“Well, you’re up on your feet. That’s something,” his father finally said. “Any scheduled doctor’s appointments? Physical therapy? A psychiatrist?”
Michael flinched again at the subtly scathing emphasis on that last word. His father had made his feelings on psychological therapy crystal clear back in DC. “No. Nothing yet. I need to wait for VA paperwork to catch up.” That was a blatant lie, thanks to his medical retirement from the Air Force, but his father didn’t know the intricacies of the military’s health care program. After two years of recovery in DC, with his parents interfering at every turn, he wasn’t willing to get into the details of his health care with anyone, much less his father.
He glanced up in time to see his father nod in a satisfied sort of way. “Then you’ve got plenty of time,” his father said, now one hundred percent in political mode. “We could use you on the campaign trail. VFW halls, a few hospitals, the state veterans’ cemetery in November.”
Panic seized Michael’s voice. He’d suspected this would happen—he’d expected it—but the blunt statement was enough to paralyze him.
Kaylee’s soft weight pressed against his leg, and she nosed at his hand a heartbeat before the door clicked open. He still jumped and backed away, heart racing, as his mother swept in. Hair dye, Pilates, and a carefully chosen wardrobe made her look ten years younger than her actual age.
A bit crazily, Michael thought that he actually had no idea what his mother looked like without the touch of her personal assistant, who doubled as a stylist and wardrobe consultant.
His breathing kicked in at the wrong time—just as she leaned close to give him a perfumed, impersonal kiss on the cheek. Muffling his cough with one fist, he tried to stop breathing again.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, bestowing an equally impersonal kiss on her husband’s cheek, a brief stop on the way to the bar. “We’ll have updated donation figures in twenty minutes. Don’t let me interrupt.”
“I was just talking about Michael’s role in the upcoming campaign,” his father said, not even looking in Michael’s direction—as if his compliance were a foregone conclusion. “We’ll stay local through the new year. Then he can take charge of getting the military vote.”
“Military and women, eighteen to thirty-five,” his mother put in, mixing herself a gin and tonic. “Look at him. They’ll be lining up around the block to take pictures with him.”
Michael’s rising panic hit critical mass. “No!”
Not that it stopped his parents. His mother said, “Don’t be ridiculous,” while his father shot him a disappointed look.
“My policies have consistently supported a stronger, better-equipped military,” he said, his voice taking on a rough growl. “Do you suddenly have an issue with that? You were pro-military enough to abandon your enrollment at one of the nation’s finest universities . . .”
Roaring filled Michael’s ears, one-tenth anger and nine-tenths dread that his father had pulled strings and arranged for Michael to go back to Dartmouth. To get his life back on the family railroad, next stop a soul-crushing career in politics.
“No!” he repeated, drowning out his father’s voice. Kaylee was leaning against his legs, a warm weight that wasn’t quite enough to ground him against the combined force of his parents. He gripped her leash so tightly, his knuckles cracked.
His shout cut off whatever they were saying. They stared at him with identical affronted expressions until his mother shrugged and asked, “No? What do you mean, no?”
“This is important,” his father continued as he got up to refill his drink. He was two inches taller than Michael, with broad shoulders left over from his college football days. His presence sucked all the air out of the room. “This isn’t some local campaign. We’re going national. And to succeed, we’re going to need everyone in the family onboard.”
“Our staff is working on the last details of our strategy. We’re finalizing the itineraries for you and your sister next week,” his mother said over the sound of Scotch splashing into his father’s glass.
So they didn’t know about Amanda’s plans to spend the next year abroad. Did her timing have less to do with getting her hands on her trust fund and more to do with their parents’ campaign strategy?
He went cold inside when he realized that she was going to sneak off to another continent and abandon him to their parents. Alone.
“Absolutely not,” he said, shaking his head a little too hard, enough to risk a dizzy spell. “I’m not getting involved in any campaign. Not national, not statewide, not a local campaign for the school board!” The words surged out in a rush, carried on a wave of anger that slammed into his parents with the force of a tsunami—
Or should have.
They were staring at him, his father with a thunderous scowl, his mother in absolute bafflement.
“Well,” his father said flatly. “He can’t go out in public like that.”
She waved her glass and gave Michael an insincere smile. “We’ll find you a speech therapist. Just speak more slowly and think about what you’re saying.”
What the hell had he said? The ice in his gut expanded, driving the air from his lungs as he struggled to remember. He thought he’d taken a stand against his parents’ control, for the first time in his life, but apparently the words had gotten scrambled on the way to his mouth from his brain. His broken brain.
Get out.
He thought it. Might’ve said it, because Kaylee spun and went for the door to scratch it with her too-long toenails. She could open lever-operated doors, but not doorknobs. Michael automatically turned it until it unlatched—something he’d taught himself to do even in a fugue state.
And then they were in the hall, through the foyer, out the front door, and down the steps. Trained to find the most direct route in emergencies, Kaylee cut across soft grass, next to a bed of late-spring flowers. When they reached the truck, she quietly barked and nudged at his hip.
He let out a breath in a dizzying rush of air. He could hear his mother’s sharp, angry voice calling his name, and that spurred him to unlock the truck. As soon as he had the driver’s-side door open, Kaylee leaped in, holding the leash in her mouth, and squirmed between the front seats to get in back. Michael followed, right on her tail, and slammed the door.
Wonderful silence.
He dragged in another breath and jabbed at the start button until the engine roared. As soon as he had the SUV in gear, he drove straight down the driveway, tires kicking up gravel. He swerved halfway onto the grass to avoid a train of three cars packed with late arrivals, and accelerated to get through the gate before the sheriff’s car could block it.
Freedom. Shaking with relief, he spun the wheel, turning onto the main road. In his rearview mirror, he saw the sheriff watching him, probably assessing his erratic driving. The thought of being pulled over, subjected to an interrogation and possibly a test of his balance, cut through the chaos in his head enough to steady his hands on the wheel. He eased up on the gas and drove more sedately down the road, heading southeast. Heading home.
Raimo’s Pizza had started life as a narrow hole-in-the-wall pizza joint, tucked awkwardly into a corner storefront between a salon and a defunct real estate agency. They’d since expanded into the real estate agency’s office space, adding round bistro-style tables that were too small for students to occupy for hours at a shot, enabling them to do a brisk business in by-the-slice lunch specials and pies to go. The tiny tables meant Raimo’s was off-limits for Josh and Dad’s wrap-up dinners, except on nights like tonight—nights when they were both too exhausted to do anything more than eat in front of the TV and then drag themselves upstairs to collapse.
As soon as Josh opened the pizzeria door and got a whiff of oregano and garlic, his neglected stomach let out a roar. “Three hours repairing that mixer,” he grumbled, holding the door for his dad. “Three hours!”
“And you did great,” Dad said, patting Josh’s shoulder in passing. “Three hours of work was a whole
lot better than waiting three days for the repairman.”
“Yeah, but three hours.” Josh fell in line behind the other customers. “That’s me being three hours late for both food and a nap.”
Dad’s grin was offensively cheerful. Offensively awake. “On the bright side, pizza.”
Scrubbing at his eyes, Josh playfully complained, “I swear, you’re twelve years old.”
Dad threw an arm around Josh’s shoulders and pulled him into a quick, rough hug. “The joys of parenthood—when your kid’s old enough to take the opening shift for a whole week in a row.”
“Oh, no.” Josh held up his hands. “I may not be awake, but I’m not sleepy enough to fall for that. Tomorrow morning, the keys are all yours.”
Dad sighed theatrically and released him, stepping aside for a customer carrying an immense pizza box. Josh caught the distinct smell of bacon and regretted, not for the first time, that he and his dad kept sort of kosher in their house. The occasional cheeseburger was fine, and pepperoni didn’t count, because no one actually knew what went into pepperoni, but bacon was off-limits at home. Maybe he’d sneak over here tomorrow for the lunch special, if Bagel End wasn’t too busy.
“So hey, you wanted to talk earlier,” Dad said as the line moved up a couple of feet. “And you’re not going to be awake in an hour.”
“I did?” Josh frowned up at the menu board, trying to push his sluggish brain into working again. He remembered a lot of teasing about girlfriends—and boyfriends—followed by the metal-on-metal grind of a dough hook that had slipped out of alignment. Before all that, everything was a blur.
“You, Lizzie, the books? Investing profits?” Dad prompted.
Shit. Now was not the right time for this talk. Josh rubbed at his eyes again and nodded. “Yeah, but it’s not . . .” Important? It was. “There’s no rush.”
Dad nudged him with an elbow. “Come on. Talk to me.”
Josh sighed. This was a terrible idea—even worse than discussing his love life—but he was too tired to fight off his dad’s tenacity. Best to get it over with quickly.
Actually, no. Best to start with small steps.
“A new product line. Not too much of a risk,” he said confidently.
“New products?” Dad frowned at him. “We’re a bagel place.”
“But that’s not all we are,” Josh said. “When you opened the store, it was bagels, deli meat, and cheese. Now we do breakfasts, paninis, soup—”
“Okay, okay. What new product?” Dad asked skeptically.
“Dog treats.” Josh’s heart skipped a beat. He’d been thinking of bagel chips, because everyone loved crunchy, salty snacks, but he’d seen bagel-style dog treats online. Somehow, his brain had made the jump.
No, not somehow. It was all because of Hot Tourist Guy.
“Dog treats?” Dad’s frown turned baffled. “What kind of dog treats? Can we even? The health department—”
“No, no. Not like dog-only biscuits. Just crunchy minibagels for dogs. Flavored stuff like”—Josh racked his brain—“peanut butter, bacon, cheese, that sort of thing. People could even eat them, since they’ll be just like normal bagels, only crunchy.”
“Huh. You know,” Dad said thoughtfully, “that might work. Lots of tourists have dogs.”
Hope blossomed in Josh’s chest. “And locals. We could give out samples at the vet’s office.”
Dad slowly smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. But we’ll need a recipe. A cost analysis. Packaging. A name.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Josh promised, wondering if Tolkien’s books included any dogs. His dad was a huge Tolkien geek—hence the shop name—and he’d want something thematic for the dog bagels.
“That’s a really good idea, you know. Good thought, son,” Dad said, pulling him in for another hug.
Josh laughed and playfully twisted free. He nearly let the subject drop there, but he was on a roll. His dad was finally looking at him like a partner, not an apprentice. “I had another idea too.”
“Yeah?” Dad asked, still smiling, which meant this was a good time.
“The shop’s great. The catering business is phenomenal. I want to expand into supplying bagels and baked goods to restaurants and hotels.”
He didn’t need to look to know Dad was frowning. “I thought we were going to bulk up the emergency fund. Expansion is risky.”
“Risky?” Josh nodded, glancing over at the frown for a second. “I know. But it’s managed risk.”
“How can you manage risk?” Dad scoffed. “By definition, if risk can be ‘managed,’ it’s not a risk. When it comes to betting, there are—”
“No sure things,” Josh finished with his dad. He lowered his voice, aware that they were surrounded by people who were sometimes their customers, and said, “I know. But we already have a solid emergency fund. We own the shop, so we’re not at risk for a rent hike, and we own our house, so we’re not at risk of being homeless. We have an opportunity, Dad.”
“An opportunity? What opportunity?” Dad challenged, just above a whisper.
“The Ludwigs, at Breakwater Cove B&B. They’ve got a standing catering order for brunch every Sunday and Thursday, with a dozen extra bagels to carry them through to the next delivery day.”
“I don’t know . . .”
Josh rubbed at the back of his neck, wishing he had stopped at the dog bagels. He let out a frustrated breath and took a couple of steps forward when the line moved. He wasn’t prepared for this discussion. He had none of his notes, the business plan outline was on his laptop, and he was dead on his feet.
“Okay, no,” he said when his dad caught up with him. “Can we just . . . not? Not now, okay?”
Dad opened his mouth, then closed it, looking into Josh’s eyes. Slowly, Dad smiled and said, “Yeah. We’ll talk about it when I’m back from Brooklyn. How’s that sound?”
Gratefully, Josh nodded, bumping his shoulder against his dad’s. “Good. That’s good.”
“In that case,” Dad said, giving Josh a bump of his own, “what do you say we get double pepperoni?”
“And extra cheese?” Josh proposed, awake enough to take advantage of his dad’s goodwill.
Dad laughed. “And extra cheese.”
It took two hours at a rest stop, surrounded by trees and exhaust fumes, for Michael’s thoughts to stop racing. He sat on a picnic bench behind the amenities building, Kaylee sleeping on his feet, his phone a dead weight in his pocket—minus its battery, because it was likely his parents had sicced Wilkins on him and he wasn’t taking any chances.
How could he have lost control so badly? He knew better. He knew that when emotions ran hot and stress levels soared, he was more likely to lose his words. For seven horrible months after his surgery, he’d tripped over his own brain, struggling to find even the simplest words, substituting rhymes or concepts connected by only the most bizarre associations, though he heard himself speaking correctly. Hell, he hadn’t even believed no one could understand him until a speech pathologist had come to his hospital room to explain the new twist in his recovery—aphasia—and discuss his treatment.
He braced his elbows on the picnic table and dropped his face into his hands. His fingertips automatically sought the scar under his bangs, above his left eyebrow. The combat medics and trauma surgeons had done a phenomenal job keeping him alive, getting him back on his feet, helping him relearn how to talk and function and get on with his life, now as a civilian.
When he sighed, Kaylee pushed herself upright so she could rest her muzzle heavily against his knee. Automatically, he scratched at her fur, letting her settle his thoughts. “Okay,” he muttered, leaning back to look under the table at her.
She tipped her head without breaking physical contact and fixed him with one deep-brown eye. No judgment. No recrimination. Just love and loyalty and absolute willingness to support him, however he needed.
He smiled and ruffled between her ears. “Let’s go.” Together, they walked back to the truck.
/> The eastern sky was a deepening turquoise by the time he drove onto the bridge to Hartsbridge Island. He ended up behind a delivery truck going a steady forty miles per hour, but the slower speed gave him a chance to plan ahead. Wilkins had interrupted yesterday’s plans for grocery shopping, and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what he had in his kitchen. He was too stressed to even think about walking back into town for dinner.
“Takeout?” he asked Kaylee, who’d been dozing on the backseat.
She twisted around, front paws braced in the footwell, and nosed at his arm where it rested on the center console. He decided to take that as agreement.
Most of the town hadn’t transitioned to summer’s late hours, so he drove past dark shops until he spotted a pool of light spilling out onto a corner, hinting at the possible presence of food and to-go boxes. He slowed, looking through the windows, noting the ceiling-high stack of prefolded pizza boxes against the wall.
And at the counter, he saw a now-familiar head of dark-blond curls and a stocky body not quite hidden by jeans and a bright-blue polo shirt. His heart gave a quick thump of excitement. Josh.
Maybe this was a sign—a hint that Michael should get up the courage to speak to Josh about more than bagels and bacon. He’d started the day with Josh’s smile. What better way to end it?
“How’s pizza sound?” he asked Kaylee, who knew pizza as well as she knew any of her commands. She answered with an enthusiastic bark. She had no food allergies, so a couple of slices wouldn’t do her any harm. They could get her back onto her regular diet tomorrow.
The handicap parking tag was still hanging from the rearview mirror, so he took a spot in front of the doors and got out as quickly as he could without falling flat on his face. Kaylee’s jump to the pavement was significantly more graceful, and Michael muttered, “Showoff.”
Energized by a day of tension-filled highs and lazy lows, she pranced at his side like her AKC champion mother, pausing alertly so he could open the door.
As soon as he told her, “Go through,” Josh’s head whipped around, and he gave Michael a wide-eyed stare. After a blink, he smiled warmly and waved, turning back only at a nudge from the older man at his side. When the older man turned to say something to Josh, showing a sharp profile with a hooked nose, Michael recognized him from the diner.
Change of Address Page 6
