Chapter Twelve
Lucy was wrenched out of sleep. The sound of shouting echoed off the walls and she groaned. She blinked sleepily and fumbled for her phone to check the time.
“God in heaven.” She dropped her head back onto the pillows. It was not even five-thirty in the morning.
No prizes for guessing who was doing the yelling. Couldn’t the old bastard wait until a decent hour before he started bellowing? Or better yet, could he not yell? Two days in a row was the outside of enough. Her mom had said nothing about Richard’s visit and he hadn’t called.
She’d barely managed two hours of sleep the night before. Between Donna and Richard, her mind had buzzed too loudly for sleep. Her eyes felt gritty and her head pounded out a dull rhythm. Carl was, clearly, not feeling fatigued, if the volume the old bastard was putting out was any indication. No, Carl was in fighting form. Just as he went to bed at nine-thirty, come what may, he rose at six, every morning, and saw no reason why the rest of the world couldn’t rise with him.
Lucy remembered outraged neighbors, year after year, complaining about Carl’s gardening habits. Neighbors tend to lose their sense of humor about snow blowers going off at six-thirty on a Sunday. She was partially convinced the bylaw banning the use of leaf blowers for most of the year was thanks to her father.
“Don’t give me that,” Carl said, cranking up the volume. His voice drifted up from the kitchen, vitriol dripping from every syllable. There was an unfortunate theme to her father. Carl fighting with the neighbors, Carl arguing with the postman, Carl yelling at the garbage collectors, always Carl, generating drama wherever he went and wallowing in the aftereffects. It made her sick.
Throwing back the covers, she stepped out of bed.
“I know exactly what you’re doing,” Carl yelled.
Lynne replied, her tone conciliatory. Lucy didn’t need to hear exactly what she was saying. She’d heard it a million times before.
“You think I’m too far gone to realize, but I’ve got news for you, you stupid woman.”
Lucy balled her hands into fists and forced a breath through her clenched teeth. Oh yes, Carl was an expert at name-calling. He never bothered to edit his words before they came out of his mouth. It was all about his sense of self-entitlement. Carl was angry and that made everyone else his scapegoat. The injustice of it burned her up.
“You’re an evil bitch.”
And Lucy saw red. She was down the stairs before she could stop herself.
“Stop it.” Her voice cracked through the kitchen, the moment her feet hit the tiled floor. Carl and Lynne spun to look at her. “That’s enough.” Her voice shook slightly with the effort not to scream back at Carl. “You can’t speak to her like that.”
“Lucy,” Lynne squeaked and her eyes grew round. “What are you doing up?”
“I can speak to her any way I damn well please.” Carl rounded on Lucy, his eyes bulging.
“Would you like some breakfast?” Lynne asked with an edge of desperation. Lucy turned to snap at her mother, mouth open, ready to snarl. She stopped.
Lynne cowered over by the fridge, looking like a rabbit in headlights.
It gave Lucy the split second she needed to regain her control.
“You’re upset, Dad.” This was not vintage Carl. So, she didn’t need to react like vintage Lucy. This was an old, sick man and he needed her compassion more than her bitterness. “But that doesn’t give you the right to call people names.”
Carl opened his mouth to argue and then snapped it shut again. He eyed Lucy warily as she stepped closer toward him. “What are you upset about?”
“What do you care?” He crossed his arms over his chest like a small, petulant boy. “You are just like her.” He thrust his chin in Lynne’s direction. “You want to lock me away. You had that doctor boyfriend of yours come here so they could lock me away.”
“Richard was concerned about you,” Lucy explained.
Lynne stared at her in round-eyed amazement.
Lucy was pretty amazed at how she was handling this herself as well. “We’re all concerned about you.”
“Not you.” Carl’s voice quavered. “You don’t care about me. You left.”
“I know.” Lucy was surprised his words still had the power to hurt her. “But I didn’t leave because I didn’t care.” She thought about saying more, but decided against it.
Carl watched her, his eyes narrowed as thoughts raced through his head. “What do you want here?” he demanded suddenly.
“I want to make peace.” Lucy shrugged. “To try and fix what I broke and make peace.”
“Hah.” Carl pointed at her triumphantly. “You see”—he glared at his wife—“I told you. She said it. She wants to fix things. You know what that means, don’t you?” He stalked a few steps closer to Lynne.
Her mother held her ground, but seemed to shrink into herself.
“What do you think that means, Dad?” Lucy drew his attention back to her.
“It means you want to fix me. Like a dog needs fixing. You want to have me put away. In a cage where I can’t get out.” Lucy didn’t try to follow his convoluted logic. He gave a strange little chuckle, like some moustache-twirling villain. Carl fastened a reptilian gaze on Lucy. “But you won’t win,” he taunted her. “You won’t win because I win. I’m the winner. I’m always the winner. I got rid of you before, didn’t I?”
It hurt and Carl could see it. His triumphant smile almost ripped Lucy’s composure in two. “I’m going to bed,” he announced gleefully and strode from the room.
Lucy watched him clomp up the stairs before turning back to her mom. Lynne had picked up a cleaning rag and attacked the front of the cupboards.
“Mom?”
Lynne dropped the rag onto the countertop. “I can’t do this, Lucy.” She planted her hands on the counter and looked at Lucy. “All this talk of change is upsetting him. It’s not right.”
“He’s sick, Mom.” Lucy took the stool on the opposite side of the counter from where Lynne stood.
“He’s old,” Lynne snapped back at her. “He’s old and he’s tired. You young people can’t understand that, but it’s how it is.”
“Nobody is trying to force you to do anything,” Lucy explained slowly. “But he’s getting worse and you must have given some thought to the alternatives.”
“Is this about selling the house again?” Lynne snatched up her rag and launched another offensive at the cupboard doors. “I told you, I don’t know if I want to sell. This is my home.”
“Mom.” Lucy felt her patience starting to slide and hauled back on it harshly. “If you don’t want to sell, then don’t sell, but it’s insane to keep going on like this. Dad is tired, you’re tired, and this house is huge.”
“I was born here,” Lynne protested without looking up.
“Okay, so scrap selling the house, but what about another solution?”
“What do you mean?” Lynne fired back with a suspicious speed. Her head snapped up and she peered at Lucy over the top of the counter.
“If he gets much worse,” Lucy suggested, “you are going to need some help with him.”
“Are you talking about one of those home helpers?”
“Yes, there are those,” she prevaricated. “I understand they are very good, but there are other options.”
“Like what?” Lynne was still bristling.
“Like a facility that caters specifically to people with needs like Dad’s. A place where they will know exactly what to do with him and how to make him comfortable.”
“You mean a home?” Lynne reeled back, scandalized. “Lucy,” her mom gasped at her. She leapt up and started polishing the counter.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds.” Lucy’s gaze had to chase her mother around the counter. “Dad might have special needs you are not able to fulfill.”
Lynne burst into mocking laughter and Lucy did a quick double take. “You’ve been talking to Richard,” Lynne accused her.
“No, I—”
“Nine years ago you walked out on that boy and ripped his heart right out of his body and you’re not even back in town a week and you have him dancing to your tune again.” Lynne shook her head and sighed. “You and your way with men.”
Lucy opened her mouth to protest, but Lynne wasn’t listening. She had stopped that creepy laughter, which was a relief. She looked at Lucy and shook her head. “You’re up to your old ways again, Lu Lu.” The words slithered down her spine like ice and Lucy forgot what she was going to say.
“But I am wise to you now,” Lynne chided her gently. “I am going to see how your father is.” She walked toward the kitchen door, but stopped and turned around. “We can’t have all that nonsense again, Lu Lu. I love you, but I am not going to enable your behavior. I’ve been reading about you alcoholics.”
Richard felt like he must be the only person up and about at this time on a snowy Sunday morning. His excuse was he was going for a run. All the sensible people in the world were happily tucked up under their covers. Perhaps they were tucked around someone.
A sense of loneliness hit him. This morning he wanted nothing more than a warm temptation luring him back to bed. The only problem was his fantasy smelled like cinnamon and traces of L’Eau d’Issey and she walked as if ZZ Top’s “Legs” was her mobile soundtrack. The sooner Ashley got over her shit and moved back in, the better they would all be. The thought filled him with a curious sense of unease.
Time to run. He really didn’t feel like it anymore. But, driven by the frustration of his collapsing marriage, an iron-man triathlon had sounded like a great idea. He’d had several months to regret that impulse. Despite that, the training had given him something to focus on, besides his failure as a husband.
Richard put his glass down in the sink with a decisive clunk. Now his training would help him exorcise a blond demon from his system. He was about to move away from the window when he saw the flicker of movement. That was no squirrel.
He peered through the bare branches separating his property from the Flint house. In the summer, the straggly stand of trees was a fecund thicket of silver birch. Now the branches rose like graceful ghosts against the snow. And they harbored a fugitive.
Someone was hunkered down in the old fort. Years ago, Lucy and Ashley had built that fort amongst the birch trees. Ashley had shown it to him when they first bought this house. With his genius powers of deductive reasoning, Richard realized Lucy must be in there.
“What the hell?” It was Lucy. She was sitting on an upended log of wood. And she looked like she was crying.
“Screw it. What kind of dork goes running in minus twenty anyway?” Richard reached for two coffee cups and filled them from the machine. He grabbed his coat as he left. He was back two seconds later.
“Damn, why don’t men think to buy Kleenex?” He shrugged and grabbed a drying cloth.
Lucy was so absorbed in her own private misery she heard nothing until he spoke.
“I’m afraid I don’t know the password.”
She looked up and for the first time that morning, her face split into a smile. He certainly didn’t need the password and even less so when he came bearing a steaming mug of pure heaven. Lucy drank in the sight of him and stopped. He was wearing some kind of Lycra tight things.
“You planning a pas de deux?” She motioned to his muscular legs.
“Ha, ha.” He handed her one of the mugs.
Lucy groaned her appreciation as the aromatic waft touched her nostrils. Sweet God in Heaven, he’d even put cream into it. If this wasn’t love, it damn well should be.
“I was on my way for a run when I saw you out here.”
“What the hell are you doing going for a run?”
“What the hell are you doing sitting out here in an old children’s fort?”
Lucy shook her head at him. “I asked you first.”
“I’m in training. Your turn.”
“I’m in mourning.”
“Is that why you look like crap? No offense.”
Lucy let out a shocked little gasp of laughter. “I am so taking offense at that.”
“Hmmm?” Richard crouched down at her side. He tilted forward and reached out with one hand to catch a tear from her cheek. His knees bracketed the side of her leg from hip to knee.
Lucy grew suddenly light-headed. He was awfully close. It would be laughably easy to lean slightly to her left. She would tuck her face into that sweet spot between his neck and his shoulder. His chest would be broad and impenetrable beneath her cheek. She would feel the warmth of his body as his arms closed around her. And everything would be all right.
“Lucy?” He frowned at her. Clueless as to what was going through her mind. “What are you doing out here in your pajamas?” He looked down at her legs and then turned his head to the side and looked some more. “Is that SpongeBob SquarePants?”
“Yes.”
“And Patrick?”
“Yup.”
“This is pretty desperate stuff, Luce.” He took a sip of his coffee and nudged her cup to her lips. Lucy sipped obediently and cradled her hands around the warm ceramic. “Sitting out here in the snow in your Patrick pants and crying.”
“What do you recommend?” Lucy gave a watery chuckle.
“A good, stiff shot of—” He stopped suddenly and looked stricken.
“I tried that.” Lucy took another sip of the coffee. “It didn’t work so well for me.”
“Shit, Lucy, I’m sorry.”
“Forget it.” Lucy waved a hand dismissively. “I’m not going to go flying off on a five-day bender because somebody makes a remark.” She sniffed and he handed her a dishcloth. Lucy took it with a laugh. She scrubbed her face with the cloth. “I’m feeling sorry for myself.”
“So you decided freezing your ass off would be a suitable fate?”
He surprised a snort of laughter out of her. “No, I was getting some space. Dad is bad this morning.”
“Yeah.” He exhaled softly. “I tried having a talk with your mother yesterday. She doesn’t seem to want to hear it.”
“I know,” Lucy said, shrugging. “Every time I try to get her thinking about making any sort of choices, she digs in her heels.”
“Lucy”—he rapped her knee gently—“are you sure your mom wants to do something about this?”
“Nope.” Lucy sipped her coffee and sighed. “She sounded so desperate on the phone. I thought if I came here, I could help her, be here for her to lean on, like I should have done all these years.”
He took a sip of his coffee. “People have to want you to help them for that to work.”
“Now you sound like Mads.” Lucy laughed softly. “My sponsor,” she told him when he gave her a questioning look. “She is always saying stuff like that to me.”
He opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again. He’d done that before and she suddenly wanted to know.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shrugged, not at all convincingly, and Lucy continued to glare at him.
“What was it like?” he asked suddenly. “Getting sober.”
“Pretty hellish,” Lucy answered, grimacing. “But the worst part is staying sober. Being here”—she motioned to the house behind them—“brings all the stuff up again, all the reasons why I drank.” He waited for her to say more. “Having to face up to all the stuff I did. What a total screwup I was. That’s the hard part.”
“You weren’t that bad.” He tried, but Lucy gave a snort of laugher.
“I was a nightmare.”
“Okay,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “There were certain parts of your past behavior that still make me want to break out into a cold sweat.”
“Is that all?” Lucy said a little breathlessly as they skirted closer to dangerous territory.
“It wasn’t all bad.” His voice deepened slightly or perhaps it was her imagination, but Lucy forgot how to form a sentence. Not when he looked at her with those summer-sky eyes gentle on her face. She had been sure she’d banished that look from his eyes forever.
“You look tired.” He reached out a finger and gently traced the dark patches under her eyes.
Lucy forgot to breathe. His touch against her skin was blissful.
His eyes grew dark and he didn’t rush to take his fingers away, but traced the line of her cheekbone to the edge of her mouth. His focus narrowed onto the small spot occupied by his index finger.
“I’m not sleeping too well,” she admitted.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Lucy. I think if you look fast, you’ll see that even we are becoming friends again.” The blue of his eyes grew hotter, more intense. “Or something.”
He felt it too. Lucy knew he did. The flame between them flared into life too bright and too hot for him not to be part of it. With a soft sound of something close to regret, he dropped his finger and took a sip of his coffee. It was a diversionary tactic, but it gave Lucy a chance to release the breath she’d been holding.
“I should go in,” she murmured and got to her feet.
He stood with her.
Like this, they were mere inches apart, but neither of them increased the distance. They were close enough to touch. If he moved one arm, he could draw her closer against him. His eyes drifted over her face like a touch and flickered across her mouth. The frigid air grew heavier and lambent with forbidden thoughts and desires.
“So what happens now, Lucy Flint?” The loaded question hung heavily between them.
“Now,” she said softly. “I finish doing what I came here to do, fix what I can, and go back to Seattle. And I try not to fuck up any more than I have already.”