Deep Down (Lockhart Brothers #1)

by Brenda Rothert

  Though I couldn’t tell anyone what my father had done, I could be honest about Tom. And it was hard to refuse the chief, who was looking at me earnestly.

  “Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath and wiping the tears from my cheeks. “I’ll come in and talk to you.”

  We agreed on a day and time and the chief handed me a slip of paper with the appointment written on it. I went back to work, but my emotions were still running high.

  It wasn’t Tom Marsh I was upset about, but my father. He’d put me in an impossible position. Turn him in and tell the world my son was the product of an incestuous sexual assault, or keep it secret and let him get away with it.

  My hands shook as I washed dishes at the end of my shift. I’d asked to get off the floor because I couldn’t bear talking to customers right now.

  Picking up Noah and spending time with him should have relaxed me. But looking into his big innocent eyes made me more resentful toward my father than ever. My son wouldn’t have a daddy to play ball with him. He’d miss out on so much. Then there was the added worry of health problems because he was technically inbred. My beautiful son being labeled with something so ugly was brutally unfair. Noah deserved everything good.

  I didn’t call April back, because I was so upset I was liable to blurt out the whole truth to her. She suspected I’d been sexually assaulted and had encouraged me to get counseling shortly after I arrived in Lovely. I’d spoken to someone for a couple months, never telling the complete truth. It had helped some, but the demons were never far away.

  I hugged Noah close until he fell asleep, but I was too emotional to sleep myself. I crept out of bed and sat down on the couch with an empty notebook and pen.

  Dear Brad,

  I’ll never call you Dad again. As a father you are dead to me. I figured I was dead to you, too, until I received your letter.

  You want to meet your grandson? You have no grandson. You have no daughter. You have no one and nothing, and you’re too arrogant to realize it’s your own fault.

  What you did to me was unimaginable. You took away my belief in the goodness of people. You took away my ability to trust. Your own sexual gratification meant more to you than the daughter who was still grieving her mother’s death.

  Drunk or not, what you did was wrong. And the horror I couldn’t imagine back then is all too familiar now. I relive what you did in nightmares that leave me shaking and crying.

  My letter was not an attempt to get back in touch with you. I only wanted the medical information the doctor needs about my son.

  Why can’t you bring yourself to say it? You raped me. My son will never have a father because the sick, twisted truth is that if he had one, it would be you.

  You disgust me. I hate you. I wish there was a way for me to hurt you as much as you hurt me. I believe there’s a special place in hell for you. It’s reserved for men worse than those who rape their daughters. This place is for men who do it and aren’t even sorry.

  Rot there.

  Ivy

  My notebook was filled with crossed out words and rewrites, so I penned a final draft and re-read it. I tore it out, folded it and put it in an envelope.

  My hand shook as I took it to work the next morning. I was so afraid of what he would say.

  But it wasn’t my father I was worried about—he’d never see this letter. It was Walter. I left the envelope next to his breakfast spot.

  He wanted me to write about something that mattered and I had. Whether he liked it or not, I felt stronger for having written it. I’d finally put into words the feelings that had been buried in me for so long.

  FOR THE THIRD DAY in a row, I was waiting in the seat next to Walter’s when he arrived for breakfast at seven forty-five.

  “Morning, Mr. Grieves,” I said.

  He grunted with disapproval. “If you think you can annoy me into changing my mind, think again.”

  Ivy approached and poured coffee into his mug.

  “Good morning, Walter.” She pulled out her order pad. “I see you’ve got company again.”

  “Yes, much to my dismay. It’s bad when a man can’t even have his breakfast in peace.” The words were grumpy, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.

  Ivy tried to hide a smile. “Well, what can I get you?”

  He rattled off his usual order and Ivy caught my eye before she walked away.

  “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” I said to Walter. “It’s not the beauty you see in magazines or on TV. It’s something very rare. I can tell when I say something that makes her happy because her eyes just shine.”

  Walter ignored me, scanning the pages of the newspaper, but I continued.

  “You know, as crazy as this sounds, I think I’m in love with her.”

  He pretended to ignore me, but I saw his eyes widen. Walter was listening, alright.

  “I know right when it happened, too,” I said. “I remember feeling like my chest just wasn’t big enough for my heart in that moment. I saw her at Jimmy’s Italian Place with her son. The looks on their faces . . . it was pure, unconditional love. I could feel her devotion to him. She has a good heart, and that’s where her beauty comes from.”

  “Well, you’re a real poet,” he muttered.

  I shrugged. “It’s the truth. I’ll be sitting here at seven forty-five for as many days as it takes to convince you. She’s worth it.”

  He mumbled something, but I missed it. I was too busy watching Ivy making coffee. It was a simple task, but her long, graceful fingers made it captivating. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and I imagined myself releasing it to let it fall around her shoulders, and then burying my face in it.

  I’d been adamant about not falling for a woman in Lovely when I moved back. But I’d had no say in the matter. Ivy had grabbed my attention at Gene’s Diner, mesmerized me at a barn dance and stolen my heart at Jimmy’s Italian Place.

  It was love, Lovely style. Now I just needed her to feel the same way about me.

  BY THE END OF my shift, my back ached. The new waitress had decided to quit by not showing up this morning, and we’d all had to pull extra weight. And my extra weight had been literal. I’d rotated supplies in the walk-in cooler so the new deliveries were placed in the back allowing us to use stuff in the order it had come in. The job was usually done by Gene or Shawn, but Gene hadn’t been able to get out from behind the grill all day, and Shawn had been bussing tables nonstop, so I’d stayed an hour after my shift to get it done.

  When I finally walked outside the winter air felt good. I took in a deep breath and blew it out, a visible cloud appearing in front of my mouth.

  “Ivy,” a male voice said.

  I jumped with surprise as I turned.

  “Walter.” I laughed lightly. “You scared me.”

  “I just wanted a chance to talk to you when you’re not working,” he said. “Can we take a short walk?”

  I looked him over as I nodded. He wore a dark newsboy hat and a matching wool trench coat, his hands stuffed in the pockets. I found him a little intimidating. Right now, he seemed a lot more like a famous author than my grouchy customer.

  “I read your letter,” he said, looking straight ahead as we walked down one side of the downtown square. “May I ask if it was fact or fiction?”

  I zipped up my sweatshirt to ward off the cold. “Fact.”

  A few moments of silence passed before Walter spoke.

  “I’d first like to say how sorry I am for what happened to you.”

  I stared at the cars moving in the distance, unable to look at Walter.

  “I didn’t write it because I wanted your sympathy.”

  Walter chuckled beside me. “I realize that. Do you ever think about the fact that every person has his own story? Like that fellow over there.” He nodded toward a man on the other side of the square who was walking briskly, his head bowed. “He could be fighting some inner battle we’ll never know about.”

  “That’s true.”
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  “My wife left me after our daughter died,” he said. “I didn’t know how to cope. I started drinking. When she needed me most, I wasn’t there. It’s something I’ll always have to carry with me.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Walter. I’m so sorry about your daughter.”

  He shook his head as we turned a corner. “No one forgets their darkest moments, Ivy. Just like you can’t forget it, neither can he. He’ll carry the shame until he takes his last breath. Nothing you could ever do or say could hurt like the truth he has to live with. Now, that’s not meant to minimize what you feel, because you’re very entitled to those feelings. I just want you to know that pain can seem inescapable, but it isn’t. Guilt, however, is inescapable.”

  “He should feel guilty.”

  “Damn right. And you should feel like a survivor.”

  “I do.”

  “After I read what you wrote, I went into my office and wrote for ten hours straight.” He laughed softly. “I haven’t done that in years. Do you know why I did it?”

  I shook my head silently.

  “Because you moved me, Ivy. With the raw honesty of your words. I felt the pain in that letter.”

  I swallowed hard, pleased by the compliment. “I couldn’t think of anything else to write about.”

  “Ah. Because those are strong feelings. How in the hell could you write about a tree or your favorite vacation when you’ve got that inside you?”

  I smiled. Walter stopped at a bench in the park and gestured for me to sit down beside him.

  “Putting things into words is cathartic, no?” he said.

  “Very much. I should send him the letter, but . . . I’m not there yet.”

  “Keep writing, Ivy. You have a leg up on other writers. You’ve experienced the depths of loss and hurt and love. Through not just your mother’s loss and what your father did, but the joy you experience through your son. Use those things. Draw on them and show others they aren’t alone. Tell stories that matter. Fiction is about characters who don’t exist, but their pain and sorrow and joy are very real.”

  “I wanted to major in English in college but I wasn’t able to go.”

  Walter furrowed his brow and looked at me over the thick rims of his glasses. “My books had made me seven figures before I went back and finished my degree. The only thing that can keep you from writing is you. Don’t let that happen.”

  His words warmed me. “Okay. I won’t let that happen. Thank you, Walter.”

  “And now we need to talk about the Lockhart boy,” he said, his grumpy tone returning.

  “Reed?”

  “I think that’s the one who’s been pestering me to convince you to go on a date with him.”

  I laughed. “Sorry. I had to tell him something, and I figured you’d chase him off.”

  Walter eyed me over the rims of his glasses again. “Because going out with an attractive, intelligent man who is obviously ass over teakettle for you would be so awful?”

  I sighed deeply. “Well, now you know why, Walter. I closed myself off a long time ago.”

  “You may have, but you’re fighting your way back.”

  I gave him a skeptical glance.

  “Ivy, as long as you keep your feelings deep inside, your father wins. You’re letting it come to the surface because you want more than that now. Let the anger and betrayal boil over and you’ll feel stronger. You’ll be stronger. All this time, you’ve survived, and I admire you for that. But maybe it’s time to do more than survive.”

  “You’re telling me to go out with Reed?”

  “I think you’d be crazy not to. I really believe he’s going to ask me every day for as long as it takes. He’s persistent, loyal and protective. And from what I know of them, the Lockharts are good people.”

  “I think so, too.”

  “So open up and try it.”

  I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling excited by the prospect.

  “Walter, I feel like I’m the one who owes you a tip this time.”

  “I won’t disagree.”

  “Just don’t expect more than fifteen percent.”

  I RAN MY FINGERS over the small silver butterfly pendant on the necklace my mom gave me for my sixteenth birthday. I hadn’t looked at it since before she died. It had been tucked away in its box which, in turn, was wrapped up in a scarf, in a drawer of my dresser.

  It was time to wear it again.

  When I’d dropped Noah off at Margie and Gene’s earlier, she’d given me a gift box from a downtown boutique.

  “I wanted you to have something new to wear tonight,” she said as she handed it to me after work. The hopeful, happy look in her eyes had made my throat tight.

  Inside the box was an emerald green, cashmere V-neck sweater. It was more beautiful than anything I’d ever owed. I cried and then Margie did, too. Even Gene’s eyes looked misty.

  When I got home and put the sweater on over a white cotton camisole with my favorite old jeans, I felt beautiful. Not just because of the sweater, but because Margie gave it to me out of love. Whether or not any of us said it out loud, she and Gene were family to me and Noah. They’d never had children of their own, and I knew we’d found our way to each other for a reason.

  Since I had a token from Margie to wear on my date with Reed, it seemed right to wear the necklace, too.

  I called April, but she didn’t answer so I left a message telling her I was going on a date. I knew she’d be happy and that she’d call tomorrow expecting details.

  A knock sounded at the door and my stomach flipped over nervously. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and made the short trip from the bedroom to the door. When I opened it, Reed stood there smiling at me.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi.” I tucked my hair behind my ear nervously. “I’m ready. I just need to get my coat and purse.”

  I closed the door and turned to grab my stuff from the couch. A soft knock on the door made me open it up immediately.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, looking at Reed through the crack of light filtering in.

  “Uh . . .” He gave me a lopsided grin. “Can I come in? I wanted to, um—”

  I opened the door all the way, seeing the long white box in his arms for the first time.

  “Oh. What’s that?”

  He pulled off the lid, revealing a dozen long-stemmed red roses.

  “Oh my God.” I met his eyes with surprise. “Reed, you didn’t have to do that. No one’s ever given me flowers. Unless a junior prom corsage counts.” I laughed nervously.

  “Can I bring them inside?”

  I stepped aside. “You can, but . . . my place isn’t much. You probably guessed that based on the proximity to the railroad tracks. And the missing siding on the outside of the building.”

  “Ivy.” Reed stepped inside and looked around. “Don’t be nervous, okay? Your place is great.”

  He looked around the living room, which consisted of a threadbare green couch with a blanket covering the cushions, a coffee table and pictures of me and Noah on the walls. I’d also framed several pictures he’d drawn or painted.

  I reached for the box in his arms. “I guess I should put these in water, right? I don’t have a vase, but maybe I’ve got something else that will work.”

  The kitchen was just a few feet away, and I stepped into it and looked through my cabinets, my heart pounding in my chest. I hadn’t been alone with a man since . . .

  I couldn’t think about that. Not now. I’d think about the sweater and the necklace and Reed, who had just brought me a dozen red roses.

  My kitchen was filled with practical essentials. I didn’t own a single item that red roses would look pretty in. But I had to make something work.

  There was an empty milk jug on the counter, waiting to be taken out to the trash. I grabbed it and rinsed it out in the sink. After I cut the top of it off to make room for the stems, it looked . . . hideous, but it was all I had.

  I trimmed the
ends of the roses, filled the empty jug with water and arranged the flowers in it. When I put it in the center of my small, scratched up kitchen table, I heard Reed laughing softly.

  “Clever,” he said.

  “Thank you for the roses. They’re beautiful.”

  “You’re welcome. You look gorgeous, by the way.”

  My cheeks warmed as he looked at me. “I was hoping jeans would be okay.”

  “Perfect.” He reached his hand out to me. “Are you all set?”

  I took his hand and we walked out together after I grabbed my coat and purse, bundling it up under one arm so I could keep my hand in his.

  For nearly four years now my gut had told me not to let men touch me. I wasn’t sure if it was my heart or my gut telling me now that Reed was different, and that I didn’t need to worry. Much as I wanted to be a strong, independent woman who didn’t need anyone but Noah, this felt good. When Reed opened the passenger door to his dark pickup truck, he kept hold of my hand while I stepped inside.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  His expression turned sheepish and he smiled. “Have you ever been to Stumpy’s?”

  “No, but I think I’ve driven past it. Stumpy’s Supper Club?”

  “Yeah. It looks like a dive, but the food’s the best.”

  “Is Stumpy the owner?”

  “Yeah. I don’t even know his real name. He started going by Stumpy after he lost his hand to a wood chipper.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “I’m failing at romantic date talk here, aren’t I?” he said, grinning. “Stumpy’s the happiest guy you’ll ever meet. I think you’ll like his place.”

  Reed closed my door and I watched him walk around the front of the truck to the driver’s side. He wore jeans and a navy blue sweater with a white dress shirt beneath. It was the best of both his sides. I liked rugged Reed from the barn dance, in jeans, a flannel shirt and boots, the best. But I also appreciated the way he looked in the suits that fit the lines of his large frame just right.