's not. I bet if you told your dad, or Aunt Michaela or your grandparents, they'd understand."

A fish tugged at Tate"s line, ending the current conversation. "I got a bite." Tate jumped up and stepped to the edge of lake. He stood with his legs wide in a steady stance as he turned the handle of reel. Soon a fish flipped out of the water. "I got one. Look Dr. Patrick."

"I see. Is there something I need to do to help."

"Nope. I can do it." Sure enough, Tate reeled in a decent sized fish. "It's a bass." He held the fish up like a trophy.

"It's beautiful."

"Do you have your phone? Can you take a picture?"

Patrick padded his pocket. His phone wasn't there. He didn't even think about bringing it. He'd been so focused on spending time with Tate it didn't occur to him. "I'm sorry I don't. Should I run back?—"

"Nah. That's okay. I don't want him to suffer too much." Tate unhooked the fish with deft fingers, then carried the fish to the lake and released it back into the water.

"Now what?"

"Now I bait another hook. Maybe you should reel in your line. Maybe the fish stole your worm."

"They can do that?"

"Sometimes. Usually, you can feel it like a nibble."

Patrick brought his line back in and sure enough the worm was gone. They both rebaited their hooks and cast out, sitting on the edge of lake as the sun drew higher in the sky.

"Do you think my mom is okay?" Tate asked.

"I don't know why not." Patrick knew death was tied closely to religion, a topic he didn't dare broach.

"She wasn't happy I don't think. And sometimes I hear people say she was hurting my dad."

"What do you think?" Patrick met his searching blue eyes—so like Michaela"s—and felt an ache for this young boy whose world had been turned upside down far too early.

"Daddy said she was with the angels and they're in heaven."

"I've never heard anyone be unhappy in heaven, have you?" Patrick said carefully.

"No." He sighed. "She must be okay."

"She must be." Patrick reflected on the conversation with Michaela the night before where she told him that he'd made an impression on the boy. He was happy to do that, but Patrick wondered if maybe Tate was the one making an impression on him. Tate and Michaela.

"You look like a Rockwellian painting."

Both Patrick and Tate looked toward the path where Michaela was walking toward them carrying an insulated bag. She wore cutoff jean shorts and a red tank top. Her hair was piled up on her head and she had her usual red bandana holding it back, red sunglasses and red lipstick. She was stunningly beautiful.

"I caught a fish Aunt Micki. Didn't I, Dr. Patrick."

Worried he was caught ogling Michaela, Patrick cleared his throat. "You sure did."

"And what did you catch, Dr. Patrick?" Michaela's eyes shined wither usual mischief.

"Nothing so far."

"Except maybe a sunburn. You are wearing sunscreen, aren't you?"

Patrick frowned. He wasn't. He didn't even bring any.

"You're looking a little pink. And thirsty. Lucky for you both I've got refreshments." She set the bag down.

"Did you bring lemonade?" Tate poked his head over the bag as Michaela opened it.

"Of course. The drink of fishermen." She handed him a tumbler. "I've got water or sweet tea as well. What would you like, Dr. Patrick."

"Water would be lovely."

"Here you are and here's some sunscreen." She handed him a bottle of water and sunscreen.

"Thank you." Patrick's cheeks burned, but he decided it was from embarrassment of not thinking of something as basic as sunscreen. It showed just how little he knew about roughing it.

"I've got food too. Waffle sandwiches and fruit."

"Do you have one with peanut butter and jelly?" Tate asked.

"Absolutely. It has your name on it." She handed him the waffle sandwich. "I have one with eggs and bacon and another with eggs and sausage."

"On a waffle?" Patrick asked.

"Yes." Michaela dangled the two wrapped sandwiches. "What's your preference?"

"Ah…bacon, I guess. I've never had a waffle sandwich."

"Well, then you've never really lived." She handed him the sandwich.

They sat on the lakes edge eating breakfast sandwiches. The heat and humidity, already thick when Patrick stepped outside this morning, was growing to sweltering levels.

"I need to deal with that dock," Micheala said noting the stack of wood.

"I can help." Tate held up his arm showing his muscle. "I'm strong."

"I could probably help." Patrick held up his arm. "What to do think, Tate? Am I strong enough."

Tate laughed. "You're a grown up. Grownups are stronger than kids."

Physically maybe, but Patrick always thought children were more resilient than adults.

"Let's finish eating and I'll grab the tools." Michaela's willingness to let Tate help impressed Patrick. It was likely keeping an eye on Tate would slow them down, but she was willing to endure that so the boy could help.

When they cleaned up breakfast, Michaela brought their trash up and returned with the tools. Patrick and Tate had brought down several boards of wood to the dock in preparation.

"What do we do, Aunt Micki?" Tate bounced on his toes, eager to help.

"First, we need to get rid of the old wood. I'll show you." Michaela stepped out on the dock, testing the various planks and marking some with chalk. "If it has a mark, we need to get rid of it." As she walked back, she stopped, rocking back and forth. She kicked off her red converse and undid her shorts, pushing them down long toned tan legs. Patrick's tongue went dry.

"Ah…what?—"

Then she took off her top, leaving it on her shorts. It took a moment to realize the red polka dot clothe she wore was a swimsuit, not her underwear. Good God she was perfection. Patrick knew he was staring but he couldn't stop himself.

"Are you going swimming?" Tate called out.

"I want to see the joists underneath. It won't do much good to fix the dock if the joists underneath aren't in good shape. But I don't want to pull up the whole dock to find out." She jumped into the water which went to her waist. "Hey Doc, can you walk along the dock so I can figure out where we might have an issue. Especially right there." She pointed to where she'd left her clothes. She smirked like she knew her effect on him.

"Ah..yeah, sure." His voice sounded like he had sandpaper in his throat.

"Can I do it too?" Tate asked.

"Sure. Just be careful. I don't want to have to fish you out of the lake."

Michaela moved to the edge of the dock and then dipped underneath it. Patrick heard a knock on a plank. He walked over to step on it, wondering how sound it was. I could be Michaela would have to fish him out of the water. Maybe she'd give him mouth and mouth. Inwardly Patrick kicked himself for such juvenile thoughts.

Tate ran up to the end of the dock and back. "How's this Aunt Micki?"

Another knock came further out toward the end. Patrick tentatively made his way there while Tate jumped up and down over the spot.

A few moments later, Michaela appeared, leisurely floating on her back. It gave Patrick a stellar view of perfect breasts. God, it was hot out. Did she take the water back to the house because he needed a gallon of it?

"Good news. Joists look good. We just need to pull up the plank I marked." She exited the water and slipped on her shorts and tank top. Large water marks appeared over her breasts. Patrick was a dead man.

Michaela smiled up at him and he swore she knew her effect on him. "You're looking a little hot there, Doc. I brought down more water if you need."

Patrick decided he could drink the lake and it wouldn't douse the fire burning inside him. "Thanks."

Michaela showed him how to pull up the planks and together they supervised Tate nailing new ones down.

Sweat beaded on his brow as he replaced the rotted planks, but it felt good to do physical work.

Occasionally, he glanced over at Michaela, watching her work. He was impressed by her competence and strength. But mostly it was her carefree demeanor in the face of so many challenges that really impressed him. It made him feel ashamed for his self-pity,

Finally, they nailed the final plank down.

"I think we did it," Michaela wiped sawdust her brow with the back of her hand. "Look at us, a regular construction crew."

Patrick looked around at their progress: new boards fitted snugly into place, old ones stacked neatly to one side ready for disposal. It was a metaphor, he decided. He was like that old dock. Not completely useless but in need of repair.

"We make quite the team."

Michaela's smile at his comment stole his breath. "We do, don't we?"

"I helped too, didn't I, Aunt Micki."

"Couldn't have done it without you, little man." This time she only took off her shoes when she jumped in the lake. She ducked under the water and came up with a sigh. "I needed that."

"Can I jump in?" Tate was bouncing on the edge of the dock about ready to fall in.

"Sure thing." She moved closer to him as he cannonballed fully clothed into the lake.

"Come in, Dr. Patrick," Tate called out as he dog paddled around.

"Yeah, come in Doc." Michaela's expression made Patrick think he wouldn't do it. That he was too reserved to jump in a lake fully clothed. s

To be honest, he was. And yet, her sweet, challenging smile had him toeing off his sneakers. He emptied his short pockets of his wallet and keys, unlatched his watchband, and took off his sunglasses, tossing them all on his shirt he tugged off and put over his shoes.

"It's going to be dark by the time you're ready," Michaela laughed at him.

"Better late than never, right?" He jumped in. The water level was barely to his hips, so he dropped down to his knees. He sighed as the water cooled his hot skin. He'd been so warm, it was a wonder steam wasn't rising.

Michaela laughed, but Patrick didn't feel she was doing so at his expense. No, she was a woman who found joy in the smallest of things, like jumping in the lake fully clothed.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" she asked him.

"Yes, it does."

"Look at me Dr. Patrick." Tate dove under the water, reappearing in front of Patrick. "I can swim."

"Like a fish." Patrick watched as Tate swam and Michaela floated in the water. They both knew what to do to enjoy the moment. On his knees in the shallow water, Patrick did nothing. Should he float too? Swim? Blow bubbles? How was it he didn't know? Was he so far detached from himself, from joy, that he didn't know how to conduct himself in a lake?

Water splashed in his face. He turned to find Michaela smirking at him. "You've got that lost puppy look again."

He shrugged.

She splashed water on him again.

He shook it off. "You're acting like?—"

"Like what?" Her eyes narrowed in challenge, but the humor remained as she used both hands to splash water at him.

"Like Tate."

"Am I?" She moved closer, her hand in the water, preparing to douse him again.

"You've had your fun." He held up his hands to protect himself.

"Have I?" She feigned thinking about it. "Nah…not yet."

Patrick was doused again. "You can stop that?—"

"Or what, Dr. Patrick?"

"Splash her back," Tate advised.

"Yeah, splash me back." Her hand coiled back.

"I think that's enough." He reached out and took her wrist to stop her. She tried to maneuver away, so he hooked his arm around her, holding her back to his chest to keep her still.

"Dunk her!" Tate called out.

She turned her head back to look up at him. "What are you going to do now?"

"I'll help you." Tate jumped on Patrick's back, knocking him off balance. Still on his knees, he couldn't move his legs fast enough to keep from going over. All three tilted, going under the water. He released Michaela and righted himself. As he broke through the surface, Michaela and Tate were laughing. Before he knew it, he was laughing too as he put his hand in the water, shoved it forward, until water splashed both Michaela and Tate.