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For about half a second, Jonathan considered bluffing about why he came back, and clinging to the I changed my mind excuse. Bailey would figure out the reality soon, and he’d get shit for it either way. Might as well stick with the truth, mixed with light teasing, and try to gloss things over quickly.
He wasn’t prepared for how she looked when she greeted him. His hand twitched by his side, and he held back the desire to reach up and brush away the smudges of dirt on her cheeks or trace away the tear tracks. He stepped around her. “Thanks.” Now that he’d had time to think, the clouds were gone from his mind, and he could slide into the routine he was used to. “I didn’t expect them to upgrade the storm so fast.” The forecast when he came out here put the tropical storm below Category 1 and predicted it sliding around the peninsula. It might, still. Closing the roads was a precaution. Even if the rain hit, he’d be out of here by morning.
Stepping into the house sent a fresh wave of memories over him, stronger than the gusts outside. Every sight knocked an old image loose, from the orange shag throw-rug covering hardwood in the living room, to the brown couch with a crocheted blanket on the back, to the off-balance wooden entertainment center that shouldn’t have stood for two days, let alone two decades. The power of everything almost made him stumble.
Bailey barely gave him a glance before heading toward the stairs. “If you’re staying here, you’ll want to clean out the fridge. Probably call Greg’s Market and have them drop off some milk, unless you drink your coffee black.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” If she wanted him in the kitchen where she wouldn’t be, that meant no small talk. Given the ice still rolling from her, that was fine, and cleaning out the fridge should be disgusting enough to keep his mind occupied.
The cat looked at him from her perch on the dining room table, yawned, and then settled back down to sleep. Spoiled ball of fluff. He was amused at the disdain, rather than irritated. He picked her up, and she whined in protest. “Sorry, princess. Not on the table.”
He set her on the ground, and she looked up at him for a moment before hopping back up.
“No.” He forced himself to sound sterner. He moved her again, and she returned to her resting spot as quickly.
“She’s more welcome up there than you are,” Bailey called.
“I’m not trying to sit on the table.”
“You know what I mean.” She poked her head around the corner, her scowl telling him she didn’t find the comment as funny as he did.
“Come on.” He gave her the smile that smoothed over most sticky situations. “I’m back, aren’t I?”
“About that— Let’s not gloss over the fact that you don’t want to be here. The barricade that closes off the bridge back to the mainland is twenty minutes away. Half an hour, in the worst weather. Why did it take you almost an hour and a half to return?”
Because he spent forty-five minutes trying to convince himself they might open things up if he waited. “I had to make a couple of calls.”
“Of course. Don’t let me keep you from the important work.” Sarcasm coated her words. “You know where everything is. Nothing’s moved in at least twenty years. I’ll be upstairs.”
“You don’t have to do this now. Take the night off. Come back when I’m not here.” So maybe he couldn’t do playful and kind. Regardless of his approach, he seemed to rub her the wrong way.
She made a noise that was half-sigh, half-growl, and planted herself in front of him, lips pursed. “Have you ever managed an estate sale?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll fill in some of the blanks for you. I have a limited number of days to go through everything in this house, cellar to roof, and figure out what can be sold—along with their opening bids—and what needs to be donated, or set aside for you to not deal with. I don’t get to take time off, because regardless of what you think, the work is going to take more than a couple of hours and making a list of stuff.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right. I want to get this out of the way as quickly and smoothly as I’m sure you do. So, what’s your problem with me?”
She gave a bitter laugh, choked it off, and then laughed again. “Wow. Where to start? Okay. Let’s assume you want the quick and compact answer. You’re not even freaking mourning. That woman loved you more than anything. You can’t fathom how often she talked about you—how well you were doing; how proud she was of you. Then you don’t have the balls to come to her wake. You drive up two days later, as if being here is an inconvenience for you, toss me a phone number, and head back to work.”
“First of all, I was at her wake. I couldn’t stay. I wanted to.” He refused to stall on the words, despite the acid surging up his throat. “I was at her service, and I was at the beach when her ashes were scattered, and—God help me—I’m grateful she asked for someone else to do that.” He wouldn’t sink into the grief tightening around his heart and lungs, making it hard to breathe. At both affairs, he’d left before many people saw him. The few handshakes and obligatory condolences were enough to drill into his core.
At least his father wasn’t there. Not that Jonathan was surprised. The only time his old man had spoken to him in the last five years, was a bitter email a week ago that said, Congratulations on your inheritance. Nana left Dad out of the will. Jonathan had fought off the sadness off this long. Giving in now didn’t help anyone. “You have less than zero idea how much this hurts.”
“Is that so? You’ve got an exclusive on grief now? Is it something you picked up as part of a discount investment portfolio? She might have been your grandmother, but she was here for me when no one else was.” She worked her jaw up and down, as if she wanted to say more, but then clamped her mouth shut.
Like I should have been. The unwelcome thought taunted him. What was he supposed to do for Bailey? She turned him down last time he offered his help. Made it clear that was the last thing she wanted. “Then you must have some idea how much it hurts that I didn’t get to say goodbye to her.”
“That was your choice. If you hadn’t cut us all out of your life—”
“What?” Something inside snapped, and he let anger replace guilt. “All the letters exchanged. Photos, post cards, email she and I sent back and forth—don’t accuse me of cutting and running because I wasn’t talking to you. She never gave me any hint something was wrong. I couldn’t have known.”
“That’s a nice excuse. Nothing stopped you from coming back, before then.”
“Everything stopped me from coming back.” Fuck. He didn’t mean to say that. Didn’t want her to know it took years, to get over the last fight he and Bailey had. Longer to convince himself what happened to her after wasn’t his fault. At least he never questioned that getting over her was the right decision. Leaving this place behind was one of his best calls, and as soon as this estate deal was over, he’d do it again.
*
BAILEY KNEW SHE WAS being cruel. Sometime in the last few minutes, this argument stopped being about Nana and started being about her, and that was selfish. Red rimmed Jonathan’s eyes, and his voice cracked each time it rose to a shout. He kept in touch with Nana, and Bailey had no idea? Still, she couldn’t back off. She didn’t know where her misery ended and her spite began. “Fine. You had your reasons. Sorry for questioning you.” She couldn’t even force that to sound genuine. “I need to get back to work.”
She really needed to get to the bathroom, lock the door, and let the tears stream down her face until she was spent. Then, after she washed that away, she could return to her sorting.
“Bailey.” He grabbed her arm.
She couldn’t find the energy to wrench away. “Let go.”
He moved to stand in front of her, then dropped his grip, setting his palm on her face and forcing her gaze to his. “I’m sorry.” The anguish in his words was reflected in the brown depths of his eyes. “I’m sorry she’s gone. I’m sorry it hurts. I wish more than anything that she were still here.”
Something in his tone snapped the dam inside her, and she sobbed so hard it rocked through her frame and ached in her joints.
“Damn it,” he said, as he gathered her in his arms.
She didn’t have the will to struggle. Instead, she buried her face against his chest, and gripped his shirt as if it could keep her from shattering into a million pieces. A tiny voice in her head nagged that she needed to pull herself together. There was no way she could listen. The crying wouldn’t stop. Even when he rested his forehead against the top of her skull and muttered random things like I get it and me too.
She cried until his shirt was wetter than her cheeks. Until the sobs became whimpers and then faded to sniffles. She must be a freaking mess right now. Did she care?
“I’m making you take the night off.” His chin moved against her head when he spoke, his words vibrating through her.
“You’re not the boss of me.” The childish retort scraped through her raw throat.
He gave a weak laugh. “Technically, I am. Executor of the estate, right? I say you’re done for today.”
“Yes, sir.” She didn’t want to pull away. The comfort was nice. Besides, she cared at least a little about how red and puffy her face was.
He squeezed her tight, and then relaxed his arms.
She backed away, not meeting his gaze. “I’ll be back,” she said and headed for the bathroom upstairs.
She locked the door behind her and let the cold water run over her hands and wrists until her skin was numb. After she splashed her face, she didn’t dare look in the mirror for several minutes. Agony stared back from her reflection, but her face was mostly clear. Her insides felt like sandpaper, but the empty pit in her gut didn’t gape as wide as it had over the last week. Her mind tried to analyze what just happened, and revolted when it hit a blank wall that refused to budge. That was okay with her. She’d process later, when she was home alone with the cold beer waiting in her fridge.
She refastened her hair in a ponytail, dried her skin, and made her way downstairs. Jonathan sat at the kitchen table, as far from Luci as possible, two glasses in front of him. He’d given up trying to move the cat. Bailey did a double take when she saw he wore a white T-shirt, and slacks. His button-down was draped over the back of another chair. She wasn’t going to stare at the way the cotton stretched over his chest, highlighting the definition every time he shifted.
To distract herself, she picked up the discarded shirt. She winced when she saw the dust and moisture streaking the front. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “It’ll wash out. If not, it’s replaceable. I called Greg’s. They’re delivering milk and deli sandwiches.”
“I really can’t stay.” Or didn’t think it was a good idea. Or both.
He nodded at the amber liquid over ice. “You were going to be here for a few more hours anyway. At least have a drink with me.” He nudged a glass in her direction.
Luci moved to sniff the contents, then hopped from the table and strolled into the other room.
“That’s either a good sign or a really bad one.” Bailey’s desire to argue had evaporated. She took a sip and let the sweet, smooth flavor burn down her throat. The familiar taste of ginger ale and whiskey tugged at her grief again, but she was too spent to fall into it. “Ale and Jack.”
He shrugged, then took a swig of his own drink. “It was what I could find the mixings for.”
When he ran away from home and came here, she’d been thrilled. It meant unexpected extra time with her best friend. They raided her parents’ pantry when Mom and Dad were out one evening, and stuffed themselves on cheese puffs and booze. It only took a can of soda and a couple shots of Jack Daniels, before they were giggling and falling over each other. Rather than ground her, her parents decided to go the humiliation route and told the entire town what a lightweight she was. Everyone called them Ale and Jack for the rest of their teenage years.
“It’s perfect.” She finished her drink.
“You’re staying at least until after dinner.”
The bitterness and her desire to fight back were gone. She found the cold cans of soda on the counter next to the fridge, along with the liquor. Grabbing both, she crossed the room back to the table, and dropped into a chair next to Jonathan. She poured them each another drink, before replying, “Only if we get the wake you chickened out on.”
“I didn’t chicken out.”
“Whatever.” She stared back, hoping her skepticism showed on her face.
He clinked his glass to hers. “To Nana.”
“To Nana.” She downed half her drink in a single swallow. A pleasant haze filled her head, fuzzing some of the rough edges. Maybe for tonight, she could block out the loss.