by Nevea Lane
Waiting in Essex
Waiting in Essex
by
Nevea Lane
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Waiting in Essex Copyright© 2011 Nevea Lane
Cover Artist: Shara Azod
Editor: Stephanie Parent
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only. eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving eBooks is a copyright infringement.
Waiting in Essex
Paxton looked around his old room. He felt the bile build up in his stomach as he remembered the last time he was in his large bedroom. His father’s harsh words from that fateful night echoed through his mind.
“What is wrong with you, son? You’ve done everything to purposely sabotage your life. I can’t believe that you would do this to us, the name of this family, this town. You have to go.”
Benedict Wainwright had thrown his troubled eighteen-year-old son out of their Essex, Connecticut home seemingly without a care. Paxton tried to rid his brain of the memories. It had been almost fifteen years since that night, and he still hadn’t gotten over the feeling of hopelessness. Now, as he stood in his childhood home, waiting for his father to make a recovery from a terrible fall off a horse, Pax still felt like that young punk. His shoulders slumped. He had to face the old man sooner rather than later, then perhaps Pax wouldn’t feel so bad for drinking scotch at three in the afternoon.
Paxton “Pax Romana” threw his tattered Merchant Marine duffle bag on the navy blue comforter. After his father kicked him out, Pax knew he needed to change his life, dramatically. Being the privileged son of the small town’s mayor, Paxton could have any job handed to him on a silver platter, but he didn’t want that; he wanted to make his own way. Joining the Merchant Marines seemed the only viable option. Now, he was known as “Peacekeeper Pax” in his job with the U.S. Marshal’s office. Paxton snorted. He’d been everything but peaceful when he was a confused, mixed-up kid growing up under his father’s iron fist. That night, the stupid prank he’d pulled left him with a permanent limp in his leg that only showed when he was stressed.
“Get a hold of yourself, man,” Pax growled to himself. He’d thought he had all of this under control. How could walking two steps inside of a room cause so much distress? He whirled around on his heel and walked off to find the master bedroom. Let’s get this over with, he thought as he strode on the oriental floor runner that softened each of his hard steps. He rounded the corner of the picture frame-lined walls, almost upsetting a potted plant. As he steadied the offending vase, he looked up at the frames, covered with a heavy layer of dust. He’d bet the farm that no one had dusted the pictures since his mother ran out on his father twenty years ago.
As he approached his father’s bedroom, Pax heard a woman’s voice. The voice was soothing, singing a lullaby in the sexiest scratchy tone he’d ever heard. His heart lurched at the sound. The dulcet tones reminded him of a nice memory, but he couldn’t place it. Who in the hell was in his father’s room? He turned the knob slowly and watched, through a small crack, a mahogany-hued woman easing his father’s leg back down to the bed. She repeated the motion, still humming, watching old Ben intently. Paxton could see her intensity, her own muscles straining in her tight-fitting Henley. She definitely wasn’t like the stick-thin models he usually chased after. She was built tough—he could tell.
“Son of a bitch, Delilah, that friggin’ hurts!” his father bellowed. Paxton winced. That particular bellow had made grown men pee their pants. He felt sorry for the woman at that moment, and he looked toward her to see if she would drop the old man’s foot. But the woman named Delilah didn’t stop humming or working his dad’s leg up and down. Ben was panting, but the determined woman kept going. She crawled up the bed on her knees and continued to push her weight onto Ben’s leg. Paxton watched her smile just a bit as she released his leg. She kneeled back and put her hands on her hips.
“Well, Mr. Wainwright, you definitely are on the mend. But I still wouldn’t recommend moving any more than you have to.” Her voice was just as husky as her humming.
“Delilah, please. It’s Ben. You and your father have more than earned the right to call me Ben. You’ve been here almost as long as he has.”
Paxton felt the blood drain from his face. His heart plummeted into his shoe. It couldn’t be, not that Delilah.
“With all due respect, Mr. Wainwright, maybe one day I will, but not today.” Delilah dipped her head. Paxton watched her get off the bed and begin to wipe his father’s brow with a washcloth, and his father smiled. Come again? Paxton thought. That man had an ice-cold heart; he’d never smiled, not once.
Paxton chose that time to break the happy moment. He could vaguely remember the last time he’d heard Delilah speak, and he could remember all too well the last time he’d actually seen her. Her name he’d tried to put out of his mind, and her smile always made him feel guilty for being such a troublesome kid. He remembered wanting to be a better man, for her, but at that age, he didn’t even know what being a man was. Paxton didn’t want to waste any more time on memories. Opening the door fully, Paxton walked in and stood as tall as he could.
“Sir.” He nodded at Ben and waited for the crippled man to invite him in. It was a miracle that Paxton didn’t tear up on the spot. . He’d never seen his father in any position but one of power. Even when his mother ran off with the gardener, Ben Wainwright, mayor of the small town of Essex, stood stoic. The old general wouldn’t let personal life interfere with his duty. Now that he was no longer a public official, Ben looked almost human. “Goodness! Son! Get in here!” Ben tried to sit up in the bed, but Delilah kept her hand on the man’s shin and shook her head softly. Paxton finally gave his attention to the woman. Her wide brown eyes still carried the impact of a wrecking ball on his groin. As a young lady, Delilah always had Paxton’s tongue tied in knots, but the voluptuous woman Delilah was now had Paxton beginning to sweat. Delilah’s long hair was pulled into a ponytail, and he could all too easily imagine his fingers entwined in her hair. She always seemed a bit of a tomboy, and today was no exception. She was dressed in ratty sneakers and sweatpants. Despite the bulk of the pants, Paxton could see she had more curves than the Connecticut River. Paxton felt a groan creep up his throat and he could feel his cock begin to twitch in his denim jeans. Even with his father in pain, Delilah could make Paxton forget everything. Trying to focus on the present, Paxton cleared his throat and took another single step into the room.
“How are you feeling, sir?” Paxton mumbled, his eyes still focused on Delilah.
“Could be better. If I complain, Del here makes me drink castor oil.” Ben laughed and held his hands up. “Get over here, boy. Give your old man a hug.” Paxton started a little. That was the oddest request he'd ever heard, and he'd captured some wack jobs. Nervously, Pax walked over to the huge four-poster bed and leaned over, embracing the man as if he were a Ming Dynasty vase. Paxton didn't expect the man to enfold him in his still-strong muscled arms and squeeze him. Pax squeezed back and sighed. What happened to General Ben?
* * *
Delilah looked at t
he tender scene. May her mother forgive her for being so meddlesome, but she’d known, after talking with Ben for the past two weeks, it was time to give the prodigal son a call. She stealthlily crept from the room and made her way to the garage. It had been her favorite hangout since she was a little girl, helping her dad change the oil and detailing the old mayor's car. For as long as she could remember, her father had driven the Wainwrights wherever they need to go. Frederic Gibbs had been a most loyal employee to Old Ben, and when he needed help, Delilah didn't hesitate to come back to aid him.
When her mother had called her three weeks ago at the hospital in Hartford, frantically telling her that Ben had taken a nasty fall, Delilah put in a personal leave request to the head physical therapist and found someone to cover her client load. She was determined to get the man back to his usual stoic self. After her own father picked her up in the same black Bentley he'd driven the Wainwrights in for years, Delilah went to work in helping the man recover.
When Delilah found out that Ben hadn't talked to his son in fifteen years, her blood boiled. Growing up with Paxton, even if he never noticed her, she knew he was a bad kid, but she also knew that both Ben and Pax would be too stubborn to bury the axe on their own. She called in a few favors and found out what Pax had done with himself. While she had enough gumption to find him, she gave the information to Ben’s nurse and pleaded with the woman to call Paxton home. Delilah didn't want to be the one to talk to a Paxton who was allowed to carry firearms. Plus, she didn’t want to ask why he asked out every girl in town but her.
As she flipped on the dim yellow overhead lamp in the garage, Delilah thought about the infamous Paxton Wainwright. While she’d never had the pleasure of knowing him as a friend in high school, their circle of friends being polar opposites, she'd heard enough stories to know that Pax was destructive, brooding and moody. Opening the back door to the same trusted 1980 Bentley T2 that her father drove, she climbed in, pulling her legs up just as she’d done as a little girl. Thinking back to her high school days, Delilah remembered Paxton as someone completely different from the battered man she saw moments ago.
“I know I shouldn't even interfere,” Delilah muttered, sighing, reaching across the tan leather interior to pull the door closed. It didn't budge.
“Then why did you?” a dark, dangerous voice said from outside the vehicle.
Delilah gasped and pulled her hand back. Looking up, her eyes met the very man her thoughts had conjured up. Paxton’s mysterious heather-gray eyes pinned her into the butter-soft leather seats. She fixed her mouth into her professional grim scowl. Tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, Delilah cleared her throat.
“Because any child would want to know when their parent is hurt,” Delilah said, not letting her gaze falter from his.
“I'm not a child, miss.” Delilah arched her meticulously plucked eyebrow. No, but you sure are acting like one right now, she thought.
“I can see that you are a man, Mr. Wainwright.” From the muscles bellowing to rip apart that hunter green T-shirt he was wearing, Delilah could see he was, indeed, all man.
“I'm sorry, but can you come out of the car? I feel a little ridiculous talking to a pair of legs.”
“Why?” Delilah snapped. She didnt want to leave her comfort nest.
“What?”
“Why are you talking to me, you should be in there with Ben,” Delilah said.
“Maybe I wanted to say thank you. Maybe I wanted to see if you turned out to be every bit of the brat I thought you were.”
Delilah could hear the frustration in his voice. Sighing again, she scooted across the seat and set her feet on the epoxy floor. She watched his battered brown walking shoes inch away, giving her more space to climb out and stretch to her full height. Delilah was only a little taller than average, standing at five feet nine inches, but she appreciated him giving her space.
She looked him in the eye and put her hand on her hip. He thought she was the brat? It figured. In high school, Paxton had his head so far up his own ass, he needed scuba gear to breathe. She looked at his dark blond hair which looked as it always did, like he constantly ran his fingers through it. It was a lot shorter than it was in high school, very professional, but still messy and still one hundred percent Paxton.
“I think that is the pot calling the kettle black Mr. Wainwright. I was never a brat. I’m Delilah Gibbs remember? Freddie's daughter, always got her head under the hood, sweet little tomboy Del, always have been and always will be.” she said, holding out her manicured fingers. Delilah could have kicked herself for letting all of those old memories come out of her mouth. She never told anyone but her battered diary that she was convinced that Paxton didn’t like her because she was too much a tomboy.
Instead of holding out his hand and shaking like a normal person, Pax took a step back and said nothing. Huffing, she dropped her hand. “What, chicks still have cooties?” she said, wrinkling her nose at him.
* * *
Paxton Xavier Wainwright had never been knocked speechless before, but the chocolate firecracker in front of him had done it twice in thirty minutes. He really needed that scotch. Maybe the hot fire of the alcohol in his throat would take the attention away from the hot fire he felt stirring in his loins every time he looked at Delilah. The woman in front of him was not the funny little tomboy with the ponytail. He eyed her from head to toe, finally getting a full look at the woman Del had become. Paxton stood still, taking in the mysterious glow the vintage car lights gave her soft cocoa skin, yet still not believing it was her. When he finally stared into her wide, expressive coffee-colored eyes, he felt his soul shift. Yes indeed, that was Delilah Gibbs, the one female he’d longed for and never pursued.
“Well, Mr. Wainwright?” Why the hell was she being so formal? She'd been present on more than one occasion when her father had to pick him up drunk from the docks. Del had listened to him bemoan how hard it was being a spoiled rich white boy in Essex. Being the girl she was then, she never said a word, just sat on the opposite side of the backseat, buckled in, staring at him with those same eyes with the same expression on her face. He always felt like her eyes were asking him for the answer to some unknown question.
Paxton realized he still hadn't spoken. He cleared his throat and stepped forward; pleased she didn't move when he hovered dangerously close to her body. His nose caught a hint of her spicy but sweet perfume, reminding him of the molasses cookies her father would share with him when picking him up from school. Smiling at a good memory at last, he looked down on her.
“ How have you been? Freddie?” He put his hands on her shoulders, as if he’d found an anchor. His mind stopped spinning for a moment.
Pax stared down at her, noticing the confusion on her face. Hell, he was confused too. In front of him stood the only person who never seemed to judge him, and he'd ignored her because of that reason. He'd never been able to figure out what it was about Delilah that made him nervous, made him hot, made him want to strip her down naked but made him want to run at the same time. It all seemed so long ago, but he knew that the kid he was then, he did the right thing by staying away from her.
“Dad's great, although he is the most active retired man I've ever seen.” She smiled. Her small dimples peaked out and gave her the look of a cherub.
“How's Sheila?” Pax inquired after her mother. The sweet woman always had a special place in his heart, subbing as a mother figure after his mom vanished.
“Mom’s well. She's been helping out around here since Mr. Wainwright’s accident. You may see her tomorrow.” He watched as she backed away from the car and closed the door. Without the glow of the interior lights, they were surrounded by very little light and lots of shadows, much like his memories.
“And you?” Paxton was curious about Del’s life. What did she do, where did she live? What about boyfriends, husband, family? Although, thinking on those things, he felt a hint of anger tugging at him.
“Good. I'm a physical ther
eapist in Hartford; I came to help your dad recover.”
“Thanks. Your family has always taken good care of us—even when we didn't deserve it.” Paxton remembered the Gibbs family always being around, hovering like guardian angels.
“Eh, we'd do anything to drive the Bentley,” Delilah joked. He caught her infectious chuckle and let out a little laugh. “Is he resting?” Delilah had been coming to the Wainwright estate twice a day to check on the elder Wainwright, but she never stayed too long, according to his father.
“Yeah. Will you fill me in on what happened?”
Delilah nodded and began walking toward the main house. “My mom called and told me that Mr. Wainwright had aimed to jump a fence; your own father told me he was feeling reckless. He lost control and took a spill. Luckily he was with someone and they called it in. He'd broken a hip, which was replaced. With good physical therapy, he'll be fine, albiet with a slight limp.”
“Like father, like son,” Pax grumbled as he followed her through the screen door.
“Mmph. Yes, I noticed you had a limp. Did you get that on the job?” Delilah asked.
“No. It was right before I enlisted in the Merchant Marines.” Pax didn't want to tell her how he got it.
“Ah, a Mariner—makes sense.” Delilah turned to face him in the immaculate kitchen.
“Why?”
“If I remember right, you were always near the docks or where the sound met the bay. You and water are like Sunday mornings and the Isley Brothers”. Paxton barked out a laugh. Freddie had picked him up on numerous Sunday mornings with Delilah in tow, the sounds of “Summer Breeze” playing in the background.
“Ahh, yeah. So, do you come and visit often?” Even though Paxton's station was located in Boston, he was always on the road; his apartment was more like a really big storage locker.
“Oh yes, every Sunday if I can, but it’s been nice being home all the time. There are a lot of good memories for me here.” Delilah winced, and Paxton knew why. She had firsthand knowledge of how miserable he was as a kid.
