Page 13 of Sterling Touch
Be professional, Valentine.
With that thought, I reach for my tablet and write up my report on the session before heading to the front desk.
“Well, that was interesting,” I state, setting the tablet on the counter near Derrek’s computer.
Cort was clearly uncomfortable having my hands on him, and as much as it might have been about me, I also think it was about him. He apparently doesn’t like being touched.
“I don’t think Cortland Haven should be assigned to me again,ifhe even comes back,” I warn Derrek. I highly doubt Cort will return to Reflexology.
“Funny, because he scheduled for next week and requested you.” Derrek raises one of his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “He’ll be back Wednesday at eight A.M.”
“What?” Slow to form, the question expresses how dumbfounded I am. What is Cort thinking? Better yet, what is he doing requesting me again?
“And Mrs. Cougar is here,” Derrek says distracting me. The patient’s name isn’t really Mrs. Cougar, he just likes to call the older-than-him woman such a thing because she’s a shameless flirt with everyone.
Shaking my head, I pick up my tablet and brush away thoughts of Cortland Haven.
By four, I’ve been on my feet most of the day. My hands are tired from massaging others, and I need to pick Hudson up from Atticus Stanton’s house. I wish the two boys weren’t friends for two reasons: Atticus himselfandhis father. The boy wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t have the negative influence of his dad. I try not to fault the twins. Being a single father, Henry is probably doing the best he can. Lord knows I have no room to judge as a single mother. Still, Henry’s pigheaded attitude is starting to rub off on his son.
Once I have Hudson in tow, and gratefully bypassed an encounter with Mr. Stanton, Hudson asks if he can check Haven Hitters website for the tryout results. The decisionwouldn’t be posted until five and Hudson promised to wait until we were together to look. With only twenty-five spots on the team, there will be a few broken hearts this evening. I don’t want Hudson’s to be one of them.
“Number 312. That’s me,” Hudson shouts from the back seat. “Yes.”
“Way to go, bud. I knew you’d make it.” In my heart of hearts, I believed in my boy, but I was also a bit nervous that Cort would bypass Hudson because of me. Not that he’d actually do that or even have a reason to do such a thing, but I was still anxious yesterday afternoon when I first saw Cort. Now, I’ve seen him three times in less than twenty-four hours.
And with Hudson making the baseball team, I’ll be seeing a lot more of Cortland Haven.
“Number 475. That’s Atticus. He made the team, too.” While Hudson sounds happy, his voice takes on a softer tone, and I peek at him through the rearview mirror. He lifts his head and stares out the side window with a sly smile on his face.
“Huh. Guess that means Amelia will be at your games.”
Hudson turns his head to glare at me through the mirror a second. His mouth pops open like he’s about to argue that he doesn’t care about Amelia. But then he clamps his lips and turns toward the side window again. His lips twist the slightest bit to fight another smile.
I don’t want to tease my son about his budding crush. . . but oh, who am I kidding, I absolutely want to razz him about crushing on a girl. Still, I remember that gooey sensation. That moment when you first notice someone as something other than a friend. As someone other than simply kind. As someone truly beautiful on the inside and the out.
Shifting my eyes back to the road, I chew on my lower lip, already worried my boy will have his heart broken one day, probably from more than one girl.
Live and learn, they say. Love and learn as well.
At my age, I know I haven’t experienced the kind of love I want. The kind I believe I deserve. That all-consuming, only-want-to-be-with-you desire, resulting in spending my life with my person.
Mypersonright now is my son; however, that’s not healthy or wise. Hudson will grow up, and too soon he’ll be out of the house and living his own life separate from me. The thought can bring tears to my eyes, and I quickly blink before they build.
“We need to celebrate,” I say. “Pizza?”
“Definitely.” Hudson pauses, still staring out the window. “But do you think we could also stop at Uncle Sebastian’s bakery for a cookie?”
Sebastian owns Curmudgeon Bakery, a fitting name for our once-grumpy brother who lived a rough decade before he pulled himself together and started his business in downtown Sterling Falls.
When we were kids, and Sebastian was still friends with Clinton Haven, we spent quite a bit of time at the Haven’s house, attempting to stay out of the way of our father. There, Sebastian and I learned to bake under the guidance of their mother, Mary Haven. My brother has taken the art of baking to a new level.
His wife loves his lemon baby bundt cakes while Hudson loves what Sebastian calls a monster cookie, made with peanut butterandoatmeal plus butterscotch chipsandchocolate candy bits.
My mouth waters just thinking about the treat although I try to curtail myself when I’m around those delicious baked goods. Still, Hudson deserves the celebration.
“Definitely,” I finally respond, turning my SUV back toward town.
After enteringthe bakery for our celebratory cookie, Sebastian mentions how Enya would love some company. I don’t want to detract from Hudson’s big moment, but I could use some time with my beloved sister-in-law and a baby fix. Sweet little Annabelle is only a few weeks old.
