by EMILIE ROSE
Even friends who didn’t qualify as friends anymore. Delainey thanked Miranda again and clicked off.
Thank God for old connections. For a long moment, her gaze traveled to the scenery outside the conference window and she wondered why she’d severed ties with everyone. She’d been so stupid, so naive. And so selfish. She missed her friends, even if their lives had turned out so wildly different. Miranda had been her best friend in the entire world. And Delainey had walked away without looking back. Yet, Miranda was actively working to forgive her. Why? She couldn’t fathom a reason, but she was inordinately grateful.
Was it too much to hope for Trace’s forgiveness? She knew the answer, and it hurt. Trace would never forgive her. She’d taken something beautiful between them and smashed it into the ground—deliberately.
The bigger question was how could she forgive herself?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TRACE PULLED UP to his parents’ place and took a moment to put himself in the right frame of mind. The happy memories of the past had been eclipsed by the reality of a family broken by tragedy, and he could no longer deny that he’d been avoiding facing the situation as it was today.
His father’s garage/shed had once been his workstation where he’d created beautiful carvings for the tourist trade, but his dad had stopped the pretense of carving many years ago. Now, his father made his living selling and growing marijuana in an elaborate greenhouse operation, and it made Trace sick to his stomach to see how far his father had fallen from the morals and values he’d once had. But he wasn’t here to see his dad. He needed to see if there was any validity to Miranda’s claim that their mother was living in a dangerous situation.
As he walked to the house, he desperately hoped Miranda was exaggerating. But as soon as he came within a few feet of the door, his hope died under the stench that was escaping from the interior. He covered his nose. If he could smell something outside, what did it smell like on the inside?
He knocked but when no one answered, he tried opening the front door but found himself barred by something. He pushed hard and the sound of something toppling to the floor followed, but at least the door could swing open. “Mom?”
He navigated the narrow walkway that was clogged with various boxes of who-knew-what, and he immediately covered his nose as the smell nearly bowled him over. Holy hell, what was that stench? A horrid thought occurred to him. What if that smell was his dead mother buried under a wall of garbage? This was unreal. He never in a million years could’ve imagined that his mother had let things get to this stage, and he immediately felt guilty for ignoring Miranda’s pleas for help. Clearly, their mother was a hoarder of the worst kind.
The door leading to the bedroom that had once been Simone’s opened and his mother peered out, her eyes widening in distress when she saw it was Trace. “What are you doing here? You should’ve called. We could’ve met in town for lunch or something,” she said, quickly closing the door and making her way toward him. It’d been only a few months since he’d seen his mother, but in that time it seemed she’d aged tremendously. Whereas gray had peppered his mother’s dark hair, now it blanketed it, and deep lines were etched into her face. Dark circles ringed her eyes and her skin tone looked sallow.
“Mom, come outside with me for a minute,” he said, concerned. “It’s not sanitary in here and it’s unsafe.”
At that her expression crinkled into a disapproving scowl and she crossed her arms and refused to budge. “You’ve obviously been talking to your sister. She’s somehow gotten you to sing the same tune as her. I’m perfectly fine right where I’m at.”
“No, you’re not,” he said firmly. “And you’re not staying another minute in this house. What’s happened here? I don’t even know where to begin,” he admitted with a flush of panic. Everywhere he looked, he saw filth and clutter. His mother had always been a bit of a collector, but she’d never been dirty. He couldn’t even make a path to the kitchen, which was where the smell seemed to be originating. His eyes smarted and began to burn. “Mom, outside now. If not for yourself but for me. I can’t breathe in here.”
Jennelle softened and relented. “Fine. But only because it’s a beautiful day and I need to water my plants,” she said. Trace didn’t care what excuse got her to step outside as long as they were no longer in that toxic place. “I really wish you would’ve called,” she said, going to the hose and unraveling it to start watering her marigolds. “We could’ve eaten at that new place on Bluegill Street. I’ve heard it has great fish and chips.”
“Mom, I’m sorry it’s been a while since I’ve visited and now that I’m here I have to be the jerk, but Miranda is right. That house isn’t safe. What happened? It looks like a war zone. And what does Dad say about it?”
“Your dad is busy with his projects,” she answered with an evasive shrug, but Trace saw the hidden hurt hiding behind the motion. “We live separate lives.”
“Why? And since when?” Had he really been that absent in his family’s life to have missed this total and complete breakdown? Simone’s death had done a number on them, but he hadn’t realized that the very fabric of who they were as a family was disintegrating to dust. “Mom...talk to me. You have to know that you’re in trouble. That house is...not safe in any way.”
“It’s just a little cluttered is all,” she said. “I have so many projects going at the same time. All I need is to prioritize a little.”
“You need a wrecking ball at this point. How do you get into your kitchen to cook your food?”
“Oh, I don’t cook that much anymore. No sense in making a full meal just for me. Your father prefers his microwave meals and I enjoy a can of soup, which I can make on my hot plate. It’s much better this way, actually.”
Trace couldn’t wrap his head around the situation and felt a little sick to his stomach. “Mom, I can’t let you stay here. Now that I’ve seen it...God, I don’t even know where to start. I can’t believe things have gotten this bad. This is borderline ridiculous. You’re not blind. You have to know that you’re living in a bad situation. Your health is at risk! Hell, I was in there for five minutes and thought my chest was going to cave in.”
“It’s not that bad,” she scowled. “And I don’t appreciate your judgment. You can’t come around and tell me how to live when you haven’t seen fit to visit or call. You all were cut from the same cloth. Except Simone, of course,” she added with a sniff, and Trace felt slapped.
He tried not to bristle as he said, “If Simone were here she’d say the same thing we are. In fact, she’d probably never step foot in this place again if she saw it.”
His mother lifted her chin. “My Simone would never abandon me,” she said resolutely. “I know that in my heart.”
This was a dead-end conversation, Trace realized too late. Bringing up Simone was always a land mine of heartache no matter how innocent. “Okay, Mom, I don’t want to strong-arm you, but you’re going to force my hand. This place needs to get cleaned up. Plain and simple. Me and Miranda will come help you. Pick the day.”
“Don’t tell me what do to or how to do it, Trace Sinclair.” His mother’s strident tone reminded him of when he was a boy and he’d royally screwed up. “I will live my life as I see fit, and no one is going to tell me otherwise. Next time, call before coming over.” And then she turned on her heel and returned to the wretched dump that had once been his childhood home and slammed the door. He was tempted to follow so he could pull her forcibly from the house, but he knew that was a bad idea and likely to make things worse. His gaze turned to the shed, and he strode resolutely in that direction to take things up with his father. It was time for Zed to take control of the situation before the house collapsed and buried the man’s wife.
Trace didn’t bother knocking and went inside. The sharp scent of marijuana permeated the hazy room, but the smell wasn’t nearly half as bad as what
Trace had just endured in the main house. He found his father tending to his garden, examining a leaf for some sort of imperfection. When Trace walked in, Zed looked up and for a moment stared as if he wasn’t sure what to say, but when he saw Trace’s expression he went back to his project with a barely audible grunt of a greeting.
“Dad, we have a situation, and I know you have to know about it,” he said, going straight to the point.
“And what might that be?” his father asked, slipping a pair of specialized goggles over his face to examine his plants more closely.
Trace tried to ignore the fact that his father was tending an illegal garden—that was a fight for another day—and focused on the immediate threat. “Mom is going to die in that house. She’s trying to bury herself in crap. Have you seen the inside of your house lately?”
“That’s your mother’s house and I tend to leave her to her business. I suggest you do the same.”
“No, that’s not going to happen,” Trace said firmly, trying to keep his anger in check. “You need to help us get Mom out of that house so we can get a crew in there to clean it up. We have to get moving before the winter sets in and we have to wait until spring.”
“And what do you propose to do with her while you’re cleaning?” he asked, still absorbed in the plants.
“I don’t know. Maybe she can move in here with you. I see you’ve turned the garage into a serviceable apartment. I’m sure if she doesn’t mind the smell of garbage, she surely won’t mind the nose-burning smell of marijuana. Besides, in case you’ve forgotten, she’s still your wife and you’re obligated to care for her.”
At that Zed turned a jaundiced eye toward Trace and said, “I don’t need a pup like you telling me how to tend to my business.”
“I disagree,” Trace countered boldly. He’d been taught to respect his elders, but Miranda was right—things were out of hand and neither of their parents was taking care of business, which left it up to the kids to see it done. “I don’t want to do this, Dad. I’m worried. Mom’s living in an unsafe environment. Please tell me you care.”
“Of course I care. She’s my wife,” he answered gruffly. “But your mom’s a stubborn woman. I can’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to do, and for whatever reasons she’s happy to live like she does. Hell, do you think I moved out here because I wanted to? It just sort of happened.”
“Then, make it unhappen, Dad,” Trace urged, seeing a glimmer of hope in his father’s admission. “Maybe she just needs to know that you still care enough to put your damn foot down.”
“What she needs I can’t give her,” Zed said, looking away. “Besides, she’ll come to her senses on her own time. We just need to give her some space to figure things out.”
Trace’s hope died as quickly as it had flared. “Dad, you’re giving me no choice. I’m going to call Social Services to come out here and evaluate her living situation. You know if they come out here they’re going to insist she get it cleaned up.”
“Your mother isn’t going to care about a piece of paper telling her what she needs to do and what not to do. Besides, we don’t need a bunch of government types traipsing in on our land. It’s private property for a reason.”
Understanding dawned on Trace, and he shook his head in disgust. “The real reason you don’t want anyone coming around is because of this—” he gestured to the plants “—isn’t it?”
When his father refused to answer, Trace bit back an expletive. “Unbelievable. Dad...you’ve turned into a selfish bastard, you know that? Your wife needs you. Hell, your family needs you, and you’re content to bury yourself in here. You aren’t the man who raised me. The man who raised me taught me to be a man—and you aren’t that person. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m ashamed of you.”
“If you’ve said your piece, you can go,” Zed said, but his lip trembled and Trace knew he’d hit a nerve. Good. His old man needed to hear it. Trace left before he said something he really couldn’t take back, although he couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t already.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TRACE FOUND HIMSELF at the Rusty Anchor needing a drink. The place was filled as it usually was, and the minute Russ saw him belly up to the bar, he poured a shot of whiskey. “How’d you know?” Trace asked, lifting the shot in gratitude before he downed it in a single practiced move.
“You had a look that said beer ain’t gonna do it,” Russ answered with a knowing grin, and Trace nodded. Either the man was a freaking psychic or Trace had his day written all over his face. “Troubles of the rich and famous?” Russ teased gruffly, and Trace wished that were his problem. Somehow that seemed easier to navigate than the situation with his parents.
“It’s my folks.”
“Say no more. We’ve all got ’em and some are worse than others. Yours, though, have been through a lot. Losing Simone... Hell, that would’ve tore up the most stoic.”
“Simone died eight years ago. Isn’t it time we all stop using her death as a crutch for every single bad thing we do in our lives?” Trace asked, tapping the bar for another shot. “I don’t know...it just seems her ghost lingers a helluva lot.”
By his third shot, he was feeling good and he’d finally lost the tension cording his shoulders. The music was toe-tapping good and he was enjoying himself, shooting the shit with fellow bar patrons and laughing at raunchy jokes told by the deckhands.
That was until he heard a particular laugh filter through the noise. He swiveled on his barstool and searched the dim light for the source. He zeroed in on Delainey sitting in one of the corner booths, a single glass candle lighting the cubicle, with Otter Stout. Delainey was laughing at something and Otter was beaming at having been so witty. Something primal and possessive washed over him and after three shots of whiskey, his good sense had completely left the building. He signaled for a beer, and after Russ had put one in his hand, he sauntered over to where Delainey and Otter were having their little tea party for two.
“Hey, Trace,” Otter exclaimed with a smile. “How you doin’? I haven’t seen you in a while. Miranda said you’ve been out busy with Search and Rescue lately. Any good stories?”
“Just the ones the news sees fit to blab about,” Trace said, his stare going straight to Delainey. Why was she so pretty? She was like a delicate piece of chocolate, sweet and decadent. And he was suffering from a sweet tooth something bad. “You guys catching up on old times or something?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but he really didn’t like the way Delainey’s eyes had lit up. He knew he didn’t have the right to care but he did, and the three shots of whiskey were telling him he had every right.
“Did you want to join us?” Otter asked, preparing to move over, but Delainey cut him off before he could answer.
“I’m sure Trace has his own friends to visit with. He doesn’t need to horn in on our time. Besides, I want to hear all about your decision to go into real estate. I’ve always dreamed of having a few investment properties.”
Trace snorted and she glared at him for the rude noise. Otter seemed to catch the odd current flowing between them and his brow furrowed. “Hey, you guys should catch up or something. We can chat later, Laney. I’ll have those short-term rental papers to you first thing in the morning.” Delainey started to protest but Otter had scooted out and made his way through the throng of people to the front of the bar, where he then disappeared.
“Are you happy?” Delainey asked, glaring. “That was incredibly rude.”
“I know,” Trace admitted, but he smiled nonetheless. “You look really pretty tonight.”
His unexpected compliment seemed to rattle her, and he liked the effect. “How much have you been drinking?” she asked, standing and grabbing her purse and jacket.
“Probably too much,” he allowed with a shrug. “Are you going to be my designated driver tonight? I probably shou
ldn’t drive.”
“I’ll call you a cab,” Delainey said, moving past him, but he caught her hand and brought it to his lips, startling her. “What are you doing?” she asked, her gaze darting to see who was watching. “I can’t be seen canoodling with the talent.”
“You haven’t even begun to witness my true talent,” he murmured with a wicked grin. He ought to stop, but the whiskey was running the show now. He swigged his beer, but before he could finish she took it from his hand.
“That’s enough of that,” she said, putting the half-finished beer on an empty table. “Let’s get you a cab.”
“First, let’s dance,” he suggested, pulling her into his arms and moving sensually against her to the beat of the music. She gasped and if the lighting wasn’t so dim, he could’ve sworn she’d blushed. “C’mon, one dance, sweetheart. For old times’ sake,” he said softly against the shell of her ear, and she relented with a shake of her head even as she looped her arms around his neck. “There...see? That wasn’t so hard was it?”
“You’re drunk, and if you weren’t you wouldn’t be wanting to hold me like this,” she reminded him with a sad smile.
“True and not true.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s true I’m drunk. Not true that I wouldn’t want to hold you. Delainey, I always want to touch you. The difference being, when I’m sober I remember why I shouldn’t.”
Delainey accepted his answer with a nod and instead of coming back with a sharp quip, she settled against his chest and they danced, a slow sensual movement in tandem with each other, as if the entire bar had disappeared and it was just them and the music. “Maybe I should get you drunk every night,” she said lightly.
“And why is that?” he asked.
“Because you’re not as angry. This is how I remember you,” she said. Trace let that comment sit between them and finally the song ended and she drew away. “So, are you going to let me call you a cab?” she asked.
