by Beth Wiseman
“Oh,” she finally said before she took another sip of tea.
Brooke watched her and waited. That’s it? Oh?
Her mother rubbed her forehead for a few moments before she looked up at Brooke. “I’m guessing you aren’t happy that your father did that.”
“Uh . . . no. I’m not.” Brooke leaned back in the chair. “I don’t care if I ever see him, and I threw his stupid flowers in the garbage.” She could hear how juvenile she sounded, but she didn’t care.
Her mother tapped freshly painted pink nails on the table. “Was there a card?”
“Yes.” Brooked rubbed her arms as she spoke. “It was all a bunch of . . .” She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.
“What did it say?”
Brooke tried to recall the exact wording on the card. “It said . . . um, ‘I miss you, Brooke, and I have always loved you. Hope to see you soon. Love, Daddy.’ She blinked back tears as she shook her head. “Something like that.”
“You need to forgive him, Brooke.” Her mother’s matter-of-fact tone was not the reaction she’d expected.
“No. I don’t.” She thought briefly about all the times Travis had given her the same advice, saying she needed to forgive for her own sake.
“And saying he loves me? I mean, really, Mom. You don’t walk out on the people you love. I don’t care if I never see him again.” She swiped at her eyes.
“Hmm.” Mom laid her hands flat on the table again and stared into space.
“That’s all you have to say?”
A smile tipped at the corner of her mother’s mouth. “No, Brooke, that’s not all I have to say, but I can see that you aren’t ready to hear what I have to say.”
“If you’re going to tell me to reach out to Daddy, save your breath, Mom. I quit caring about him a long time ago.”
“Yes. I can see that by the way you’re crying.” Her mother propped her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”
Brooke lifted her hands in the air. “Mom! I watched you cry about him for years. He left us both. And maybe you still care about him, but I don’t. I don’t want him near me or my children!” She let her hands fall. “A few birthday cards or phone calls here and there does not a father make.”
“Hmm.”
“Quit doing that. I know you have more to say about this.” Brooke raised her eyebrows. “Has he sent you flowers too?”
Mom smiled. “No, dear. He hasn’t.”
“Well, I’m just not going to acknowledge the flowers or the note.” Brooke snorted. “Not that I could anyway. I have no idea where he is.” She leaned forward. “Mom, are you over him? Or are you hurting so much inside that you’re going to cry your eyes out when you leave here? Talk to me. Why do you think Daddy is contacting me after all this time?”
“I don’t know.” Her mother stared long and hard at her. “Sounds to me like he is seeking forgiveness.”
“Well, he can seek all he wants. Seek ’til the cows come home. I really don’t care.”
“This attitude is hurting you more than anyone else.”
Brooke thought about Travis again but just shook her head. “I get it, Mom. But I still don’t want anything to do with him.”
“Well, that’s your choice, I guess.”
They were quiet for a while. Brooke knew that her mother still talked and corresponded with her father occasionally. “Have you forgiven him?”
Her mother’s gaze drifted to the far side of the kitchen. “I forgave your father a long time ago.”
“How? How could you do that after . . . after everything that happened? I remember how it was, especially in the beginning.”
“It was hard.” Her mother sat there silently for a few moments, then reached over and put her hand on Brooke’s again. “But it was the only way to heal my heart. And you need that healing too.”
“Well, I’ll have to find it some other way, because I’m not talking to him. That other person whose genes I share lost the right to be my father a long time ago, and a bunch of stupid flowers and a card isn’t going to change that.” She pulled her hand out from under her mother’s. “Mom, I’m glad you’ve found some sort of peace about all this, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“You’ll have to come to terms with all this on your own.” Her mother stood up, shaking her head. “I’m at a new place in my life, and I choose to let go of that heartache.” She walked toward Brooke and touched her arm. “As you well know, life is short. You were dealt a terrible blow with Travis, but I was so proud of you. Somehow you got through it, and you clung to God, even though I know it was impossible to understand how this could be His plan for your life.” She stared into Brooke’s eyes.
Brooke lowered her head, knowing that wasn’t entirely true. Yes, she’d clung to God, but she’d also questioned Him for a long time. Still did sometimes. She let out a heavy sigh. “I love you, Mom, and I’m glad you’re in a happy place and you’ve forgiven Daddy.” She paused. “But I just can’t do it right now, and I still have a hard time understanding how you can. Mom, he cheated on you and left us for another woman.”
Mom pulled Brooke into a hug, ignoring the mention of the infidelity as she always did. “Okay, dear, I think you’d better call in the children and then get me home. I feel a nap coming on.”
“This should be your home, Mom.” Brooke headed toward the door to call Meghan.
“We’ve been over all this.” Her mother shook her head.
Brooke yelled for Meghan to come in, then smiled at her mom. “I know. And I really am happy if you’re happy.”
Her mother smiled. “I am very happy.”
And for that, Brooke was thankful.
Patsy called Harold as soon as she got home, and he promised to come right over. Fifteen minutes later he was knocking at the door. Patsy rushed into his arms as soon as she saw him. She’d managed to hide her tears from her daughter, but now she just wanted to cry in Harold’s arms.
“Oh, my sweet Patsy,” he said as he held her.
Patsy basked in the comfort of his arms for a few moments before she backed away, pulled him inside, then closed the door behind him. She motioned him to the couch, then sat down beside him. Harold grabbed both her hands, brought them to his mouth, and kissed each finger tenderly. “Everything is going to be all right, my love.”
Patsy felt the weight of the world struggling to lift from her shoulders at the sound of his voice. That was the way it had always been. Harold had the ability to calm her soul.
“I’m sorry this is causing friction between you and Brooke.” Harold pulled her close and kissed her on the forehead.
Patsy snuggled into his chest, listening to his heart and wondering if he could hear hers. She lifted her head. “Do you know how much I love you?”
Harold blinked his eyes several times. “Yes. Almost as much as I love you.”
Patsy stared into his eyes as she reached up and touched his cheek. She forced a smile. “But I don’t think our daughter is ready to accept you back into her life.”
Hunter covered his face with his hands as his grandma swung her arms in his direction, catching the side of his face twice. When she finally ran out of energy and plopped down on the couch, Hunter eased his hands away. “I didn’t do nothin’, Grandma! I swear it. Not this time!”
“Shut your mouth, Hunter.” Grandma grabbed her chest as she leaned against the back of the worn blue-and-white-checked sofa. “I’m tired of your lies. Just plumb tired of ’em, ya hear me?”
Hunter shifted his weight from one foot to the other and waited for her to go on. There was no talking to her when she was like this. She’d never really hurt him during her rants, and it seemed to make her feel better, so Hunter always just let her swing at him a few times.
“So who paid your bail, or did ya pay it yourself with what you done stole?” Grandma reached for her pack of smokes on the TV tray by the couch. She lit one and blew a puff of smoke in H
unter’s direction as she crossed her legs.
“I told you. I didn’t steal nothing.” Hunter waved the smoke from his face as he stared at her. “You ain’t supposed to smoke. Doctor said so.” She looked real old, older than sixty-two. She’d already had two surgeries for some sort of cancer. It wasn’t a cancer most people got. He could never remember the name of it, but Hunter knew she wasn’t supposed to smoke.
“I’ll worry about me, Hunter.” She drew in a long drag, held it, then turned her head this time when she blew the smoke out. Reaching for a pill bottle on the tray, she struggled to open it, so Hunter walked toward her, opened it, and handed it back. Grandma popped two pills and added, “But I sure don’t need to be worrying about you too. Why you got to go pulling a stupid stunt like that?”
Hunter hung his head. He’d been plenty guilty of lots of bad stuff in the past, so it was no wonder Grandma didn’t believe him now. Truth was, he didn’t steal anything this time. But he shouldn’t have run when he heard the sirens. Habit, he supposed.
“So how’d ya get out of jail?” Grandma coughed, and Hunter cringed. It was a deep, raspy cough. Reminded Hunter of when she first got sick.
He sat down in the recliner on the other side of the den, edging around the exposed spring on the left side. “Somebody posted my bail.”
Grandma coughed some more, the smoke lingering in the air all around them. “On a Sunday? Who?”
Hunter shrugged. “I dunno.”
His grandma took another drag and scowled.
“Really, Grandma. I ain’t got no idea.”
She took a deep breath, shook her head, then stubbed out her cigarette. “They feed you in there?”
He’d been eating bologna sandwiches for days. “Yeah.”
Grandma nodded toward the kitchen. “Get on in there and getcha something decent to eat, then. I got a pot of spaghetti and meatballs on the stove.” She slid her legs up onto the couch and lay back, pointing toward the kitchen. “And get you some bread. You’re too skinny, boy.”
Hunter hurried to the kitchen, hungry as a hostage, and loaded himself a plate of Grandma’s spaghetti and meatballs. He was pretty sure there wasn’t a better meal on the planet. Grandma always made sure he had a hot meal and clean clothes, and she never allowed him to curse around her.
As he stuffed a meatball in his mouth, he thought about all the beatings he’d gotten from both his parents. ’Course, he deserved them. He was a bad kid. They’d told him so since he was barely old enough to go to school. He’d quit school when he was sixteen, as soon as it was legal to. Momma had told him he needed a job, so he’d gotten one. Then another. Then another. Things always started off real good at his workplaces, but sooner or later Momma would show up there, all high on crack and making a scene. Next thing Hunter knew, he was being let go for something stupid.
Dad had a job. He was probably the best drug dealer in the tri-county area, and he barely spent any time in jail. Until this last go-round with the judge, when both Momma and Dad got sent away to rehab. Hunter knew he was a bad person for thinking it, but he was glad they were gone. Glad it was just him and Grandma.
“You getting enough to eat in there?” Grandma yelled from the living room.
“Yes, ma’am.” Hunter swallowed as he watched a big black cockroach walk across the table in front of him. Not much point killing the poor fellow. A thousand more were probably hiding all around. He glanced at the sink full of dishes from the past week and thought about cleaning them, but he suspected he better go out and look for a job. Grandma’s money from the government didn’t pay for all her medicines. Or if it did, it didn’t leave money for things like electricity and food. He’d been told that at least a thousand times.
He’d have to leave this area to find work, though. Nobody would hire Hunter Lewis around here. He thought about what Old Man Parsons had said. “It’s that Lewis kid! . . . No telling what that piece of trash has done now.”
Hunter stuffed another meatball in his mouth as he watched the roach trailing across the table toward an opened loaf of bread.
Five
Owen thought about Hunter Lewis as he finished a late breakfast at the Comfort Café. Getting the kid out of jail on a Sunday had been a challenge, but Owen had woken up this morning with the boy on his mind. He couldn’t help remembering his friend Bruce from high school. Something about Hunter reminded Owen of Bruce—always in trouble, but deep down a good person. No one had ever given Bruce a chance, though. He’d gotten into the system and never managed to break free. Two years after Owen graduated, he’d learned that Bruce had been killed in a parking lot scuffle.
He glanced around him at all the dresses and suits. He figured he was probably the only one in the place who hadn’t come straight from church. Worship services weren’t on his agenda these days, and he doubted they ever would be again. Posting bail for a kid he didn’t know anything about, based on a hunch and a memory, would have to be his good deed for the day. His reward? Poached eggs from the Comfort Café, which made some of the best he’d ever tasted. After scooping up the last of the eggs, he paid his bill.
He was crossing Main Street to get to his car when he noticed the enormous painted gingerbread man standing to the left of the Chamber of Commerce office. One of these days he was going to remember to ask one of the locals why it was there. He shook his head, wondering if he should make a closer inspection. Maybe there was some other explanation aside from his speculation that the folks here just forgot to take down all their Christmas decorations. But he was in a hurry to get home. He’d gotten up early and finished painting his entire bedroom this morning before he left—after sanding down the woodwork with his handy sander—and he was hoping the paint was dry enough now to peel the tape away. He’d painted the room Virginia’s favorite color, a dusty purplish color. Maybe he’d snap a picture of it on his cell phone and send it to her. Surely by now she’d heard from mutual acquaintances that he was living in Smithville. Eat your heart out, baby.
A few minutes later Owen was ripping the tape from the trim in the spacious room. At least twice the size of his and Virginia’s old bedroom, it would easily hold a couple of armoires—the closet was minuscule—and a sitting area.
He stood there for a few moments, mounds of used trim tape all over the floor, and just stared at his purple room. It made him want to vomit. Or cry. He wasn’t sure. The entire room just screamed Virginia. And he hated armoires. He kicked the tape around the floor, then couldn’t seem to shed a large mass stuck to the tip of his boot. Ripping it from his shoe, he threw it across the room and slammed the bedroom door behind him. For the first time since he’d moved to Smithville, he wondered if this entire spiteful venture had been a huge mistake. Was he going to think of Virginia constantly while he meandered around this big old house every day?
His stomach had soured with regard to business too. He had Gary to thank for that. Together, they’d built a successful public relations firm. But for the past two years, apparently, Gary’s preferred relations had been with Owen’s wife. Owen had sold out to his former friend and had no plans to go back into that line of work.
A loud thump turned his attention to the porch, and he was pretty sure he knew what it was. He walked outside and, sure enough, one end of his new swing was on the porch. He’d missed that stud after all.
Fearful he was about to blow, he slowly walked into the house, grabbed his keys, and headed to his car. Four clicks of the key later, it was clear that the black BMW wasn’t going to turn over. The car was only a year old, and he’d never had a problem with it. Why today?
He climbed out of the car, slammed the door, and kicked his foot back. This is what I have insurance for. He was just about to ram his foot into the side of his car when Brooke Holloway walked up. Just what he needed right now—the crazy mom.
“Hi, Brooke.” He forced a smile.
She folded her arms across a white T-shirt. Same ponytail as before, minus the baseball cap, and her jeans had holes in t
he knees. Her pink flip-flops matched her toenails. No one could make that look work the way she did. But even though she briefly took his breath away, Owen quickly reminded himself about the conversation with her son. Was she really, um, mentally disturbed?
Brooke raised her chin, grinning. “I’m not for sure, but I think I stopped you from kicking your car.”
Owen swallowed hard. “Uh, yeah. I was considering it.” He felt his face turning red. Who’s the crazy one now? Regrouping, he edged closer to her. “Are you lost again?”
Her smile faded. “What?” She put a hand on one hip. “Why do you always think I’m lost?”
He pictured large, oozing red bumps all over her back and cringed for a moment, then forced a smile. “I just . . .” He shrugged, not wanting to get her kid in trouble for either telling on her or spinning such a tale. “I don’t know.”
“Did you check the battery cables?” Brooke shifted her weight, her other hand landing on the opposite hip.
Owen didn’t know a thing about cars. He was missing the male mechanic gene. “No, but I will.”
She raised an eyebrow as one side of her mouth curled into a smile. “You do know how, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah.” He rolled his eyes, wishing she would leave. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I just walked my daughter to a friend’s house, and I’m on my way home. I heard you trying to start your car, then looked up just in time to save Mr. BMW from a good kick in the door.” She laughed—more like a cute little giggle—and Owen couldn’t help but smile.
“Well, thanks. You probably just saved me a five-hundred-dollar deductible and a lot of grief.”
She tapped a finger to her chin. “Listen, I have to ask you something . . .”
Oh no. “What’s that?”
“Have you found the bunker?” She bit her bottom lip and bounced on her toes, and for a moment, she looked about twelve years old.
