At his desk, Nick laid the photo of his dad—the one he’d taken from the storage locker—next to the one from Grandpa’s keepsake box. No doubt, it was the same man. He turned the images over, compared the dates printed on the back.
This made no sense. He needed to call his mom.
Unfortunately, his stepdad answered. “Hi. How are you holding up?”
Like the man cared. But it was the polite question, and Nick would give the polite response. That was the extent of their relationship, which suited Nick fine. “All right. Can I talk to Mom?”
“She’s not here. I don’t expect her to return until this afternoon.”
“Have her call me, will you?” Nick hung up and leaned back in his chair, sifting through decades’ worth of memories, grasping onto the smallest fragments. But when it came to his dad, everything got muddled.
Picking up the photos, he went in search of Rictor. He found him in the kitchen talking with the general contractor. The construction crew lingered a few feet away, their tools set aside. A section of the wall had been cut out, leaving exposed beams.
Nick approached the general contractor. “How’s it going?”
The man swiped at his sweaty forehead with the back of his forearm. “Waiting on the building inspector. Can’t close this wall up until he signs off.”
Great. Between the feet-dragging insurance guys and equally slow city inspectors, Nick would be lucky to get this restaurant opened by the end of summer—his busiest season.
The general contractor hooked a thumb through his belt loop. “I know a guy, an expeditor, who can help you push things through.”
“Is that legal?”
“ ’Course. He used to work for the county. Knows all the ins and outs, how those guys think. What holds things up and how to get ’er done.”
“How much will that cost?”
The man shrugged. “Less than playing the waiting game, I imagine. But each job’s different. Depends on how long this project takes. Tell you what. I’ll give him a call, have him write up some figures.”
Nick rubbed his face. “Yeah, okay.” He turned to Rictor. “You got a minute?”
Rictor raised his eyebrows. “Sure.”
Nick led Rictor into the dining area and to a booth along the far wall. Plunking down, he placed the photos side by side on the dusty table.
Rictor sat across from him, mouth grim, staring at the aged images—one crisp and clear, the other heavily shadowed. There was no mistaking it was the same man.
“How much do you know about my dad?”
Rictor shifted. He didn’t respond right away. “A little, I suppose. Why?”
Scoffing, Nick shoved the shadowed image toward him. “What do you mean, why?” He flicked the picture over to reveal the faded date printed on the back. “1976.” He punched the number with his finger. “The war was over.”
Rictor inhaled and rested his chin on fisted hands.
Nick scowled. “Quit with the games, already. What’s going on?”
“This isn’t my place, bud. I think you need to talk to your mom.”
“So that’s how it is, huh?”
“I don’t know, man. This really isn’t—”
“Your can of worms. Right. Thanks for the help.”
“Maybe you oughta talk with some of your grandpa’s friends.”
“You were his friend. Mine, too.”
“Still am.” Rictor thumbed his jaw. “You got a lot going on right now. Dealing with your son’s death, the fire, reopening the restaurant.”
“Don’t patronize me.” Nick stood, engaging Rictor in a stare off. Grabbing the photos, he stomped to his office and shut the door. What was Rictor hiding? And what about those automatic deductions written into Grandpa’s will?
Nick pulled a ledger from the file and scrolled down until he got to a debit paid to Safe Haven Ministries. $300. Not a lot of money, but over time . . .
He called the ministry, got a prerecorded message, and hung up.
Was his dad still alive? After all these years of wishing, dreaming—after all the empty Father’s Days, career days. Why would his mom, his grandpa, even Rictor, keep from him the one thing he longed for?
He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and slid the photos beneath Payton’s. All he’d ever wanted was to have a dad, and be a dad. To give his kids what he’d never had.
He’d failed miserably on the latter. He refused to lose Jeremy, too.
Jutting his chin, he pulled out his phone and called Marianne. He got the machine.
“You know what to do.” A long beep followed.
Uncoiling his fists, Nick fought to keep his tone even. “Marianne, pick up. I have a right to talk to my son.” She and her boyfriend were probably standing right there, listening to his message, laughing. And there was nothing he could do about it.
Except call his lawyer. He hung up and dialed Mr. Cooper’s office.
The secretary answered. “Cooper and Copland Family Law, how may I help you?”
“It’s Nick.” How often had he called this past month? Five times? Six? He’d know soon enough—when he got his bill. “Is Mr. Cooper in?”
“Can you hold, please?”
Piano music filled the line, followed by a click.
“Mr. Zimmerman, I planned to call you back later this week. How are you?”
Peachy. That’s why he was taking up his $200 an hour, $100 a half hour, $3.3 dollars per minute, time. “Been better. Marianne’s giving me grief again. Haven’t seen or talked to Jeremy since . . .” His heart wrenched, and he swallowed past a lump in his throat. “She’s back to playing the voicemail game. This is illegal, right? Parental alienation?”
“Parental alienation is very difficult to prove, but we can file contempt charges. I imagine if given the option of court fees or visitation, she’ll choose the latter.”
“We’ve done that. Or have you forgotten all the show cause hearings?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten but—”
“I’m done making threats. They work for a while, but a month from now, she’ll go right back to her manipulation tactics.”
“I hear you.” Apathy dulled his voice. “Unfortunately, these things can take time.”
And time’s money, right? Come to think of it, the guy had no reason to help him at all.
I’m being paranoid. I’m frustrated and angry and looking for someone to blame. Besides, Mr. Cooper was all he had.
He breathed deep. “How’s my custody case coming? Do we have a new court date yet?”
“We do, although I expect them to request a postponement. Listen, Nick, I don’t mean to discourage you, but I think we’re better off going for joint. As a business owner—”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Her lawyer made a comment that indicates they plan to make what happened on the night of the fire an issue.”
His teeth ground together. Just like Marianne, twisting and turning everything—even the death of their son—to her advantage.
“You think that’ll affect my case?”
“I think she’ll do whatever she can to drag things out and make you look bad.”
And if the Flaming Mesquite went under, it’d weaken Nick’s case even further. It was like climbing up a down escalator. For every step he tried to take, the thing kept dragging him backward.
He ended the call and dropped the phone onto his desk.
Lord, I need Your help. Rise up in my defense.