Snowfall on Haven Point(62)
She deserved gentleness, courtesy, respect.
She certainly deserved more than to be pawed in the front seat of her SUV by a man who would never be able to offer her anything.
Yes, he definitely needed something to distract himself from the restlessness. Shoveling that walk out there would perfectly fit the bill—with the bonus of helping him feel at least halfway useful.
Ten minutes later, he slipped on his jacket and double-checked the plastic bag he’d shoved his boot into to keep it dry and a little warmer, then headed out onto the porch.
The cold felt invigorating, blowing away the cobwebs that came from spending entirely too much time in a small room in front of a big television set.
He managed to make it down the stairs without falling—even with the plastic bag providing no traction. The hardest part was balancing on the stair railing and using one of his crutches to pull the shovel down to him.
Not the easiest task he had ever undertaken, balancing on the crutches with his armpits and pushing the shovel a few inches at a time, but he was making slow progress when he heard the door slam next door.
“I thought you were supposed to be paying me to do that,” an annoyed-sounding voice called out through the darkness.
He looked over at the house next door, and for one terrible moment, he couldn’t seem to make his brain work to come up with an answer.
His son.
That was all he could manage to think as Christopher shuffled down the steps wearing only skinny jeans, thin skateboarder Vans with skulls on them and a black Nirvana T-shirt.
He had been a big Nirvana fan himself, during his own dark and angry-over-nothing phase. At least they had that much in common.
“Did you decide you don’t need my help?” The boy’s shaggy ink-black hair hung over his forehead and he had on that same perpetual scowl. “You trying to back out of paying me?”
His son was speaking with him. They were having a conversation.
Marshall cleared his throat. “Not at all. I’ve been cooped up inside all day—all week, really—and was feeling claustrophobic. The little bit of snow needed clearing, so I figured, two birds.”
“Gramp said I have to do it, since you’re paying me, so hand over the shovel.”
He wanted to tell the kid he could take care of it, that it felt good to actually do something instead of sitting on his ass all day, but realized that was stupid. His son was here to help him. How could he turn down the opportunity to let him, especially if it meant they could spend a few minutes actually communicating?
“Great shirt,” he said, then felt awkward for not coming up with a better topic of conversation.
The kid looked down. “It was my mom’s. She had a thing for Kurt Cobain.”
“I remember,” he said without thinking.
That caught Christopher’s attention. “Did you know my mom?”
In the biblical sense, yeah. Otherwise? Not really.
“A little. She was, uh, older than me by a few years, so our paths didn’t really cross in school. Different crowds, you know? But I bumped into her a few years later in California, when I was in the military.”
“Weird, you both being from a Podunk Idaho town and bumping into each other a thousand miles away.”
“True enough. But I was glad to see a friendly face to remind me of home. We had dinner together a few times.” And breakfast, but he wasn’t ready to tell the kid that. “I believe Nirvana came up. We were both fans.”
He paused. Because it seemed warranted—and was nothing less than the truth—he added, “I was sorry to hear she died.”
The only light came from their respective houses, aided by a pale slice of moonlight breaking through the clouds, but Marshall still could clearly see the pain that twisted the boy’s features for only a moment before he ducked his head.
“Thanks,” he mumbled and seemed to shovel a little harder.
It was clear he didn’t want to talk about his mother and Marshall would honor that.
He leaned on the crutches and watched him work. He wanted to tell him it was less strain on the back and arms to lift with the shovel closer to him, but he didn’t want to come off sounding like a know-it-all ass. “What other kind of music do you like?” he asked instead after a moment.
Christopher leaned on the shovel handle. “Dude, you don’t have to make conversation and pretend to be all interested. All you gotta do is pay me for the time.”
His attitude was so patently contrived that Marshall had to smile. “Humor your crazy neighbor who has been trapped inside his house for a week.”
The teen didn’t seem in a big hurry to return to shoveling. “Nice bag,” he said, pointing to the plastic garbage bag Marshall had wrapped around his cast. “So what happened to you? You get popped in the leg or something?”