by A. J. Pine
Maman wasn’t much in the mood for board games after coffee. The winces she’d tried to hide for Violet’s sake were no use. Violet saw them anyway.
So, when the coffee was gone and Walker and Violet had cleaned the dishes, she headed for the door to accompany him to his truck.
“Attendez,” Maman said. “Sorry. Wait, please,” she added, translating her French to English for Walker’s sake. Both he and Violet turned back toward the dining room.
Her father had snuck out earlier to help close the restaurant, so it was just the three of them.
Maman strode toward Walker, leaning more heavily on her cane than she had all weekend, and Violet knew she was in more pain than she was letting on. Was it her hip? Her foot? Both? Violet would ask after Walker left, but Maman would downplay as always.
When she was right before him, Maman set the cane against the wall and took Walker’s bearded face into her palms. On instinct, he dipped his head so she wouldn’t have to reach, and she kissed him softly on each cheek.
“Thank you,” she said in her lilting accent.
Walker’s brows drew together. “You’re welcome. But I don’t understand.”
She patted him on the cheek and smiled. “I have not seen Vee smile like she does when you’re around in months. Maybe it is years.”
Violet’s heart sank at her mother’s words. It wasn’t that she was wrong. It was that she had noticed, which meant Violet had done a shit job at hiding her worry, her stress. She’d made it a point to always paint on a smile when she was home, but she was different when Walker was here. She knew it, and Maman knew it, which meant those lines between fantasy and reality were blurring even more.
Walker nodded once. “My pleasure, ma’am.”
She waved him off.
“You better start calling me Camille,” she teased. “You make me feel très âgé.”
Walker’s expression grew puzzled again, and Violet laughed.
“Old,” she translated for him. “You make her feel old.”
“Go,” her mother said, now shooing them out the door. “I know you like your private good-byes.” She gave them both a knowing grin, and Violet hoped like hell that grin only meant that she knew about the lingering kisses against his truck and not what they’d done that first night they had met.
She smiled nervously, then threaded her fingers through Walker’s and tugged him out the door and down the steps.
“Your mom doesn’t…” he trailed off when they reached solid ground, and Violet knew he was thinking exactly what she was.
“Oh God, I hope not,” she admitted. “But I feel like a teenager who got caught with her door closed while she had a boy in the room.”
He raised a brow. “Were you a teenager who got caught with her door closed while she had a boy in the room?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she teased.
He shook his head. “It’s bad enough I’ve seen that Ramon asshole. I don’t want to know about anyone else who’s had the privilege of touching you. I’d rather fool myself into thinking I’m the only one worthy of such an honor.”
Violet snorted. “Honor. Very funny.” Yet even though they were teasing each other, his words made her heart squeeze. Was he truly envious of the men she’d been with before him—or those who’d surely come after their little game ended?
Wordlessly, Walker lowered the tailgate, and they both sat in the bed of the pickup, their legs dangling over the bumper. Well, Violet’s legs dangled. Walker’s long legs ended with his feet planted firmly on the ground.
She traced lazy circles on his denim-covered thigh.
“You know,” she said, “I’m beginning to think this might be getting too real.” She cleared her throat. “For them, I mean.”
She was sure he saw right through her. The truth was, no matter what label they put on it, what they’d been doing these past weeks had been more real than anything she’d had with any other men in her life.
“What about for you?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I’m not seeing anyone else. Not that I’d have time to. But I also don’t want to see anyone else, Walker. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. I wasn’t supposed to miss you when I left for Paris, and now I’m not sure how we say good-bye. All of those things are pretty damned real, don’t you think?”
He was silent for several long moments before he spoke. “You want me to stop coming by?” he asked, his hand on the bare skin of her knee right under the hem of her skirt. Her breath caught in her throat, which seemed to give him encouragement to slide his hand higher.
She placed a palm over his, stopping him before she lost the ability to form words.
“I don’t want to stop anything that we’re doing,” she said.
“You just stopped me from sliding my hand into your panties.”
She smacked him playfully across the shoulder, and he laughed. God, she loved the sound of that laugh. It had been so hard to come by in the early days of knowing him. Now it seemed like he gave it to her freely, like she was the only one who got to witness it, and she sometimes wondered if that was true.
Her smile faltered when she focused on his initial response. He hadn’t addressed the realness of their situation—whether he agreed or not. He’d only offered to stop making the drive to Santa Barbara, which—she realized now—was not exactly the reaction she’d hoped for.
“You know what I mean,” she insisted. “Even if we blame our fake breakup on the very real distance between California and France, I’m worried about how disappointed they’ll be when this is over…Maman especially.”
But was she really talking about Maman anymore? Everything was set up in Paris, thanks to her aunt. But Violet was waiting until the last possible minute to tell her mother. She was no longer afraid of having done this behind her mother’s back. What scared her the most was learning why Maman hadn’t been back home for decades. Was it worth Violet missing out on half her family—half her heritage?
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Sure.”
“I already told you I haven’t been with anyone else. These past weeks that we’ve been just friends, have you been intimate with anyone else besides me?”
He chuckled. “Only myself whenever I think about you with that towel at your feet in the B and B after your accident.”
She laughed. “And do you think you’ll be intimate with anyone else before I leave?”
His smile faded. “No, Teach. I don’t think I will.”
It wasn’t an admission of realness, but it was enough.
She lowered herself onto her back. It was dark, but a layer of clouds obscured the stars so that all she saw was a dim haze above.
Walker lay down beside her.
“Am I a terrible person for contacting my aunt behind Maman’s back? For wanting to go to Paris for me as much as for her?”
“Hell no,” he told her. He brushed a thumb under her eye, and she was surprised at the wetness against her skin. “I know a hell of a lot about guilt, Teach. If you let it eat at your insides and keep you from living your own life, it’ll kill you if you’re not careful.”
And there it was, Walker Everett’s own story slowly leaking from him as he let her past another small barrier. She didn’t understand the guilt he carried or why he did, but she knew it was there, and somehow this brought them closer despite the reality of their days being numbered.
He didn’t kiss her, didn’t attempt to slide his hand underneath her skirt again. Instead they both lay there searching for stars they couldn’t see and words they couldn’t say until finally Walker had to make the drive back home to Oak Bluff.
Her parents were still in the kitchen straightening up when she made her way back inside. If she couldn’t tell Walker how she really felt, it was about time she told them.
“Can I talk to you two for a minute?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“What is wrong?” Maman asked. “Did something happen with Walker?�
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She shook her head. Maybe she was scared of how much she cared about him, but she wasn’t scared of wanting something for herself anymore. Being with him—in whatever way they defined it—had given her a confidence she hadn’t had before.
“I spoke with Ines. Your sister.”
Her mother gripped the counter as her knees buckled, and Papa grabbed her elbow.
Violet gasped as her father led her mother to a dining room chair.
“Why would you—” he started. “Did she contact you?”
Violet shook her head. “There’s a doctor in Paris who will do what Maman’s doctor won’t. She is still a citizen, which means there are options for health care over there, and Ines can help set up the treatment.”
“You had no right!” her father shouted, and Violet shrank back. He’d never, in all her years, yelled at her like that, and Violet had the urge to run. But she stood firm, feet planted. There was no running from this anymore.
“I have every right,” she said. “Maman is in pain, but she could get better. And I—I left school, Papa. You didn’t ask me to give up my future, but I did. I put it on hold because I love you. I love Maman. And I would do anything for you both. But I need this, too. I need my family. I need to know where I come from other than Santa Barbara and Papa’s heritage. You two know who you are, but I’ve missed out on half of my identity because of whatever happened in Paris before I was born!”
Her father stared at her, mouth agape, his eyes glassy with tears.
Maman reached out from where she sat and squeezed his hand. “She is right, Gabriel,” she finally said. “We have been selfish. It is time she knows.” Violet’s mother finally met her eyes. “Sit, cherie. If you will forgive me, then I will go with you to Paris. I am the one who took half your life away. It is my responsibility to give it back.”
So Violet sat at the other end of the table and listened to the part of her parents’ love story she’d never heard—the one where Aunt Ines met and fell for her father first—and how he left her for Camille.
Maybe what she and Walker had wasn’t so complicated after all. Maybe real wasn’t easy like she’d always thought it had been for her parents. And maybe, just maybe, she was sick and tired of pretending.
Chapter Fifteen
Some days when Walker woke up, he forgot he was an addict. Other days it felt like his two months in rehab were yesterday. He could still feel the shakes. He remembered barely being able to make it to a toilet or a garbage can as his body convulsed and he heaved up whatever was left in his stomach, which was often nothing more than bile. He’d begged for just one drink, had even thrown a punch at his group leader for refusing him—a swing and a miss that got him sedated and strapped to a gurney while he was rehydrated with an IV.
It was his lowest point, at least the lowest he could remember. That was the reason he kept the picture on his phone of his messed-up face, pre–broken nose setting. Sometimes he needed to remind himself of what he’d forgotten. Even though he missed it, he hadn’t poured a shot once this week. Despite their strained parting last Sunday night, he guessed Violet Chastain’s presence in his life had a thing or two to do with that.
A fist pounded on the door, jolting him from his thoughts.
“What in the hell?” he mumbled, then strode toward the door. He threw it open, indignant at whoever had the balls to interrupt his morning, to find Sheriff Cash Hawkins in full uniform, aviators resting on the bridge of his nose.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Sheriff?” he asked, not masking the bitterness in his tone.
Cash held out a legal-size manila envelope. “Messenger from the county courthouse dropped these off and I thought I’d bring them by. Your repayment terms for Nora’s window.”
Walker snatched the envelope out of the sheriff’s hands and narrowed his eyes at the address on the front—his address.
“Don’t see why home delivery is necessary when this is all stamped and ready to go. Seems a waste of good postage,” Walker said.
Cash lowered his sunglasses and nodded at something over Walker’s shoulder.
“You want to tell me what the hell that is?” he asked.
Walker turned, following the sheriff’s gaze to the kitchen cabinet he’d apparently left open the night before. The one that held a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass.
“Damn it,” he said under his breath. “It’s not what it looks like, Sheriff.” He turned to face Cash again. He thought about explaining that the bottle was his test. That he needed to have the temptation nearby to prove he could resist it. But it seemed like all he’d been doing since he got back was explaining. He wasn’t drinking, and for the first time he realized he didn’t have to prove that to anyone but himself. He and Oak Bluff might not be the right fit, but for the time being, this apartment was his home—even if he was renting it from the sheriff’s mother. “Thanks for the delivery.” He started closing the door, but Cash stuck his boot over the threshold before Walker could shut it all the way.
“You got a search warrant or something?” Walker asked coolly. “Because otherwise you’re trespassing on private property.” Cash opened his mouth to say something, but Walker cut him off. “My name’s on the rental agreement, Sheriff. And Lucinda owns the place, not you. So unless you have some sort of legal cause to be stepping into my place uninvited, I think you’d better move your boot.”
Cash’s jaw tightened. “I’m not here as the sheriff, Everett. I’m here as a friend.”
Walker let out a bitter laugh. “You arrested me, let me sleep in a cell, and now you’re showin’ up on my doorstep with the terms concerning the court’s charges against me, questioning me about personal property. I’d say you’ve earned your title fair and square.”
Cash removed his boot, his expression impassive, but he said nothing more. So Walker shut the door, then threw his fist at the wood frame. Not a swing and a miss, evidenced by a split knuckle.
He shook out his hand, then wrapped it with a kitchen towel before finally closing the damned cabinet.
Walker wasn’t in one of those programs that gave you a sponsor, someone to do daily or weekly check-ins, to look over his shoulder and keep him from taking the drink he wanted every damned night. It didn’t matter, though. Jenna showed up in his kitchen at the crack of dawn. Luke and Jack railroaded him into a family dinner he knew was all about making sure he hadn’t yet messed up, and now there was Sheriff Hawkins. They were all waiting for him to fail, everyone except the one person who didn’t know the truth.
Violet.
Walker pulled his phone from the back pocket of his jeans, opened the photo app, and stared long and hard at the picture from New Year’s Eve—his face bloodied and his nose swollen, his eyes glazed over. He didn’t recognize the man in the photo any more than he recognized the one in the mirror he saw each morning. All he knew was that he didn’t trust himself any more than his brothers, his aunt, or the sheriff did. But he was the only one who could make this stick. He was the only one who could test himself night after night, alone with nothing but a bottle he wasn’t ready to empty.
He unwrapped his hand and tossed the towel onto the counter, giving the image on his phone a final glance before closing the app and shoving the device back in his pocket.
He headed over to the ranch and went to the equipment shed to load the roller-crimper into his truck. He’d told his brothers he’d till the cover crop at the vineyard, but the large piece of equipment wasn’t there. He scrolled through the recent texts on his phone and found the one he’d sent both his brothers last night.
Looks like rain tomorrow. Gonna grab the crimper and till the cover crop tomorrow before it hits.
Both had responded with the thumbs-up emoji, and it wasn’t like his brothers to forget someone else offering to do some early morning work.
Something didn’t add up.
He decided to walk to the vineyard, ready to give his brothers hell for stealing from him a morning of good, old-fashioned m
anual labor that would help him clear his head.
It was more than the sheriff interrupting his morning. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Violet since he left her in Santa Barbara Sunday night. After admitting he wasn’t sleeping with anyone else—and didn’t plan to—he wasn’t sure how to behave if he saw her, and he sure as hell wasn’t sure what to say to make everything easy and fun like it had been for weeks. So he’d done the grown-up thing and avoided her, figuring if he didn’t give himself the chance to say anything to her, he couldn’t say the wrong thing to her. For all he knew, she was keeping her distance as well.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said when he finally got to the vineyard and saw not one but two other vehicles already parked on the side of the road—the roller-crimper in the bed of Jack’s truck but no one doing a lick of tilling the crop. This morning kept getting better and better. He admitted to himself he had a lot of years of fucking up to answer for. He just hadn’t counted on answering to everyone on the same damned day.
He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. This wasn’t a case of his brothers forgetting he signed on for the job. It was an all-out ambush, and he was going to meet it head on.
He didn’t have to go far. Jack and Luke were both leaning on the hood of Luke’s truck drinking coffee, like they weren’t even trying to hide what this was all about.
“Glad you still left me the work to do,” he said to them both. “This gonna take long? Because I need to get up and down the rows before the rain hits.” He tilted his head toward the cloud-covered sky that was quickly morphing from white to dark gray.
His brothers stopped talking to each other and turned their attention to him, not that he could read anything in their expressions, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses they didn’t really need. But he could see Luke’s brows raise as he took a long, slow sip from his coffee cup, obviously deferring to Jack.
“We need to talk,” Jack said.
“I have a phone,” Walker countered.
“Yeah, but you’re shit at returning calls.”
He couldn’t argue there.
