by J. D. Dexter
It doesn’t surprise me in the least that Brent found out Sarah’s first name. He loves information, the more the better. He gives me a sly smile.
“And was is made clear to Sarah that we would have issue with that fact if nothing was done to help clean up the house?” I ask him.
“Perhaps,” he says.
“Uh huh.” I stifle a smile. He doesn’t need the encouragement.
“Hey, I didn’t draw up a contract. Give me some credit,” Brent says.
“She did put the kibosh on the new furniture though.” Brian looks sad.
“I’m just happy and thankful that everything was cleaned up while I was out. Thank you, guys. That means everything to me,” I tell them all, looking at each of them in turn.
“We were going crazy with nothing to do, so we did what we could to make sure you woke up to no nightmares,” Josh puts in.
“It definitely makes a difference,” I say.
“Yes, I’ll bring her over now,” Hunter says from across the room. I turn to look at him. He gives me an aggrieved smile. “Mom, I said we’ll be there. Give us about an hour.”
I look down at my bloody, sleep-wrinkled clothes. Yikes. Meeting his mom for the first time, I need to look better than a Slaughterhouse Movie reject.
Bouncing up to my feet, I rush into my bedroom, ripping off clothes along the way.
“Oh, sweet angels and baby Jesus.” Hunter’s reverent whisper has me whipping around. He’s standing in my open door, his face wreathed in pained ecstasy.
“Hunter!” I dash around the corner into the bathroom, my chest rising and falling like I’ve run a marathon instead of five steps. My cheeks are hot with embarrassment, and my body is warm with a heat that has nothing to do with shame.
“Sorry. You ran away so fast that I just followed you.” He doesn’t sound very sorry.
Taking a peek at him through the sliver of space between the door jamb and the edge of the door, I watch him as he inspects the ceiling. He cracks me up. He did the same thing the last time we were in my room and half naked.
Granted, we were both covered in tear- and snot-soaked tops, and not blood or gore that time. Watching him do some deep breathing exercises brings a smile to my face. His head drops, and his eyes meet mine as a small chuckle escapes me.
“I’ll leave so you can get cleaned up.” He sounds really sad.
“I’d invite you to shower with me, but I don’t think that would be a good idea.” I’m not surprised by the hard tug in my lower body that thinks it would be a very good idea.
Down, girl.
***
The growl of Brian’s oversized truck echoes through the streets of Hunter’s neighborhood in the quiet of the evening. There’s just a hint of autumn in the wind this late at night—although I’m probably deluding myself. I can’t wait for fall and winter. I’m not a summer fan at all.
Hunter comes around and helps me down the steps. I’m unfamiliar with Brian’s truck, and since I basically had to climb a ladder just to get in it, I’m more than happy to wait for some help getting out. Making our way to the front door of Hunter’s Tudor-style house in College Hill, I’m amazed at the expanse of his property.
Hunter’s house has sweeping arches, contrasting lattice work, and pointed peaks that mix with the Traditional and Cape Cod style homes on his street. His home is done in stone, blues, and creams, soothing and classic. The yard looks like it takes up at least one and a half lots, maybe even two. The deep, rich green of a well-manicured lawn, with no-fuss green plants near the house, is just missing a passel of kids playing in it.
“Come on in. I need to get cleaned up and changed before we head over to my mom’s.” Hunter opens the front door and lets me step through. Hardwood floors and what looks like original trim and woodwork guide me into a small foyer before opening up into a medium-sized sitting room. Currently full of overstuffed furniture, it looks more for show than actual function.
“My bedroom’s back here.” Hunter strides down the hall, his steps fast and sure. I eagerly follow him, wanting a glimpse of his bedroom.
“Lead the way, el Capitan.”
His chuckle makes me smile. We pass through a utilitarian kitchen done in stainless steel and builder-grade cabinets topped in granite. His shoes squeak on the tile floor as we move through the open space.
Turning down another short hallway, we’re standing in front of another door. Solid wood stained a rich color that almost invites you to touch it, the door is slightly ajar.
“Don’t judge me. It’s probably really messy.”
We step through the door, and I burst out laughing. “If this is messy, you must think I’m Pig-Pen.”
The masculine room is spic-and-span. Not a speck of dust or a stray sock to be seen. Dark blues, forest greens, and hints of ivory decorate the space. Huge picture windows grace two of his four walls and, were it actually light outside, would probably flood the room with natural light.
“Trust me, this isn’t my doing. I’m not a neat-freak by any means, but I’m more relaxed in my housekeeping efforts. I’m guessing my mom hired a service to come in a clean once I’d been gone for so long.”
Walking all the way into the room, I notice that the space is bigger than mine by a pretty wide margin. My king-sized bed dominates my bedroom, while his seems like it fits in the space without making it feel crowded.
Hunter steps towards a gorgeous six-drawer dresser and pulls open the top drawer to yank out some boxer briefs.
“Knew you were a boxer brief man.” I pat a hand over my chest. “Be still my heart.”
“I hadn’t expected you to be a thong girl. I was thinking more hipsters or boy-shorts. And believe me, that is not a complaint.”
I laugh. “I got tired of them always riding up and giving me wedgies while I work, so I figured I might as well wear thongs since my panties ended up between my cheeks anyways. They’re pretty comfortable if you get the right kind.”
“I won’t be trying them out, so I’ll just take your word for it.”
“Thank goodness. I have a personal abhorrence for banana hammocks.” I shudder. Magic Mike was a horror film of the highest order.
His laugh booms like thunder during a spring rain. “Seconded.” Still shaking his head, his snow-colored hair whips from side to side.
“Make yourself at home. I won’t take too long.” He closes the door to what I can only assume is the master bathroom.
I wander around his space, getting a feel for it. Sometimes, if I let myself be still enough, I can get a read on spaces. Not quite to the extent that I can reading people through the Spectrum, but it’s something that can come in handy when I don’t want to worry about knowing too much about a person.
Hunter’s space is cozy and welcoming. Like a warm hug on a cold, rainy afternoon, it provides a safe harbor. Much like the man himself.
After a couple minutes, the water shuts off in the other room, and I can hear him moving around. A couple of thunks and zings tells me he’s in a closet. I would love to see what his closet looks like.
Sitting on his bureau is a collection of photographs. A brunette woman with a gorgeous smile beams from one of them. A dark-haired solemn-faced man glares from the next.
“Are these your parents? The photos on your dresser,” I ask him mentally.
The door opens behind me, a humid breeze pouring into the room. “Yeah. My mom—Abigail. My dad—Franklin.”
I turn to look at him. Briefly pouting at seeing him all covered up, I contain the urge to whine. Shaking that thought off, I tip my head to the side, studying him. He doesn’t really look like either of his parents. At all.
“Do either of your parents dye their hair?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “Nope. We have no idea where my hair color came from.” He runs a hand through the damp strands. “I was born with jet-black hair. It began lightening up around six months or so. At least that’s what Mom says.”
“Do you have any baby picture
s? I really like your hair color, and can’t really imagine you with any other color at all.”
“Some. I’m sure my mom will drag them out after she gets to know you.” He sounds like he’s only half-joking.
“Reason number one to get her to like me then,” I tease.
“Does that mean you have a list of reasons for wanting her to like you?”
“Yup.”
“Gonna share them with me?”
“Maybe.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “You aren’t going to tell me?”
“Not right now.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not going to.”
“Will you tell me later?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Probably.”
He snickers and shakes his head at me. “Okay.”
“Are you all ready to go?” I ask him after a beat.
“Pretty much. I need a couple minutes to go see about the mail situation.” With that, he grabs my hand and pulls me from the room.
Retracing our steps, we stop next to the kitchen island where his mail is stacked neatly into a couple of different piles. He efficiently goes through each pile. Most of them get ripped up and thrown away. Some he opens, stacking them off to one side. Others he moves into new piles.
After refiling in a system only he understands, he starts going through one of the smaller piles. These look more like personal mail. They’re shaped like greeting cards, postcards, and invitations to various activities.
One particular envelope seems to catch his attention. He reaches over and grabs a letter opener, and very carefully slices through the top of the casing. He pulls a heavy white paper from the pocket. It reminds me of some of the gala invites my parents received from various charity organizations over the years.
My heart stumbles in my chest, causing my ribs to ache and my belly to squeeze painfully. Inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, I push through the pain and the anger that seeps into me once again.
“Shit,” Hunter whispers, breaking my thoughts on losing my parents. I gratefully focus on him and the letter splayed out on his countertop. A pen in each corner holding the letter open.
“What’s wrong?” I lean forward, trying to get a glimpse of what’s caused him alarm.
“This is the second letter like this I’ve gotten.” He turns down a hallway I missed earlier as we made our way through to his bedroom. In a couple of moments, he’s back. Another piece of paper in his hands, although this one looks more like ordinary copy paper. “We’ve got to get going. We’ll deal with these later.”
***
“Hunter! I was beginning to worry,” Hunter’s mom shouts from the open entryway of her house. The huge yard is no obstacle for her lifted voice. Abigail’s home is Upper Class Midwestern: two-stories of paired windows, framed by faux shudders, pillars holding up the roof of the extended porch, a two-car garage, and painted a subdued, hazy blue.
Hunter’s mom and step-dad live in a tiny, upscale town in the middle of Wichita named Eastborough. They even have their own police department and zip code. The homes are expansive, and sit on large lots. Although, in comparison, her house sits fairly close to the street. I can’t wait to see her backyard.
The woman herself is a statuesque example of timeless femininity. Her deep chestnut hair is styled in a longish bob that frames her face, and accentuates her bold, chocolate eyes. I keep the Spectrum in an iron-fist. I don’t want to intrude on this woman.
Aunt Cynthia, the woman who shot me and ended up bringing Hunter into my life, would never have dressed in this much color. But Abigail and Cynthia share the same style of clothing: posh and refined. I’m sure I’ll never pull that combination off with such aplomb.
I doubt I’ll even try.
“Sorry, Mom. We got held up at the house,” Hunter responds as he guides me up the tiny walkway to the front door. “Mom, this is Finley Tindol. Finley, this is my mom, Abigail Rightencroft.”
Mrs. Rightencroft extends her right hand to me, “Hello, Finley. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Although I wish it were under better circumstances. Please, please, come in.” She steps back, and sweeps us into the foyer.
“Mom.” Hunter steps up and draws his mom in for a hug, his six-five frame engulfing her more petite one. Some of her reserved air drops away as her shoulders begin to tremble.
An average-height, slightly-built man with graying temples rescues me from the awkwardness of intruding on mother and son’s reunion. He looks like a harried professor. His lived-in face has creases in expression lines that seem to invite confidences. His smile is both welcoming and breathtaking.
“Hello there. I’m Reginal Rightencroft. You must be the Finley we keep hearing about on the TV.” He lowers his voice so as not to interrupt the emotional scene behind me.
I’ve been on TV?
“Hi. Yes, I’m Finley Tindol. It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Rightencroft.” I shake his outstretched hand.
“Oh, please, dear, do call me Reggie.” He gives me a wink out of twinkling green eyes.
“I’ll do that, Reggie. Thank you. Please call me Finley.”
“I intend to.”
I chuckle. “I’m glad. I wouldn’t know who you were talking to if you called me…” The words stall on my tongue. I clear my throat and muster through the pain, “if you were to call me Ms. Tindol. That was always my mother.”
Hearing myself refer to Mom in the past tense makes me feel like I’m going to empty my stomach in a stranger’s home. I push down the feeling, and push away the grief. Now is not the time for me to fall apart. Now is for Hunter and his family.
“Are you okay, dear? You seem a bit peaked.” Reggie’s gentle voice breaks through.
“Yes.” I clear my throat once more. “I’m fine. Bit of a tickle.” I wiggle my fingers near my throat.
“Come into the parlor, and I’ll get you a drink.” Taking the lead, he simply turns and walks down a hallway.
The walls are covered in photos, gallery style. Tracing milestones, family vacations, yearly pictures, their walls are a testament to their growth and commitment to each other and the family as a whole.
A young Hunter stares out of some of the pictures. In one, he’s standing at a church altar, a baby of about three in his arms, with Reggie and Mrs. Rightencroft directly behind them. Another wedding picture has him standing as best man at Reggie and Mrs. Rightencroft’s wedding.
Another at a beach in front of turquoise waters, a family of four with tanned bodies and bright white smiles of joy. In another, they are all dressed in black, their faces morose, their smiles restrained.
“That was when my mother died.” Reggie’s voice makes me jump.
“I’m sorry. Losing the people we love is always hard.” My heart clenches.
“She’s in a better place now.” He puts his hand on my arm and leads me through a doorway a couple of steps farther down the hall. “Come, have a seat. What do you drink?”
“I’ll just have a water. Thank you.”
“Sure you wouldn’t like anything harder? Scotch, whiskey, bourbon?”
“I’ll have a soda if you have it—that’s about as hard as I drink. If not, the water would be great.”
“That’s a girl. I detest a woman who drinks the hard stuff on first acquaintance.” Shaking his head, he strides out of the room. His demeanor and his language having me struggling to pin him with an age. My best guess would be mid- to late-sixties.
Left on my own while Reggie gets drinks, I take in my surroundings. Overstuffed and comfortable seem to be the themes in this house. The couches look like you could take a quality nap in their cushions. The coffee table able to hold the weight of your feet as you watch TV. The end tables have coasters with worn edges. This room sees a lot of family life and use.
It makes me happy to see that this house is one that is lived in and loved. More pictures decorate the bookshelves and the mantle. A TV stands in the middle of the mantle over the fireplace. Th
e soot and blackened logs resting in its base look like it actually gets used instead of being only for show.
“Here we are.” Reggie comes back into the room. Two full glasses with ice tinkling with every step he takes. He hands me a glass full of a dark brown soda, tiny carbonation bubbles bursting from the top.
I take a sip. “Thank you.”
He beams at me. His smile is truly a thing of beauty and wonder. It seems to encapsulate his entire face, sheer joy and happiness radiate from his eyes.
“You’re most welcome. So, tell me about yourself, Finley, dear.” He settles into a chair opposite my own place on the oversized couch.
“Well, I’m a muscular dysfunction expert specializing in chronic pain and maladaptive patterns,” I begin.
His green eyes gleam. “That sounds utterly fascinating. Tell me more.” He sets his drink aside and leans forward. I can almost see him rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
“In what particular avenue would you like me to delve? This is my passion, so I could talk both of your ears off if you let me,” I warn him.
The man giggles. Like a middle school girl. The sound brings an answering smile to my own mouth. “Perfect. Passion is a person’s lifeblood. You pick the topic. What’s your favorite problem to fix?”
“My absolute favorite, the kind of patient I could work on for the rest of my life, would have to be pelvic instability or dysfunction,” I begin. Settling myself deeper into the cushions, I prepare for a busman’s holiday.
“Wonderful.” He giggles again. “What, pray tell, is pelvic instability and dysfunction?” Reggie asks.
“Pelvic instability and dysfunction happen when the muscles of the hip cause systemic issues for the body. Typically found in the deep hip rotators, they can cause low back pain, neck pain, tension headaches, migraines, sciatica, plantar fasciitis, and a host of other problems. My job is to discover the problems, cause pain, and fix my patient,” I explain.
His blank face has me smothering a smile.
