Falling for June: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

thing to do, patting me on the arm and asking, “Can I get you some coffee or tea, young man?” When I told him coffee would be great, he said, “I actually don’t have any coffee. The doctor tells me I can’t drink it with the medicine I take. But I do have tea.” I told him tea would be just fine, but I was still wondering why he had offered me coffee when he didn’t even have any as he shuffled off toward the kitchen.
    When I was alone, I stepped over to inspect the rooster. It looked hand-carved and old as hell; the paint was all cracked. I love that sort of thing, though. Anything with history. I could have admired that rooster all day, but then the view outsidedrew my eye. The window was wet yet from the earlier rains, giving the backyard a watery, faraway appearance through the old leaded glass. The creek I had heard earlier came down from the mountain and turned and ran along behind the house. A narrow footbridge crossing it was covered with wisteria. It really was a great view. The land on the far side of the bridge was quite wild, of course, but a well-worn footpath was visible disappearing along with the creek up into the shaded wood. I wondered who used the path often enough to keep it clear. Surely not the old man.
    “I hope you didn’t have a big breakfast.” I turned at the sound of his voice and he handed me a steaming mug of tea. “Smooth Move,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s the only tea I have left. It’s supposed to loosen you up, but I’m sure it’s mostly marketing. The bathroom is just down the hall on your left, however, just in case you need it.”
    Perfect, I thought, since I’d had a bran muffin and a latte before driving out. He indicated that I should sit in an old leather chair, saying something about its being the most comfortable. But he must not have sat in it himself for a long time because I sank so low into the worn cushion I wondered how I would ever get up out of it again. The old man took quite some time getting himself settled across from me, and I sipped my tea and watched him with idle curiosity.
    After setting his mug on the end table, he turned the chair to face mine. Then he retrieved his cane from the corner and used it like a handrail to lower himself into it. When he went to retrieve his tea, however, it was just out of his reach, so he hoisted up the cane again and used its curved handle to hook the mug and pull it across the table toward him. I’m not sure why he went to all the trouble, though, because he lifted his tea and blew on it, and then set it back again without taking a sip. Then he sighed. We were easily six feet apart, withthe book-covered coffee table between us, but I could clearly see that he was sizing me up in the silence. After a while, he reached into his sweater pocket and consulted his little notebook. Then he looked up at me and said, “Elliot Champ, eh?” I nodded and he slipped the notebook back into his pocket. “Is it chilly in here, Elliot? I can light the fire.”
    “No,” I replied, “it’s fine.”
    “Are you too warm then? I could hang your coat.”
    I told him I was actually quite comfortable—which wasn’t exactly true on account of being sunk into the damn chair so deep—and he just nodded and let another silence pass. Then he cleared his throat. “This is very embarrassing for me, you know.”
    Sometimes I ran into this on sits.
    “There’s no need to be embarrassed,” I said.
    “I’ve never failed to pay a bill in my entire life,” he replied, pausing to look down at the rug before adding, “I used to be an accountant, you know.”
    This was the part of my job I hated most—seeing this sadness, this shame. It was always the same. And the worst part about it was that the judgment was all theirs. No one I ever knew really cared two cream puffs whether or not anyone else could pay their mortgage. They were too damn busy working to pay their own. And I sure as hell wasn’t judging him. I was still in the