by Adrian, Lara
His father’s wiry salt-and-pepper brows furrow. He emits a small moan, his head starting to move side to side against the pillow.
“No,” Nick says. “Now you have to listen to me. It’s my turn to talk.”
I place my hand on his shoulder, trying to gentle him, anchor him. I know he’s still angry and hurting. He might carry those scars forever. But he came here with things to say. Things he needs to release while he still has the chance to be heard.
He blows out a harsh breath, then tries again. “You were not a good father. I’m not even sure you were a good man. I was sure you couldn’t be, not when you could say the many hateful things you said to me, your constant ridicule and denigration, the torment that seemed designed to push me away. What kind of father does that? What kind of man?”
William Baine’s slack mouth quivers mutely as his son speaks. He grows agitated, frustration in his eyes.
“I asked myself those questions every day. How could my own father be so viciously determined to turn me into a heartless, uncaring bastard like himself? Why was he working so fucking hard to push me away?”
The sound his father makes is a strangled one, as if he’s choking on all the words he’s unable to form.
“Because that is what you were doing,” Nick says quietly. “You were trying to make me tough. You wanted to push me away. You had to. Not because you hated me. But because you were afraid to love me. You were scared shitless that deep down, you might turn out to be the same kind of monster your father was.”
There is no more struggling to speak. He freezes now, profound misery in his saggy, aged face.
“Avery and I went out to the house yesterday. We found the painting. We found your letter.”
His father’s eyes close. A quiet sob bubbles from between parched lips.
Only then does Nick reach out to touch the old man, resting his hand on the bony shoulder that’s now wracked with tremors as his father struggles with emotions that stay clogged in his throat.
“I wish you would have told me that you’d been hurt by him too. Christ, I wish you’d told Mom. If anyone had known, you might have spared us both so much pain.” Nick swears low under his breath. “Keeping the secret only made things easier for him to continue the sick cycle. It allowed him to move on, to prey on someone else. We could’ve put an end to it if you’d only found a way to tell me, Dad. Damn it, you should have warned me.”
His father weeps while Nick talks. I may not have much sympathy for the way William Baine chose to handle his relationship with his son, but it’s impossible not to feel some degree of pity for the anguish he’s experiencing now, being forced to hear firsthand how his decisions and secrets impacted his only child.
“I didn’t come here today to berate you,” Nick tells him. “I don’t have a need to upset you. That’s not why I came. I just . . . I just wanted to see you one more time.”
And likely the last time, given his father’s hastening decline.
Nick starts to move away from the bed. He’s barely taken a step when one of the thin, mottled arms reaches for him, clawed fingers grasping Nick’s ruined hand. His father’s eyes lock on his, tears spilling in a free fall now.
Regret and the need for absolution are etched all over the old man’s face.
“I know, Dad.” Nick nods solemnly. “I can’t take any of it back, either. I wish we could. I’m sorry we both had to share this horrible thing in common. As for him? I’m glad he’s dead. Thank you for that.”
Another sob breaks free from William Baine’s trembling mouth. The anguish in his haggard face is almost unbearable to watch. But Nick stands firm. He is strong enough for both of them now.
He squeezes his father’s quivering hand. “I want you to know that I’m okay. I’m happy . . . because of her.” He pulls me close, under the shelter of his arm. “I came back today, Dad, because I want you to know that I understand everything you did, and why. And I forgive you.”
The old man’s lips part, but the only sound that escapes them is a long, rasping exhalation. I know what he’s trying to say. I’m certain that Nick knows too.
I love you.
I’m sorry.
Nick extricates himself from the feeble grasp on his hand. With a tender palm, he cups the back of his father’s gray head. “Be at peace now, Dad.”
With a murmured goodbye, Nick turns away from the bed and gathers me close as we walk out of the room together.
Chapter 27
We’ve been in the air for about an hour, heading back to New York. I am seated in a leather club chair across from Avery on board the Baine International corporate jet.
My painting leans against the opposite wall from me. I still can’t believe it exists after all this time. Nor have I yet come to grips with the reason why.
I have a glass of single malt in one hand, my father’s letter in the other.
I’ve read it a dozen times at least.
I don’t know how many times I’ll have to read his words before they no longer open a cold hollow behind my sternum, one that leaves me feeling oddly bereft.
My father’s not dead yet, but reading his letter—one penned to me under the assumption he would be gone before it reached me—makes me realize just how little I truly knew about him.
Both his cowardice, and, in the end, his courage.
I down the last swallow of whisky as my gaze travels over his jagged handwriting once more.
Dominic,
If you’re reading this, it means that I am dead and this letter, along with your painting, has found its way to you in New York. I realize I’m taking the easy way out here. Waiting to write this until you can’t ask questions or tell me what a pussy I am for keeping all of this from you isn’t fair and I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for everything. I guess that’s the main thing I need you to know.
I wasn’t fit to be a father—I doubt I need to tell you that. The thought of having kids scared the piss out me. And then I met your mother and it wasn’t long afterward when she told me she was pregnant. I begged her to abort, but she wouldn’t think of it. Maybe I should’ve told her why I didn’t want to have a child. Hell, maybe I should’ve just packed her up and sent her back to her parents. You both would’ve been better off if I had.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw you in her arms. This pink, squalling thing, as helpless as a kitten. I panicked when she handed you to me. How was I going to protect something so fragile and innocent? I couldn’t even protect myself from my own father. I decided then and there that I could only make sure that my son was tough enough to protect himself. I promised myself I’d raise you to be strong so no one would ever be able to break you, especially not the way I’d been broken.
I don’t recall the first time my father touched me. I only know it didn’t stop until I hit puberty and got big enough to defend myself. About that same time, I worked up the guts to tell my mother what he’d done. Instead of defending me, she put a shotgun under her chin and pulled the trigger, leaving me all alone with him.
He and I worked the boat every day from the time I could hold a fishing rod. That didn’t change after you came along. I saw him looking at you one day. You were maybe seven or eight. I wanted to kill him right then and there. Now I realize I should have. Instead I pushed you away from the family business. To make sure you stayed away, I told you that you were weak. That you were useless.
You weren’t either of those things, son. I was.
Until that night we fought here at the house, I thought you’d been spared. I can’t describe how it felt to hear you say what he’d done to you. I didn’t want to believe it was possible that I failed you. I was too drunk to reel in my horror—or my anger. At him. Myself. Even you, for being so trusting that he was able to get to you too.
I didn’t mean to destroy your art. I never meant to strike you. When I realized what I’d done to you that night, I wanted to die. I knew I couldn’t fix any of that. But I could take care of what I should’ve
done years ago.
After you got out of the hospital and moved away, I took him out on the swamp boat. When we got far enough out, I cut the engine and told him I knew what he’d done to you. He didn’t even try to deny it. I had a hunting knife and a cinder block anchor with me on the boat. I dumped his body deep enough in the swamp so the only thing that would find him were the gators. I didn’t worry that anyone would miss him.
I doubt anyone’s going to miss me now that I’m gone, either. Least of all you.
I’m not going to ask for your understanding. I don’t dare hope you’ll ever be able to forgive me. I just want you to know that I really did care, son. I really do love you.
I only wish I’d been man enough to let you know.
Your father
It takes me a moment to absorb those last few lines. I can’t deny the impact they have on me, even now.
When I finally glance up from his letter, I find Avery tenderly watching me. She crosses the cabin to climb into my lap. Wrapping herself around me and holding fast, she is the embodiment of support and affection. I close my arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
She buries her face in my chest, her voice soft and warm. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” My fingers trace small circles on her back as she cuddles against me. “Each time I read it, I feel less anger toward him. Less of the hurt. I suppose it’s hard to hate someone who’s so much like yourself.”
She lifts up, frowning. “You’re not like him, Nick. You’re not a coward—not ever. You’re the bravest man I know. I witnessed that myself this morning when you stood at his bedside. Even at your worst moments, you’re never cruel. Your father wanted to make you cold and tough, unreachable. You’re not any of that, either.”
“I was,” I remind her, thinking back to the years after I first left Florida. I was angry and bitter, concerned only about my own survival. Motivated by my own narcissistic needs. “I was all of those things and worse. Until I found you.”
She’s smiling as I bend my head to kiss her. Laughing as I scoop her into my arms and deposit her gently beneath me on the large sofa.
“You’ve changed everything, Avery. You’ve changed me.”
“Not too much, I hope. I happen to like the man you are.”
I arch a brow. “You like him?”
“I love him,” she says. “With everything I am, I love him.”
A surge of pure, unabashed happiness rises up within me as I gaze at the extraordinary woman in my arms. In the time I’ve known her, I’ve given her a hundred reasons to walk away, and yet here she is. Trusting me. Forgiving me. Believing in me.
Loving me.
It’s more than I ever dreamed I’d have in my life. Far more than I’ll ever deserve. But I plan to spend the rest of my life striving to be the man I see reflected in her eyes.
“I love you too,” I murmur against her lips. “With everything I am now and will ever be, Avery, I love you.”
Chapter 28
One month later
Nick holds the bronze urn over the side of the Icarus and carefully pours his father’s ashes onto the crystalline water.
There are no words of soft regard offered for William Baine, no tears shed as the ocean embraces the dark gray cloud of his cremains and draws it under. This ceremony is solemn and private. Just Nick and me and the warmth of a brilliant sunrise that paints the sky in pastel shades of pink and peach and lavender.
It is a far different affair than the other funeral we attended a few weeks ago.
Unlike Nick’s father, Kathryn Tremont exited her world on her own terms—the same way she lived it. Only days after we returned to New York, Kathryn’s nurse had called to let us know that she had ended her own life while she was at her house in the Hamptons.
Her memorial had been an event, of course. Kathryn wouldn’t have had it any other way. I wasn’t surprised to learn that in absence of any heirs, her fortune and her estate had gone to the handful of her favorite charities and art museums.
But there was a special provision that had come as a shock to Nick and me.
An incredibly generous gift that we will be used to seed a brand-new non-profit venture for the construction of youth recreation centers all over the country. Andrew Beckham has already drawn up the paperwork.
But before Nick’s vision goes national, he and I will be overseeing the design of a more personal project—a small oceanfront resort and sailing school for abused kids. We’ll be breaking ground next year on a particular plot of land on Key Largo.
When we boarded the Icarus this morning, Nick told me that as far as he was concerned, that’s his only pressing obligation on the mainland. Everything else can either be handled by his teams or wait for our return.
I can’t help the contentment—and desire—that overcomes me as I watch him move across the deck of the beautiful sailboat. It’s always like this for me when I look at him. I’m sure it always will be.
“What will we do for almost a year at sea together?” I ask him once he’s put the urn away and comes back to me at the wheel.
He draws me into the circle of his arms. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
“Does that mean you have ideas?”
“Baby, I’ve got hundreds of them.” His mouth quirks before he kisses me.
It’s so easy to lose myself in the bliss of his lips on mine, his arms wrapped protectively, possessively, around me. I want to kiss him uninterrupted for days, and I can hardly contain my excitement over the fact that I can start enjoying that privilege now.
Waves roll beneath us and I groan in protest when Nick’s mouth leaves mine.
“Hands on the wheel,” he commands me in a low purr. “We should set our course.”
I oblige him, pivoting around to take the helm with him standing at my back. “Where to, Captain Baine?”
He points over my shoulder toward the empty horizon. “We have several choices. Bermuda up there. The Bahamas and the rest of the Caribbean down that way. Or we could just go wherever the wind and the waves carry us. It’s up to you.”
“Anywhere at all?” I ask him, mulling over the possibilities. “And you trust me at the wheel of your baby?”
His lips press against the sensitive curve of my neck and shoulder. “I trust you with more than that, angel. I trust you with my heart.”
I smile, leaning into the warmth of his body at my back. “So does that mean I’m officially your first mate now?”
“Actually, I was hoping you’d officially be my wife.”
I freeze. Disbelief—and overwhelming elation—rocket through me as I let go of the wheel and turn around to face him. “What?”
“I love you, Avery. I don’t ever want to know a day without you at my side.”
He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a platinum engagement ring bearing a large diamond that glitters like a piece of heaven.
A stunned laugh bubbles out of me. “You came prepared?”
His smile seems shy, almost apologetic. “I was going to wait until we were somewhere romantic and tropical. I wanted it to be perfect for you, so I’ve been trying to think of the right words to say when I gave this ring to you.”
I shake my head as I watch him slip the gorgeous ring onto my finger. My heart is soaring, my love for him spilling over in a rush of happy tears. “You already said the perfect thing. You said you love me.”
“Yes, I do. I’m going to love you forever, Avery.”
“Good,” I tell him, twining my arms around his neck. “Because forever is only the start of how long I’m going to love you.”
~ * ~
Want more of Nick and Avery and their 100 Series story world?
Continue reading with a brand-new standalone romance featuring Baine security specialist Gabriel Noble and lingerie designer Evelyn Beckham!
Run to You
Run to You is a complete romance with a swoon-worthy HEA and NO cliffhanger—the first of many new stories for
friends of Avery Ross and Dominic Baine!
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