by Naima Simone
“Sydney, what are you saying?” he demanded, taking those steps forward that he promised himself he wouldn’t. Clutching her arms when he ordered himself not to.
But she didn’t wrench away. She didn’t encircle him with her arms either. And only when she didn’t, did he realize how much he’d come to rely on her welcoming embraces. Her warm, affectionate smiles. Her unrestrained passion. His body and his soul cried out for their return.
But his mind knew they were already gone. They were no longer his to claim.
“I’m saying I can’t live in your world of fear with you. You’re so afraid of what has happened, what could happen, that you refuse to live. To love. I adore you, Cole, but I want freedom to love and be loved in return, not just for myself, but also for my little girl. We both deserve that.” She stepped back, forcing his hands to fall away. “Goodbye, Cole.”
“Sydney, don’t do this. Please,” he pleaded. Yes. Pleaded. He didn’t care. He couldn’t return to the darkness, the loneliness. The emptiness. Not again.
“Oh, Cole,” she breathed, pain spasming across her expression. She cradled his cheek and he turned into her hand, pressing his lips to the palm. She touched him. He shivered, hope rekindling. “Can you tell me you love me? Keep the house, I don’t care. But do you love me?”
He parted his lips, prepared to shove the words out if she just wouldn’t leave him. If she would stay and beat back the abyss. But the words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t say them. They lodged in his throat, and he choked on them.
She dropped her hand, agony flashing in her brown eyes before her lashes lowered. Shutting him out.
“Goodbye,” she whispered, then walked away.
Dimly, he heard the front door shut. But he still couldn’t move. Remained rooted, staring at the mantel packed with pictures of the family he’d lost.
While his mind remained fixed on the one he’d let walk away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SYDNEY CLIMBED THE steps to her parents’ home.
Had it only been a little less than two months since she’d returned to Rose Bend? Since she’d first shown up here on her parents’ doorstep? It was like déjà vu. Only then, her heart hadn’t been shattered into so many pieces they resembled grains of sand. Then, she’d been single, looking forward to the birth of her child and being a present, caring parent. Now, she was married, on her way to her second divorce and concern for her daughter was the only thing keeping her sane.
Funny how she’d returned here of all places. The inn with Leontyne and Moe would’ve made more sense. Or even Cecille and a tub of her favorite ice cream. But she’d left that house, that sad museum standing as a living memory to a life two years in the past, and had driven around for hours. When she returned to town, the only thing she’d wanted was her mother.
Sighing, she knocked on the door. Moments later, it opened and when her mother stood in the entryway, Sydney barely restrained the impulse to fling herself into her arms. God, how she longed to revert to that eight-year-old who could go to her mother and hug her, knowing murmured words of comfort and encouragement would be given without reserve. When was the last time she’d laid her head against her mother’s shoulder and leaned on her? Too many years ago to count. Too many hurts, harsh words and disappointments inflicted to number.
“Hey, Mom,” she said instead. “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” Her mother stepped aside, a small frown wrinkling her brow. “Is everything okay? You look upset. Is it the baby? Is she okay?” Worry jacked her voice higher, and Sydney quickly shook her head.
“No, no, the baby’s fine, Mom. I promise.” Relief erased the concern from Patricia’s expression, and with a nod, her mother closed the front door. “Me, on the other hand,” Sydney added with a soft but bitter chuckle.
“What’s going on?” Her father appeared in the foyer, still wearing his suit jacket and tie. “Sydney, the baby—”
“Is fine,” she finished. “Dad, you’re home from the clinic early.”
And yes, she was stalling as she questioned if she’d made a mistake in coming here.
“Not really. Ever since Kelly joined the practice, I try to be home by five. But my work schedule isn’t why you’re here. What’s going on, sweetheart?”
That did it. He hadn’t called her by any endearment in years. That he did now, when she stood there, barely hanging on, so fragile she feared if she stopped moving, she might never get up again... Well, she couldn’t handle it.
Tears stung her eyes, then rolled down her cheeks. She didn’t try and hide them.
She was so damn tired of hiding.
“Sydney,” her mother cried out, alarmed. And when her mother’s arms wrapped around her, the tears flowed harder. “Oh sweetie.”
How long she sobbed in her mother’s embrace, she didn’t know. But by the time the crying jag ebbed, and her father wordlessly pressed a handkerchief into her hand, she was seated on the couch and could breathe easier. She didn’t remember her mother leading her into the living room or sitting her down, but as the exhaustion weighed down her limbs, she was thankful for it.
“I left Cole.” She dropped the abrupt statement like a nuclear bomb and silently waited for the explosion. Because she fully expected one. Sighing, she rubbed her forehead, trying to relieve the headache that her crying hadn’t helped. “I know you’re disappointed in me. So, I might as well get it all out there.”
And she confessed everything.
Daniel’s threat to sue for custody. Cole’s proposition and the purpose behind their marriage. Falling in love with her husband. Discovering the house. And finally, her telling him it was over.
A thick silence smothered the room, and shoulders tense, Sydney again waited for her parents to speak, to castigate her for being too impulsive, for being reckless and selfish. But as the seconds ticked by, they remained quiet. Torture. Pure torture. Why didn’t they just get it over with? Forget it. She had to end it.
“Look, I know—”
“Why would we be disappointed in you?” her father asked, gruffly but gently.
Several answers whirled in her head, but nothing emerged.
“I’m hurting for you. I’m also saddened that you didn’t feel you could confide in us about Daniel. And as a father, I’m angry with myself that I wasn’t there for you, that I couldn’t protect you. But do I blame you? No, I don’t. I’m proud of you for making the hard decisions. Then and now.”
Sydney whipped her gaze from her father, to her mother, then back to him. Surely, she hadn’t heard him right. She couldn’t have...
“When did this happen?” she asked, too stunned by their lack of reaction to be tactful. “Just a few weeks ago, we sat in that dining room and you both accused me of being rash and impulsive. Why the turnaround?”
“Sydney.” Her mother lifted her hand, and it hovered several seconds before Patricia settled it over Sydney’s clenched fingers. “We’ve made mistakes. Plenty of them when it’s come to you. Ever since you visited me at the store and we argued, your father and I have been doing a lot of soul-searching. We’ve had to look back with a critical eye turned not toward you, but ourselves. And we’re not proud of what we’ve seen.” She inhaled a shaky breath, briefly closing her eyes. When she reopened them, Sydney almost gasped at the bright sheen of tears in her mother’s gaze.
She hadn’t seen her mother cry in years—not since Carlin’s death and the months afterward. Her heart, which she didn’t believe could break more than it already had after leaving Cole, cracked. No matter the distant relationship they’d been locked in, she couldn’t bear the sight of her mother’s tears.
“Mom,” she breathed, flipping their hands over so she now clasped her mother’s.
“No, this needs to be said,” Patricia said, squaring her shoulders. She glanced at Sydney’s father, who nodded, as if offering his support, his enco
uragement. For what, though? “Your father and I actually planned to come see you this weekend,” her mother continued, her voice slightly trembling. “To apologize. To ask for your forgiveness. Not just for our reaction when you returned home. Which was horrible. Over the years, we’ve been so focused on our concern for you, our hope that you’d find stability and security, find happiness, that we forgot to show you compassion. We forgot to say, I love you and show it to you. Our motivation was love, but the delivery of it has been lacking at the least, abysmal at best. What you said to me that afternoon in the boutique—that we gave Daniel our unconditional support but not our own child—it cut. As the truth always does. You returned home to us for a reason. Because you were looking for a safe place to land, because you needed us. And instead you received criticism and the brunt of our fears. We failed you, and we’re sorry. I’m so sorry, Sydney.”
A maelstrom of emotion—shock, grief, anger and guilt—crashed inside her, battering her. Surging to her feet, she strode away from the couch, from her parents, thrusting her hands through her curls. She couldn’t think. Too much bombarded her. Eighteen years’ worth of pent-up feelings. Confusion. Her parents’ sudden regret and sorrow. The pain that still tore through her from Cole. And that bitch called Hope. She’d betrayed Sydney too many times, and it was hope that tipped the scale.
“I’m sorry,” Sydney whispered. Then louder, a note of hysteria creeping into her voice, “I’m so sorry. You think I don’t know why you’ve resented me all these years? I let your daughter die,” she cried, voice cracking.
She wrapped her arms around her belly, cradling the bump as if she held her baby in her arms. Her daughter wasn’t even born yet, but just the thought of her dying... She shook her head. It’s why she couldn’t hate her parents...couldn’t hate Cole. Now she understood. With her baby sleeping inside her, now she understood.
“Sydney,” her father barked, disbelief coating her name. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She blinked. Luke Collins never cursed.
“Come on, Dad, you can say it,” she said, just...weary. Of the things left unsaid. Of the secrets. Of the denials. “You and Mom blame me for Carlin’s death. I could’ve saved her if I had gone through with the partial kidney donation. It might’ve bought her more time. Might’ve given the doctors a chance to find another way to help her. To keep her alive. But I didn’t. And you’ve never forgiven me for it. Which is okay. Because I’ve never forgiven myself.”
“Sydney.” One moment, she stood there, arms wrapped around herself, and in the next, her father’s arms encircled her. Holding her close, his big, gentle hand cupping the back of her head, pressing her to his chest. She inhaled his familiar crisp, woodsy scent, and cuddled closer. “Sydney,” he said again, voice thick, hoarse. “No, honey. No. We have never, never blamed you.” He leaned back and waited for her to lift her gaze to his. “I need you to understand and accept that. At no time have we ever been mad at you, resented you. You are wholly blameless. It’s cancer that’s responsible. It took Carlin away from us. Not you.”
“And sweetie, Carlin was tired.” Her mother rose from the couch, approaching them. She smoothed a hand over Sydney’s curls, a small, sad smile curving her lips. “She was so tired that when the kidney donation didn’t happen, I think she was relieved. Her body had been through so much by the time she was thirteen, she just wanted to let go. To be at peace. She wasn’t mad at you, Sydney, and neither were we.” Patricia sighed. “But looking back, I can see how you would believe this. Especially with me. I think...”
She paused, swallowed hard, and reached for her husband. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, brushing a kiss across her hair. “When I came out of the worst of the grieving, I distanced myself from you. Carlin’s death left me with a horrible fear of losing another child. When you would disappear for hours or return home late after curfew, I went into a panic, afraid of what could happen to you. So, I unconsciously erected this shield between us. Maybe a part of me believed that if we weren’t close, if I kept you at arm’s length, then I wouldn’t fall apart if something happened. I wanted to hold on to you so hard, Sydney. Not let you out the door. Not let you leave my sight. But in my fear, I pushed you away. And I’m so sorry. I have so much to make up for with you.” She cupped Sydney’s cheek, the hand shaking. “Please let me try and make it up to you.”
“Mom.” Unable to say more past the relief, amazement and joy that constricted her throat, Sydney hugged her mother. Tight. And didn’t want to let go. For the first time since she was a girl, she felt free to hug her mother without any expectation of rejection. She felt loved, accepted. She belonged. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you so much. And I’ve missed you.”
“Me, too, sweetie.” Her mother squeezed her close as if she didn’t want to let go. And that was fine with Sydney. “Welcome home, Sydney.”
A soggy laugh escaped her, and in seconds, laughter from the three of them echoed in the room. It was cathartic, healing. A fresh start. And in spite of the breakdown of her marriage with Cole, peace stole into her, spreading, leaving her warm and just a little less broken.
“I want—” Heart pounding, she nodded, encouraging herself to continue. To take that last step. “Tomorrow, I want to visit Carlin’s grave. I didn’t go with you before because...because I was so angry with her for dying and leaving me. For taking your love for me with her to the grave. But,” she shook her head, “I blamed her for something that she didn’t have any control over. Something that wasn’t true. So the first time I go to see her, I’d like it to be with you.” She inhaled, smiling at her parents. “Let her know we’re all okay and we’re starting over as a family. Will you...will you go with me?”
Her father, one arm still around her mother and the other around Sydney, pulled them both close until they formed a solid, unbreakable unit.
“I think we would both love that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
COLE OPENED THE door to Kinsale Inn, and familiar scents greeted him. Lemon from the furniture polish his mother used. The sugar and chocolate of the cookies his mother baked and set out in the common area for her guests. The aromatic blend of coffee his mother always had on the ready.
They were the scents of home. Of family.
He inhaled, breathing deep—as deep as the smothering weight on his chest allowed.
Clenching his jaw, he strode forward, past the living area, dining room, staircase and the front desk where guests checked in. Too bad he couldn’t outrun himself. Because he’d been trying for the past four days, and it hadn’t happened yet.
“Hey, Moe,” he said, walking into the kitchen.
His mother whirled around the counter where she sliced fresh vegetables with a muffled shriek. “Cole,” she gasped, spreading a hand over her chest. “You can’t just sneak up on me like that. I’m getting too old to risk a heart attack,” she scolded.
He chuckled, hands up in surrender. “Sorry ’bout that. But could you please lower the knife now?”
With a huff, she did as he asked, turning to twist the sink faucets on and wash her hands. “To what do I owe this pleasure? It’s,” she squinted at the rooster clock on the far wall that had been there for as long as he could remember, “two o’clock on a Thursday. I’m happy to see you, but shouldn’t you be at the office or doing something at city hall?”
He shrugged a shoulder and headed toward the wooden island in the middle of the huge kitchen. Platters of chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin cookies along with huge, dark brownies covered nearly half of it. Out of habit, and because they smelled so damn good, he nabbed an oatmeal raisin cookie and bit into it. And didn’t bother containing his groan.
“What do you put into these? Crack?” He stuffed the rest of it into his mouth as she laughed, a touch of pink streaking across her striking cheekbones.
“Now, son, why would I do that when the blood of virgins is much
handier?”
“I’m a lawyer, you know.” He arched a brow. “But you can totally buy my silence and cooperation with more baked goods.” He snatched up another cookie, chocolate chip this time. “And to answer your question.” He sighed, the weariness that had temporarily lifted, dropping back on his shoulders like an anvil. “I’m coming from a meeting with Jasper Landon.”
Her nose wrinkled as if something rancid had just entered the kitchen. “’Nuff said.”
“Yeah.” Cole bit into the cookie, chewing slower. “The motorcycle rally is barely over, but he’s already gearing up to find some way to be the Grinch of the Christmas festival.”
“He’s such an ass,” Moe bit out. Anger tinged her cheeks now, not pleasure. She snatched up a mitt and crossed the kitchen to the large oven. “Most people would just accept losing gracefully, but not him. It’s been months since you won, and it still sticks in his craw that not only did he lose, but that he lost to a younger, Latino man. He should be placing the community he’s supposed to serve ahead of his own personal agenda, but not Jasper. He’d rather exercise all his energy toward making you look bad. Racist jerk.”
Though Cole found it hilarious whenever Moe “got her Irish up” as his father put it, Jasper wasn’t worth her ire.
“Most of the people in Rose Bend are good and honest. But then you have some like Jasper. He’s not the only one who doesn’t believe I’m experienced or white enough for the office of mayor.” He smiled at his mom, though a familiar flicker of anger wavered in his chest. “I’ve just come to accept that not everyone doesn’t see color, like you do.”
Moe slammed the oven door shut and dropped a pan of fresh, hot cookies on top of the stove with a clatter. Cole jumped at the sound, startled as she whipped around to pin a fierce scowl on him.
