Swelter

by Nina G. Jones

  “Alright. We should hit the road. The first leg of the drive is a long one.” I had a secret stop along the way. I was going to show Summer her dad's and my favorite place in the world.

  “Okay,” Will replied solemnly. His jaw tightened as he held his emotions in check. “Anything you need. You understand?”

  “I know. And that goes for you both as well.”

  Our embraces lingered for a while. But I had to let go.

  I packed Summer into the truck and took one last look at the world I knew. And then I slid into the driver's seat to see the world through Bobby's eyes. To stay close to him.

  I always wondered why my childhood was so different from most other kids. There was even a short while where I resented my mother for her need to always move us from place to place. We never stayed anywhere longer than a few months until I was about thirteen. But the truth was, it was an amazing childhood. Nights camped out in the desert with so many stars you didn't need a lamp. Huts on the beach. Farms on snowy mountainsides. A summer living with conservationists on a safari. Weeks with strangers who became friends who sometimes spoke my language, but other times did not. Yet they all had stories to tell.

  Now, as an adult, I understood the lessons she was teaching me. Things that no book or classroom could provide. But as open as my mother was, she never told me the full story of my father. No, he was not a secret. She showed me pictures, she explained that she had known him since she was a little girl. He fought in Korea. She even explained that he was shot and killed in a case of mistaken identity. Growing up, she reminded me that he would have wanted me to see the world like this. But whenever I tried to dig deeper, she would stop. I would see a melancholy creep into her eyes. It was so deep that the air around her seemed to shift. I loved my mother. And I didn't want to see her sad. So I stopped asking. I knew enough. I knew he would have been a great dad. I knew he was taken from this world unfairly. And I thought that was all I would ever know.

  I flipped through the photos my mother handed to me. She had shared so much, but these, she had kept from me. One was of my godparents, Uncle Willy and Aunt Sasha, with my mother and father. They were standing just under a marquis. Dazzling letters spelled out the names of jazz greats over their heads. My dad had his arm wrapped around mom's shoulder. Mom was wearing a polka dot dress and dad was dressed like James Dean. Seeing my mother lying in bed now, shriveled and frail, I sometimes forgot how stunning she was. And my father, towering over her, looked so handsome and lively. My godparents and mom were smiling at the camera, but my dad was looking down at my mother. He looked like he thought she was the best thing in the world all wrapped in a polka dot dress. The smile on his face was not broad and staged for the cameras, but instead it was subtle and brimming with wonder. As if he couldn’t believe he had her wrapped under his arm.

  I thought about all those times I didn't get to sit on his lap. That he didn't get to tuck me into bed and kiss me goodnight. Or ask me about a boy I was dating. Now I think I knew why my mother shielded me from the full story.

  “Why now, mom?” I asked softly. “I understand when I was a little girl why you wouldn't tell me. But why did you wait so long?”

  She sighed. “Sweetie. Sometimes I thought you were better off only knowing the good things. There's no justice in what happened to him. I didn't want you to carry that sense of unjustness. I wasn't proud of some of the things I did. I was afraid it might paint your father in a bad light. And the truth was it hurt. It still hurts to think about it. And to tell.”

  “So Uncle Rory?” Like my father, I only knew of him from pictures. My mother didn't share much about him. I got the sense she didn't like him much. All I knew was that his story also carried what I assumed was bad luck for the Lightly boys. Needless to say I was shocked to learn they were once married. “He killed himself . . . is that because . . .?”

  She nodded. “I had heard he cleaned himself up. He got a few months for Barbie's death. And he seemed to be doing well for a while. But um . . . a few months later I called your Aunt Julia to check in and she told me the news. About how he hung himself. He didn't leave a note or anything, but we all knew why.”

  “And Stan?”

  “Oh, Stan,” she said half-heartedly. “Stan plead guilty. Spared us all the spectacle of a trial. Was sentenced to twenty years. Died of a heart attack towards the end of his sentence.”

  “And the twins?”

  “I believe they were taken in by Barbie's sister.”

  I sensed no relief in her words. None of the misfortune of those who wronged my father could ease the pain of losing him.

  “Summer, I guess I decided to tell you now because I want you to understand how much your father meant to me. How much I meant to him. I think sometimes I had to hold back how I felt for myself. And I know it might be too late, but your father was the love of my life. Still is. You are the product of something very special. Every mother loves her child, but you . . . you brought me back to life.”

  My mother always smothered me in love. I thought it was because she was making up for the loss of my father, but now I understood it was because I was the human embodiment of their love. Evidence of their story. Something permanent and lasting from a union so fleeting.

  “What about Dean?” I asked of my stepfather, the man who stepped in when I was eight and helped raise me. He had died four years prior.

  “Oh, of course I loved Dean. He was a good man. A good father to you. His son needed a mother, my daughter needed a father. I respected him. But it was different. He was a widower. We both lost people we would have spent our lives with. And we had an understanding, I think. That we would be partners in this life, but if there is an afterlife, we would let each other be with the ones we had lost.”

  I took my mother's right hand, the skin as thin as rice paper, adorned by the apricot-colored gem she had worn for as long as I could remember, and kissed it. “Mom, I love you,” I cried. I didn't know how much time I had left with her. But she was my hero. The strongest woman I knew. I had always thought she was brave, but when I realized what she had gone through to become who she was, that respect grew even more.

  “I love you too, sweetie. Your father would be so proud of the woman you have become. He was good with his hands. And you got that from him. He may not have been a surgeon like you, but you definitely didn't get those skills from me,” she chuckled. “And the way you go around the world, fixing those little kids’ mouths . . . that's your father right there. He lives in you.”

  I nodded and I pressed her hand to my cheek. “I know, Mom.”

  “Not to mention, you're just as handsome as he was,” she let out a throaty cough as she laughed.

  “Nice, mama,” I retorted.

  “No, you are lovely. It caused me a lot of grief during your teenage years. But you have his kind eyes and his wavy hair, and those legs that go for days. Good genes.”

  “You passed down some pretty good ones yourself.” I winked.

  “Mmmhmm,” she conceded. “But inside,” she pointed her wrinkly, shaky finger to my chest, “I couldn't have asked for a better daughter.”

  “You're the best mom in the world. I try every day to be half the mom you were to me.”

  The lines on her face deepened as she smiled. A tear ran through the creases like a labyrinth, traveling down to the pillow beneath her. We sat for a moment in silence. I wished that moment would go still so I wouldn't lose her. And it made me think of how she must have felt in those frantic moments in the parking lot of the motel. How she had to say goodbye in seconds. How she had gained and lost so much in just a few hours. I had a fifty years with her and it wasn't enough.

  We didn't know how long she had left. My kids and husband had come to make sure they spent as much time with her as possible. But my children had to go back to college and my husband was busy with work and holding down the home front while I spent every day at the hospital.

  “Listen, Summer. There's something I want to ask of yo
u.”

  “Of course, mom.”

  “Rory and I never finalized our divorce. So when he passed, I got everything. Including the property on the lake.”

  “The lake house?”

  She nodded. “Last time I was there was when I took you as a baby. I never went back. I could go anywhere in the world but back there. I've had it maintained. Someone watches it for me. But it's going to be yours soon. And I am ready to go back.”

  Our home base had always been California, and despite mom's midwestern roots, we had stayed away from her home state. I understood why.

  “When you say 'go back' you mean you want to spend the rest of your time there?”

  “Yes. It was my favorite place.”

  “Whatever you want, mama.”

  When we arrived, I was stunned at how large the property was. A beautiful pale yellow house stood tall at the top of a slope that lead to the lake. Several smaller cabins peppered the estate. Down by the docks there was a boathouse. At the top level of the boathouse, there was a circular window, the one that shone on the eve of my mother's wedding to Rory. The one that led her down the road of elation and devastation.

  Entering the house was like walking into a perfectly preserved time capsule. Nothing had changed. There was no need to update a place where no one lived. My mother was going back in time. Bobby never aged, and neither did this place; only she was ravaged by the clock.

  The nurse wheeled her into the living room. Every room brought one of her stories to my mind so I could only imagine the effect it had on her.

  Wandering the living space, I pictured mom and dad dancing in front of the bay windows. Lying on the floor in front of the fireplace. Cooking breakfast on the vintage range.

  Once we had settled in, I sent the nurse off to set up in one of the cabins so we could be alone.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked mom.

  She nodded. “Good.” But I could tell her mind was teeming with thoughts. Memories. Her eyes met something across the room, and I saw what she was peering at: a record player.

  I walked over to it. “You brought it back?” I asked, running my finger along its surface.

  She shrugged. “After he was gone, I had no need for it. It belonged here.”

  “May I?” I asked.

  “Please,” she replied.

  I knelt down and flipped through the records. Billie Holliday. I paused for a moment. Would it be a way to take her back to those happy moments, or would it be a cruel reminder of what she had lost?

  “Go ahead. Play it,” she nudged from her side of the room.

  So I did, sliding the record on the pristinely preserved player. Listening for the crackles that instantly took me back to my childhood.

  The song commenced.

  Mama nodded, a wistful expression on her face. “Mmmhmm,” she uttered, as if she was confirming it was the same song. The melody, voice, or meaning had not changed.

  “We danced right there.” She pointed her finger, the joint swollen from age, to the spot where I stood. I looked down at the floor where my father held my mother, and slid off my shoes. I wanted my feet to touch the spot where his did.

  “Do you want to dance?” I asked her.

  She laughed hoarsely. “How?”

  I walked over and wheeled her to the spot. Then I took her hands and stepped side to side as she sat in front of me. She let out a throaty chortle. And then she became quiet. Her eyes grew watery as the shroud of nostalgia enveloped her.

  When the song ended, I turned down the volume and wheeled my mother back towards the fireplace.

  “You know sometimes I wonder,” she started, “Bobby never got ugly. He never saw a wrinkle. He's still that tall, rugged, handsome boy with that smile and those eyes. But me . . .” she chuckled. “Oh, I've seen better days.”

  “I'm sure he'll think you are as beautiful as the day you danced here,” I murmured, holding in my tears.

  “Sometimes I wonder if things would have always been so perfect. We never had the chance to get sick of each other, fight over money or plans, or his honey-do list. We always wanted more. We were always stealing away. So many people take that for granted. But maybe that's a small blessing. That everything we had was perfect and frozen in time.”

  “Maybe, mama,” I answered.

  She glanced towards the window. “Can we go to the dock?” she asked. “The sunsets are beautiful there.”

  “Sure,” I replied.

  The nurse and I carefully wheeled her down the rugged terrain and locked her wheelchair on a spot that faced a quiet lake and a lush forest. The sky bloomed with swirls of amber and blush. The occasional bird launched out from the gold and champagne-colored water. I could see why it was her favorite place.

  I sat beside her with my feet dangling off the dock. I let her have this time, taking in the spot where she used to sneak off in the night. Where she would cool off from the summer heat and spend time with the boy she didn't even know she loved. So much had changed since then, but if you stared out to the horizon, I was certain it looked like nothing had. If she just focused her gaze out there, Bobby was still alive. She was just a girl waiting for him to show up. I think that's why she chose this spot.

  The sky had grown dark. And now the browns, oranges and pinks had been traded for jet black sprinkled with twinkling lights. The breeze suddenly began to pick up and I worried she might get too cold.

  “Alright mom. We should get you in bed.” I placed my hand on her lap. She didn't respond. “Mom?”

  I stood up to take a better look. Her eyes were closed and her expression serene. Not quite a smile, something more permanent. I checked for her pulse and I knew she was gone.

  I sobbed as I caressed her thin white hair, once so lush and dark. I thought I would only feel sadness at this moment, but that was before I knew. Before I understood that she had waited her whole life to finally be with dad. And I hoped she would look as beautiful as she did during that last summer they had shared.

  There are so many people to be grateful for, and I couldn't possibly remember them all. But here are a few people who had a hand in helping me get Swelter to where it is today:

  Meg Botteon, who is never afraid to tell me when something sounds awful, and usually makes me chuckle in the process, but is also one of my biggest cheerleaders.

  Tiffany Torres, my “alpha” reader, PA and friend who looks past the typos and run-ons to be my sounding board as I mold new stories and characters.

  Angela Bonnie Shockley aka That Formatting Lady, another person who lends her opinions early in the process, but also puts a beautiful bow on the story at the very end.

  Jen Leisenheimer of Beyond the Cover Editing for being my safety net and using her keen eye to make the final words on the page crisp and polished.

  Holden's Hussies, I am so grateful to have your support, but most importantly, I am grateful for the friends I have made because of this group.

  Bloggers, there are so many of you, big or small, I appreciate every review, every mention and share. I would not be able to do what I do, if it wasn't for people like you.

  My readers, you are the best. I try to get better with each book because of you. Thank you, thank you, thank you for picking up that first book of mine, whether it be Strapped, or GRS, or DEBT. For once taking a chance on a name you may never have heard of.

  My husband, my best friend. The man who when I told sheepishly I was writing my first novel, replied “That's great!” I know how to write about love because of you. Until the next book!

  STRAPPED SERIES

  (Erotica Suspense/Mystery)

  STRAPPED

  STRAPPED DOWN

  UNSTRAPPED

  Read on for more information on Nina’s other works:

  GORGEOUS ROTTEN SCOUNDREL

  (Standalone Erotic Romance/Comedy)

  DEBT

  (Standalone Dark Erotic Suspense)

  IF

  (Standalone New Adult Contemporary Romance)
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br />   Gorgeous Rotten Scoundrel, a standalone novel by Nina G. Jones

  In the mood for some hot, snarky humor?

  “Gorgeous Rotten Scoundrel is officially on my top romance list for this year.” - Danielle of This Redhead LOVES Books

  “I loved this book. Easily a 5-star for me. I love a book where it is written so perfectly that you feel every emotion.” - Give Me Books

  “Gorgeous, Sassy, Witty, Flirty, Ballsy and Smoking hot.....grab me a washcloth I am ready to give a bed bath!” - All Booked Out

  The blurb:

  He was a pig, a jerk, selfish, callous, crude, tactless, prone to outbursts and gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous where you didn’t even attempt to hide the fact that you were staring. I knew the type: His entire life he has coasted on his good looks, artificial charm, and sex appeal. Everyone wanted to be him or be ON him. I had been hurt by jerks like him before. He was like those guys but far worse.

  I was the unfortunate sucker to be offered a gig I desperately needed as his live-in chef for a Summer in the Hamptons. But I wasn’t like the other girls--the models and socialites who came through the revolving door of his bedroom. I would bite the bullet, take the job, deal with his sexist comments, his expectation that I would fawn over him, and have no problem letting the door hit my ass on the way out when I was done with the gig.

  Then something unexpected happened that changed everything and I realized that there may be more to him than the labels I had affixed to his character. Maybe.

  But if he really wanted me, it wasn’t going to be easy, not like everything else in his life. He was going to have to work, I was going to make him miserable. He was going to hate wanting me just as much as I hated myself for wanting him back. Heath Hillabrand: International Supermodel. Womanizer. Gorgeous, Rotten, Scoundrel.