Come Home to Me

by Liz Talley

  “Yeah. I’m renting the place from Pete and helping him out around here.” She dropped her hand from the doorknob and flipped on the kitchen light. Harsh fluorescent light flooded the room, making them both blink.

  “Guess that explains the pink hairbrush and tampons. I thought one of the cousins left them over the summer. Grampy didn’t tell me someone was living here.”

  “He wouldn’t. Stubborn man likes everyone to think he needs no one.” She wished she hadn’t noticed how splendid Rhett Bryan looked with a fluffy rubber-ducky towel looped about his trim hips. He was brown as a berry, a virtual postcard for California beach life. His wet hair was plastered to his forehead, somehow making his boyish features more masculine, almost craggy.

  Rhett grunted. “Sounds about right. Sorry I scared you. I’m Pete’s—”

  “I know who you are,” she interrupted. Then it dawned on her. Rhett hadn’t recognized her. Of course, the last time he’d seen her, she’d been in pajama bottoms and had puffy eyes from crying. The past fifteen years stretched like a galaxy between them. “You don’t recognize me.”

  “You’re not one of my cousins, are you?”

  “No. I’m Summer. Summer Valentine.”

  “Summer? From Mangham High?” His baby blues widened as he took her in. At that moment she was very, very grateful she did daily yoga and watched what she ate. She’d gone from a pudgy size twelve in high school to a svelte size six. Her highlighted hair framed her square jawline. She still wasn’t much for makeup, but she had developed a natural, Bohemian style that suited her personality . . . not that Rhett could tell from her simple, navy, one-piece swimsuit.

  His eyes moved over her body, rising to her face. “You look . . . uh, great. Not that you didn’t before or anything. You’ve always been a pretty girl, but . . . wow.”

  Summer stifled the blush that threatened to rise. She wasn’t that stupid girl who’d found excuses to watch boys like Rhett anymore. Life had changed her, made her tough, made her into a woman who didn’t blush or stammer. Hell, she’d been hit on while singing at bars by more charming, better-looking guys than Rhett Bryan.

  Rhett smiled. “It’s good to see you, Sum.”

  Okay. Not as hot as Rhett. Damn, but there was power in that man’s smile. “What are you doing here?”

  Rhett hadn’t been back to visit his grandfather in over four years, instead electing to fly the older man out to California last December. Pete had vowed he’d never fly out there again, even if it had been on a private jet. Said California and all the fruit-eating nuts weren’t his cup of tea when it came to celebrating the holidays. Summer had gotten a big kick out of his stories of movie stars and Rhett’s weird house, though she noted Pete liked all the soft cashmere cardigans and fancy monogrammed robe he’d received as gifts.

  “I wish I knew,” Rhett said, giving her another smile but unable to hide the shadows lurking in his eyes. She knew the past months hadn’t been easy for the Hollywood celebrity. His star burned brightly, but the accident with the girl last summer had dampened it a bit. Pete hadn’t talked much about it . . . or the pending wrongful-death civil suit. Or the breakdown Rhett had on the show a few weeks back, when he’d interviewed Bev Bohanan, the reality star of BEVerly Hills Blondes.

  “Pete didn’t say anything about you coming home. Usually he tells me things like this.”

  Rhett looked guilty. “Actually, he doesn’t know. I got here about thirty minutes ago. I hadn’t showered since I left LA yesterday, and after the long drive south from New York, I thought I’d clean up. I knew where the key was hidden.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Around back. I didn’t want to . . . to be honest, I wasn’t even sure if I would stay. I wasn’t sure if I would even let Gramps know I was here.” He shook his head. “It was a last-minute decision I don’t know why I made. When did you move in?”

  “In March. Your grandfather goes to church with my mom and mentioned he wanted to rent the cabin out. It just worked for both of us. You do know there are easier ways to get to South Carolina. LaGuardia’s not the closest airport.”

  Rhett’s laugh was dry. “Well, I had planned a much-needed vacation at a Catskills spa, but when I neared the exit toward I-95, I just turned south.” He held his hands up like he couldn’t fathom how he’d ended up where he stood.

  Summer stared at him, wondering about a man who would make such a spontaneous decision. Pete was going to be both ecstatic and irritated his only grandson had shown up without warning. Her perusal seemed to unnerve Rhett. He pushed a hand through his wet hair and avoided eye contact. “Let me grab my bag and get dressed. Then I’ll clear out so you can. . .” He looked at her hand grasping the ties of her suit. “ . . . take a shower.”

  She nodded, realizing it wasn’t her son’s bag she’d tripped over earlier but Rhett’s overnight bag.

  Rhett passed her, smelling like the vanilla bath gel she liked. Funny how it smelled different on a man. Or maybe it was just Rhett. He’d always been larger than life, a quintessential Carolina golden boy, a guy she’d built up in her mind as the ideal.

  But Rhett wasn’t perfect.

  He was just a man . . . a man who seemed to have shadows dogging him.

  “I’ll be quick,” he said before closing the door.

  He didn’t even lock it.

  Summer sank onto one of the dinette chairs.

  Rhett Bryan had come home to Carolina.

  But he wouldn’t stay. Pete constantly complained, or rather made excuses, about Rhett’s failure to visit. Rhett hadn’t even made it in for Pete’s big birthday celebration that past June. Summer had been disappointed in Rhett for not coming, instead sending a huge cake that exploded to reveal a buxom redhead dressed in a bunny costume. Summer had not been upset about the silly prank, but because she’d known Pete’s feelings had been hurt. Rhett had excused himself with commercial shoots and production meetings, but she found none of those good enough reasons to not show up for the eightieth birthday celebration Pete’s buddies at the Elks Lodge had thrown.

  Five minutes later, Rhett emerged wearing a pair of designer jeans and a tight, light-blue T-shirt. His feet were still bare, but he’d tamed his locks. “Okay, she’s all yours.”

  Summer stood, wrapping her arms about her midriff before realizing she looked uncomfortable in her own place. She dropped them. “So are you staying?”

  He shrugged. “I’m here. Might as well see my grampy.”

  “Pete would like that. Why don’t you go on up to the Nest? I picked up dinner, but if you want some, you better hurry. My son’s fourteen and he has an empty leg.”

  Rhett opened the front door and stepped out into the fading day. At her last words, he turned. “You have a fourteen-year-old kid?”

  How could he not remember all that had happened? “His name’s David.”

  His expression grew cloudy. She could almost see the wheels turning in his mind, trying to remember, trying to catch hold of the wisps of memory. “I remember now. You and Hunt. You two getting together always surprised me.”

  Summer felt something cold slither down her back. “Together? Hunt and I were never together, Rhett.”

  His smile flickered before he tried to capture some lightness. “No. I remember. You hooked up at prom. I had forgotten about the pregnancy. God, I . . . that must have been rough.”

  Summer stared at him for a second . . . two seconds . . . .three.

  “Yeah, something like that. Welcome home, Rhett,” she said, walking toward the front door and pulling it closed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  November, present day

  Hunter “Hunt” McCroy tapped the pen his father had given him when he’d joined the company five years ago against the desk calendar and stared out the window at the baseball field. A few guys threw batting practice, horsing around like kids who didn’t have anything better to do on a nice Sunday afternoon often did. The crazy inclination to climb out the window and join them struck him. Go
d, how he longed for the satisfying slap of the baseball hitting the pocket of his glove. Like a drug to him. Yet his love for baseball hadn’t been enough, had it?

  Hunt shook his head. His baseball dreams were over.

  His father had once bragged about building his office complex near the baseball field at Mangham High so he could walk out the door and into the stands to watch Hunt play. One time the man had even raised the window and yelled at Hunt when he’d missed a hot shot that zipped toward him on the pitcher’s mound. Hunt had nearly died of embarrassment, and his coach had growled about Mitchell McCroy keeping his own damned nose in his own damned business and let him do the damned coaching. A common plea back in those days.

  Now the ball field sitting right outside Hunt’s office was lemon juice dripped onto a paper cut. A stinging reminder of what he would never have again. A deep, painful gash of failure haunting his life.

  Hunt sighed and tried to focus on the bid his father had put together for the property near Fripp Island, but just as he started reading the first page, his cell phone buzzed.

  His son.

  “Hey,” Hunt said, leaning back in the squeaking chair. “How was Hunting Island?”

  “Cool,” David said.

  “Good.” Hunt’s gaze found the picture of David on his desk. New frame. New part of his life. Sometimes he still didn’t know how to feel about the kid. Until last year, he’d only seen his son on rare occasions, but it wasn’t until Hunt got cut from the San Diego Sand Vipers five years ago and slunk back to Moonlight that he’d pulled on the full responsibility of being a parent. Or at least as much as he could with Summer and David then living eight hours away. “I used to go out and catch a few waves there. Don’t forget I have that old surfboard, if you want to try sometime.”

  “Sure. If Mom will let me. She started in with the whole shark thing,” David said, not trying to hide his disgust with Summer. “But she did say I can come for Christmas Eve. I wanted to tell you so you can tell . . . Mamie.”

  Hunt ignored the kid’s hesitation when it came to the nickname his sister’s kids had given his mother. Diane McCroy was David’s grandmother, too. “That’s awesome. I didn’t think she’d let you. Your grandmother will be happy. She’s been sewing you a stocking to put with all of ours on the mantel.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.” Because Hunt had commented on David not having one yet. Guilt had filled his mother’s eyes, and she’d gone to the fancy fabric store in Charleston to pick out materials for David’s stocking.

  “Okay, then,” David said, something sounding in the background. “Guess I better go, then. Pete’s trying to eat my fries.”

  “Hey, have you given any thought to the pitching lessons?” Hunt asked, part of him hoping the kid said no and part of him longing to share that bond with him. Baseball could be common ground. He’d held off buying the kid a glove for Christmas until David decided if he wanted to try out for the freshman baseball team. The kid had played ball when he lived in Nashville and had even made all-stars, but since moving back, he’d been slow to get involved in sports. Hunt had encouraged him to join in a team activity. It was good for a kid to be part of a team. Hunt’s best moments had come surrounded by his team.

  “Yeah. I think that sounds okay.”

  “So I can schedule you with Don?”

  “Yeah. I talked to Mom. She said if that’s what I wanted. I used to be good, so maybe I’ll still be able to—”

  “Of course you will.” You’re my kid. But he didn’t say that. No use in putting pressure on David the way his dad had pressured him all those years ago. He could still hear Mitchell strident in his ear. You’re a McCroy. This is what we do. Give it our all. Do what needs to be done to make things happen. Be the best.

  He didn’t want to do that to his kid.

  His kid.

  The thought he was a father still startled him sometimes. Almost as badly as the day fifteen years ago, when Summer had delivered a baseball bat to his head.

  “I’m pregnant,” she’d said, her voice sounding hollow.

  “Who is this?” he’d said, tossing his gear into the passenger seat of his truck, wondering who’d gotten someone to prank him.

  “Summer Valentine.”

  Summer? His date to prom months ago? “Wait, how are you pregnant? You said you were on birth control. Is this a joke?” He stood next to his truck outside the practice field on the University of Florida campus. The team wasn’t supposed to be working yet, per NCAA rules, but Hunt had wanted to keep his arm loose.

  “I wish it were,” she said. He could hear people behind her talking. “I told my parents about that night. They’re going to talk to your folks. I just wanted to be the one to tell you.”

  “Wait,” he said, slumping against the frame, glancing around at people biking to class, people drinking coffee while they walked across campus. “Look, this can be fixed. You can’t be that far along. Like, four months. Isn’t an abortion still an option? ’Cause we’re like too young for this. I’m in college. Aren’t you at college, too?”

  There was a long pause. “I’m not having an abortion, Hunt. That’s not what my family or I want. I’m just being decent and letting you know. That’s it.”

  And then she’d hung up, leaving his head spinning and his gut churning.

  After he’d climbed in his truck and cranked up the air conditioning, Hunt had done what he always did—he called his dad and told him what had happened. His father had screamed at him, but Mitchell had fixed it . . . eventually.

  But not before everyone in Moonlight had a fun week of gossip.

  The anger he felt at Summer simmered deep inside, twisting around the resentment he felt against parents who made him feel like a huge fuckup. It had been easy to stay away from Moonlight. Easy to tell no one in his new life about the baby born in January. Summer had sent him a small picture of a fuzzy-headed, gummy-smiling baby, and he’d taped it under the pitching schedule in his locker. He’d tried to summon an emotion other than regret for the kid. Even back then, Hunt knew he should try to love his son, but he’d been too stuffed with self-importance and consumed with making it to the Show to worry about a life he’d never asked for.

  David’s voice jarred him back to the present. “But, Dad, I might not be as good as I once was. It’s been a little while since I’ve picked up a bat.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Hunt said.

  “Yeah, okay, I gotta go,” said David, not sounding certain. Hunt knew the kid wanted to please him. Ever since David had moved back, he’d tried to be the perfect kid. David never spilled anything on the carpet, always asked for things politely, and feigned interest in anything Hunt liked. On one hand, his son’s eagerness to please warmed Hunt’s heart, but on the other hand, he hated that the kid felt like he needed to be perfect to mean something to him.

  Maybe you shouldn’t have ignored him for most of his life.

  Hunt squashed the persistent thought that pecked at him.

  “Have a good day tomorrow. Be your best.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back. They were his own father’s words, and he’d sworn he wouldn’t do to David what had been done to him.

  But telling a kid to do his best was what parents did. Perfectly acceptable. Even if Hunt hadn’t seen that in the parenting books hidden in his bedside table. He’d bought the books the month after he’d left rehab, telling himself it was time he took responsibility and made better decisions in his life. Time to grow up . . . and then show up for the son he didn’t know.

  Hunt hadn’t been there for midnight feedings or irritable teething. He’d not seen the first wobbling steps or celebrated the first word tumbling from the child’s mouth. He’d not held the limp, fever-stricken body to his chest, praying for respite. But he was trying to make up for his initial absence. He’d been late to the party, but he was there, damn it.

  He’d be a good father because he’d promised himself that was something he could
do right in his life. It was the one thing he could do right in his life.

  “Hey.”

  He looked up to find Jenny Carson standing in the doorway. He’d almost forgotten he’d brought her with him to the office. “Hey, sorry about taking so long. I’m almost done here.”

  Jenny smiled, reminding him why he’d asked her out. She held genuine warmth in her eyes. “No worries. I’ve just read all the magazines you have in the reception area, which is, by the way, not very many. I need to pick up my daughter by five.”

  Hunt looked at his watch. “Let me run some copies of these specs and I’ll take them with me. For all his insistence that the company be technologically advanced, my dad is still a dinosaur. Wants hard copies.” He rose and moved into the darkened room with the copier.

  “I could help you,” Jenny said, her smile turning a bit naughty for a kindergarten teacher. They’d been seeing each other for only a few weeks now, and Hunt liked the tall blonde well enough to consider taking her to the company Christmas party. In the last five years, he’d failed at relationships, too. As soon as something turned serious, he shook the dust off and moved on to the next woman. But he liked Jenny. She made him feel normal, and she liked David to do things with them.

  “You know, I’m good at pressing buttons,” Jenny drawled. The little twinkle in her eye gave her intentions away.

  “Are you now?”

  They’d spent the weekend having hushed sex because David was in the guest bedroom. But no one was around on a Sunday afternoon, and a little office sex might be the best medicine for the guilt that plagued him when he thought of David . . . of failing so miserably at so much in life.

  But it’s getting better.

  He brushed away the thundercloud above his head, the one reminding him he hadn’t been good enough to make it in the big leagues. He pushed away the second dark cloud, the one that jeered at him for slinking home to Moonlight to work for his dad. Other little dark puffs fought for their space—a failed marriage and brutal alimony payments, the Percocet he’d stolen from his mother’s medicine cabinet, a father who looked at him with abject disappointment. The clouds formed a towering stack that threatened to implode and rain shit down upon him.