Generous Lies

by Robin Patchen

  "You don't believe in prayer?"

  "I don't know. I never really tried it. You do?"

  "Of course." This conversation wasn't going the way Sam had imagined it in her head. "You know I'm a Christian, right?"

  "Yeah, I know. Prayer just feels... I don't know. Weird."

  Sam considered and rejected a lot of responses to that. She settled for, "Not to me. What are you up to?"

  "Aiden's resting, or maybe sulking, in his bedroom, and I'm trying to research rehab facilities. Do you know how many there are? And they're all different. It's maddening. I just want some grown-up to tell me what to do."

  "Some people might consider you a grown-up."

  "Only people who don't know me."

  She laughed, and her tension drained. "I might be able to help you with that. In fact, I hope you don't mind, but I get a little compulsive about things like this and did some research yesterday. I made some calls, looked up reviews, stuff like that. I have a list for you and a phone number, a guy who has some experience. It's a place to start."

  She waited, but Garrison didn't say a word. Great. He was insulted.

  "I'm sorry." She couldn't keep the sadness from her voice. She'd thought...well, what did it matter what she'd thought? "I should have checked with you—"

  "No, it's fine. You just caught me off guard." He seemed surprised, maybe pleased. "It's good to have a place to start. Thank you."

  Phew. "You're welcome. As it happens, I'm at the lake. I thought I'd stop in." Fear filled her as if she were taking on some dragon instead of talking to a man. Well, a dragon she might be able to handle. Just research how to kill a dragon. But men? Google would be no help, and she was utterly out of her element. "I even brought lunch, if you guys are interested."

  "Samantha, you have officially moved to the top of my favorite hot chicks in New Hampshire list."

  "It's good to know there's a list."

  "Oh, a long one. A long, long list, and you're on top."

  "Gee, what an honor."

  His chuckle was smooth and sweet, like warm syrup over pancakes.

  She'd blame her growling stomach for that thought.

  "When will you be here?" Garrison asked.

  Her cheeks warmed. At least he couldn't see her. "I'm about two houses down. I didn't want to stop in without calling."

  "Come on over."

  She hung up and parked in the driveway thirty seconds later. With a sack in one hand and her bag in the other, she climbed the porch steps. The door opened before she could knock, and Garrison stood in the opening.

  Holy smoke, he was handsome. He seemed slightly less exhausted today. He was a foot taller than her five-four frame and had the broad chest and jawline of some kind of German superhero. His eyes, though. Blue as an autumn sky and just as clear. Garrison's smile had her residual anxiety melting away. "Hey."

  "Hey yourself." She slipped in the door, dropped her bag on the sofa, and took the food to the small table in the eat-in kitchen.

  Garrison grabbed some plates. "Smells delicious. What'd you bring?"

  "I got a couple of Reubens and fries. I remember you ordered that at McNeal's the first time you were there."

  "You remember that? I'm impressed."

  Here came her flaming cheeks again. She focused on pulling food out of the sack. "I also brought a cheeseburger, which I hoped Aiden would like. I remember you saying you guys grill out a lot."

  She set the sandwiches and her salad on the small table.

  "That for you?"

  "Yeah. But I might steal a french fry."

  He looked at the mountain of fries on the table. "I think we have enough. Not sure about Aiden, though." Garrison's gaze traveled to the doorway that led to the living room and the hallway where the bedrooms were.

  "Is he okay?"

  Garrison shrugged. "Can I get you something to drink?"

  "Water's fine," she said.

  He filled two glasses and sat at the table beside her. His forehead creased. "He hasn't eaten since Friday. Not a bite. He looks really sick. I made him take a shower, thought that would help. After he got out, he went back to bed."

  "You're worried."

  "Just... I don't know much about oxycodone withdrawal."

  "Hmm." Her gaze took in the empty counters. "Did I leave my bag in the living room?"

  Garrison walked out, returned with her bag, and handed it to her.

  She pulled out her Mac. "Go ahead and eat."

  "What are you doing?"

  "Looking up oxycodone withdrawal symptoms to see if you have anything to worry about." She found a website, perused it quickly. "Looks like it's very rare for oxy withdrawal to be dangerous. Nausea, sweating, chills, anxiety... Those are the more common symptoms. That's probably—" Sam cut herself off. As if she knew anything about what Aiden was going through. She closed the laptop and set it on the kitchen counter. "But if you think it's something more serious—"

  "No, no. I bet that's it. I'm just not thinking. I should have looked that up myself."

  She reached across the table and laid her hand on Garrison's. "You haven't slept since Thursday night, right? And you're in a situation you never thought you'd face."

  He flipped his hand and laced his fingers with hers. "I'm so glad you're here. I can't imagine doing this by myself."

  Her hand felt so right in his. For a moment, she allowed herself to believe there could be more between them than friendship. The thought had her heart racing.

  The sound of a clearing throat had them both jumping.

  "I, like, smelled the food and..." Aiden stood in the doorway, shook his head, and gave his father the meanest look she'd ever seen.

  Garrison stood. "Come on in. Sam brought you a burger."

  "Forget it."

  "Come in." Garrison's tone left no room for arguing. "You're being rude."

  He jutted his chin toward them. "Looks like you're being friendly enough for both of us."

  Garrison started to respond, but Sam beat him to it. "Aiden, please join us." Sam forced a bright smile. "I didn't know what you'd like on your burger, so I just had them put the cheese on it. Everything else is on the side. McNeals makes the best fries you'll ever eat."

  "Want a glass of water?" Garrison asked.

  "I'd rather have a Pepsi."

  "There's no soda," Garrison said, "but there's still some of that lemonade Sam brought us yesterday."

  He looked at his dad, looked at the food, and shrugged. "Whatever."

  He sat beside Sam but didn't make eye contact.

  Well, great. Fantastic start. Nothing like alienating the son right out of the gate.

  This was a race she definitely wasn't prepared for.

  Garrison poured him a glass of lemonade and took his seat again. As they ate in silence, Sam chanced a couple of glances at Aiden. He looked a little better today. His shoulder-length brown hair had been washed and combed, and his skin seemed to have more color than it had the day before. His brown eyes weren't as glassy as they'd been. Where the day before he'd been slouching, almost as if he'd felt ill—which he probably had—right now, his back was javelin-straight. He wasn't as tall as his father yet, but he was easily six feet and likely still growing.

  "Sam," Garrison said, "Aiden and I were thinking of trying out water skiing. Is there a place on the lake where we can rent a boat?"

  "There's a marina on the other side, but you can use my boat."

  Garrison paused, sandwich halfway to his mouth. "You have a boat? You never told me that."

  "I haven't taken it out much this summer. I've been so busy." And who was she supposed to go with? Most of her friends were couples with kids. The few single friends she had at church were so focused on their careers they hardly had time to socialize. "I took Nate, Marisa, and Ana out once, and they use it a lot. Just let me know. The thing is, if you want to ski, you need a third person as a spotter."

  "Right," Garrison said. "Good point. Do you have time to join us this week?"
<
br />   Sam glanced at Aiden, caught the scowl. "Maybe you could ask Nate. His schedule is pretty flexible."

  Garrison's gaze flicked to his son. "Okay, I'll give him a call. Thanks."

  "Let me know when, and I'll bring over the equipment. I keep most of it in my storage unit."

  The three ate quietly, the silence oppressive. Sam should have dropped off the food and left. Obviously Aiden didn't want her here, and she could have told Garrison about the rehab places she'd found over the phone. But she was here now, and it would be rude to leave in the middle of lunch. Not that Aiden would complain, but it would make Garrison feel bad, and that was the last thing she wanted to do.

  "So, Aiden," she said, "you like water skiing?"

  He didn't look up from his burger. "Never done it."

  "Have you tubed?"

  "Never been on a speedboat."

  She glanced at Garrison, who shrugged. "We didn't get away much in the summers. Aiden had baseball, and I had work. And his mother..."

  Whatever he'd been about to say died. She didn't look to see Aiden's reaction, but she could picture it.

  "His mother," Garrison continued, "is what we call 'indoorsy.' Her idea of recreation is the mall." He smiled at Aiden. "Right, kiddo?"

  "Whatever."

  Garrison blew out a breath.

  Aiden pushed back from the table.

  "You barely ate," Garrison said.

  "I'm not hungry." He was halfway to the door when he paused and turned. For a moment it looked like he was going to say something rude.

  Samantha braced herself.

  Then his expression softened the tiniest bit when he faced her. "Thank you for lunch. The fries were really good."

  She smiled. "My pleasure."

  Aiden headed toward the bedroom, and Sam met Garrison's gaze and smiled. "So, I can't tell. Does he hate me?"

  Garrison's smile was slight. "I think he hates me, but that has nothing to do with you."

  "I'm sure it's not that bad."

  "It is. And if he knew you were helping me find rehab facilities, he'd hate you, too."

  "Ah. I take it he's not excited about the prospect?"

  "That's one way to put it. He's hardly spoken to me since I mentioned it."

  After they finished their meals, Sam grabbed her laptop and positioned it so Garrison could see. She opened the spreadsheet she'd created. "The thing is," she said, "there are so many choices. I talked to a guy who runs some sober living houses around here, and he had some ideas he thought you might consider."

  "How do you know him?"

  "One of the couples at my church has a son who's an addict. I called the mother yesterday, and she put me in touch with this guy. I have his number for you so you can talk to him yourself. I told him where you guys live and asked him about rehabs near there. He had a few suggestions, but he also thought you might consider getting Aiden into a place further from home. He said he's seen situations where kids do better when they know they don't have any options. They can't just call a buddy to come pick them up when things get rough."

  "Hmm. I hadn't thought about that."

  "Of course, that means you're not as close to him, either. It limits the time you can spend with him."

  "But I can work from anywhere. I have an office, but I hardly ever go in. As long as I could find an apartment nearby, I could be there."

  "What about his mother, though?"

  Garrison's smirk told her what he thought of the question. "If he's far from home"—he lowered his voice and glanced at the door—"she'll have the perfect excuse not to visit. If he were nearby, she still wouldn't visit, and that would break his heart. He'd find a way to blame me."

  Samantha couldn't imagine having such a mother. Her own lived to be a homemaker. When Sam walked into her childhood home, her mouth watered just from the memories of all her delicious meals. And most of the time something was bubbling on the stove.

  She wanted to reach out, to take Garrison's hand again. She glanced at the empty doorway, remembered Aiden's expression, and kept her hands on her laptop. "So you'd be open to looking at places outside of New York?"

  "Sure. Or upstate would be fine. Or..." He paused, almost smiled. "Near here."

  Near here. Near her. She swallowed the smile and nodded. "That family I told you about—their son was in an inpatient facility in Dover. That's not far from here. Now he lives in a sober living house, and I think he's doing pretty well."

  Garrison sat back and shook his head. "I can't tell you what it means to me that you've done so much work."

  "I'm good at research."

  "Looks to me like you're good at a lot of things." He scanned the room, then returned his gaze to her. "Real estate mogul—"

  "I'm hardly a mogul."

  "How many places do you own?"

  She shrugged. "Enough to let me quit my day job, so that was nice."

  "And you're enjoying a little more freedom?"

  "Yeah." She was, wasn't she? She kept busy with the houses and the renters, and of course with her friends. But she missed the camaraderie she'd had with her coworkers in the Nutfield town offices and with the cops in the department that shared the building. She spent a lot of time alone these days, and conversations with her contractor didn't exactly fill her companionship void.

  Garrison's frown told her he must've seen something on her face—the man was too observant.

  "It's different than I thought it would be," she said.

  "I get that." He glanced at the doorway where Aiden disappeared. "When I retired, I thought Aiden and I would spend so much time together." He shrugged as though it didn't matter. "I had all these plans, things he and I could do. But...it was too late. I'd blown whatever chance we had to be close because I'd worked so much when he was younger. And his mother and I fought all the time. I started to avoid being at home. Which was stupid and totally my fault, and it only hurt Aiden. And it seems..." He shook his head, forced a smile. "Anyway, it's lonely working by yourself all the time."

  Of course he'd understand. "Lonely," she agreed. "And quiet."

  Their gazes met, and those sparks she'd noticed the first time she met him started flying. Neither spoke. Neither had to.

  No. She hadn't imagined it. He felt it, too. The question was, what could either of them do about it?

  And the answer was—absolutely nothing.

  Chapter 9

  Aiden was going to puke. And it wasn't just the thought of rehab.

  He'd been sick ever since he'd woken up in the hospital the day before, but he'd been smart enough not to eat.

  He should have skipped the stupid cheeseburger. His stomach had been growling, and he'd smelled the food. Like an idiot, he'd gone to investigate, then gotten sucked into lunch with Dad and her.

  Sam.

  Stupid name for a girl. And so what if the food had been good? She'd probably poisoned it.

  He hated her. Dad had dragged him up here because he wanted to see his girlfriend. This spontaneous trip had nothing to do with Aiden. It was all about Sam. Dad didn't care about Aiden at all.

  Ugh, he was being ridiculous. He slammed his hand into his pillow, which only made his hand hurt. And his head.

  Because the shakes and nausea weren't bad enough.

  He shivered, wiped sweat off his forehead.

  This totally sucked.

  If he ever felt normal again, he swore, he swore on...on some dead person's grave...that he'd never take another drug in his life.

  Crap. He needed one. Just one, to take the edge off.

  He swallowed the nausea down, stared at the ceiling, waited for it to pass.

  Images of rehab filled his mind. What would it be like? Prison, probably. With guards and locks and crap. No way.

  He pushed those thoughts away, and thought about the party. No, that was no good. He hated to think what he'd looked like, what he'd said and done, that had landed him in the ER. Had he totally embarrassed himself? He was probably lucky he hadn't crapped himself or t
aken off all his clothes or something.

  The last thing he remembered was laughing like a hyena. Everyone had been laughing, right? Or maybe not. Maybe they'd been laughing at him.

  Idiot, idiot, idiot.

  If only he could make some calls, find out what had happened. Except Dad had taken his phone. Aiden would probably be lucky if he ever got it back.

  He had to do something. Anything to take his mind off this, all of it. He couldn't sit in this room by himself anymore.

  He sat up. And waited.

  Okay, his stomach was better. Not perfect, but not about to hurl lunch all over the bed, either. He stood, didn't move, just in case. His legs ached. Everything ached. He had to work to stand up straight. To look normal.

  He opened the door and peeked into the hallway, listening.

  He'd heard a car leave a little while ago. Maybe an hour. Maybe ten minutes. He had no idea. Did that mean Sam was gone?

  He crept out to the living room. Empty.

  In the kitchen, he saw Dad through the back door. He was on the phone on the porch. His forehead was propped on his hand, his fingers messing up his stupid crew cut. His shoulders were hunched.

  That wasn't how Dad was supposed to look. Where was the confidence? Where was his I-know-more-than-you-so-get-in-line attitude?

  Aiden had always wanted to smack that attitude away. Looked like he'd finally done it.

  Funny how that didn't make him feel better.

  He was on his way back to the bedroom when he heard a car door slam.

  He obviously wasn't thinking straight, because he opened the front door. And who else could it be but Sam? Back again.

  She was leaning in the backseat of her SUV. She turned, spotted him.

  Crap. Now he'd have to be nice.

  He stepped outside. "Need some help?"

  Her jaw dropped as if it had never occurred to her he could be polite. She managed to force out, "If you wouldn't mind.”

  He joined her at the car. She grabbed two grocery bags and backed up to let him get the rest. He leaned in, saw what she'd bought. "Pepsi. Thanks." Fine. So she wasn't a total witch. Unless she'd just bought it to get on his good side. Not a friggin' chance.

  He pulled out the two twelve-packs and the remaining bag.