Jordana walked into her parents’ house and found her mother, Lilly, in the kitchen, scrubbing a pot with an agitation she recognized from her childhood.
Lilly Colton had always exorcised her stress through the power of elbow grease—a coping mechanism Jordana had inherited, as well—but seeing as their home had always been spotless in spite of six kids, that said a lot about the level of stress her mother had endured.
And now she was back to scrubbing.
“What’s wrong?” Jordana asked, going straight to the point.
Lilly looked up with a warm but strained smile. “Nothing, darling, so good to see you,” she answered, presenting her cheek for a kiss, which Jordana dutifully provided. “I just needed to get these pots cleaned before starting dinner. You know I can’t cook in a dirty kitchen,” she reminded Jordana.
“Mom, by no stretch of the imagination would anyone dare to call your kitchen dirty. I’m pretty sure your kitchen is cleaner than most hospitals.”
“Hospitals are dirty places,” Lilly said with a scowl. “That’s hardly a welcome compliment.”
“Sorry.” Jordana shook her head, knowing she wasn’t going to win. “So, what’s new? Aside from Bridgette being here again. Are you two getting under each other’s skin yet?”
“I love having Bridgette home,” Lilly insisted. “It’s been so long since we’ve had any decent visit with that job of hers.”
“Well, being a public health official has its demands on her time,” Jordana said, defending her sister, but added, “Don’t you think it’s interesting that a cancer cluster popped up in Braxville?”
“Oh, whatever.” Lilly waved away Jordana’s comment. “Can’t hardly blow your nose somewhere without someone saying something is going to give you cancer. Can’t drink the water, can’t eat the vegetables, can’t breathe the air...it’s exhausting if you think about it. For my own mental health, I’ve resolved to stop thinking about it. If the good Lord sees fit to send me home, that’s what happens.”
“Mom, I hardly think people getting cancer is God’s will. That’s pretty macabre, don’t you think?”
“Jordana, let’s not argue,” Lilly said, resuming her scrubbing. “Did you come over to snipe at me or did you come to actually visit?”
A wave of guilt made Jordana soften her tone. She reached for a freshly baked cookie from the display plate. “Of course not, Mom. I wanted to pop in and say hi, see how you’re doing. By the looks of the force you’re putting on that poor pot, I’d say something is bothering you.”
“Nothing is bothering me,” Lilly insisted with a slight clip. “Just trying to get this house in order in time for your uncle Shep, is all.”
She paused with the cookie midway to her mouth. “Uncle Shep? What do you mean? He’s coming home?” Jordana’s uncle Shep was an infrequent visitor to the Colton homestead because he was too busy with his naval career, a path she’d followed, in part because of her admiration for her uncle. “Why didn’t you tell me he was coming?” she asked, excited.
“I wasn’t sure until yesterday. Your father offered the carriage house, though I don’t know why Shep can’t find his own place. He has plenty of money seeing as he had no children of his own.”
True, Uncle Shep had never married but Jordana had understood because Uncle Shep had been married to the military—happily, one might argue—given he’d risen through the ranks with a stellar reputation.
And Jordana idolized her uncle Shep. “I can’t wait to see him,” she said with a bright smile. “So I’m guessing he finally retired, then?”
“Yes,” Lilly answered, wiping away a small bead of sweat with the back of her hand. Her restless gaze swept the kitchen as if searching for something else to direct her attention but everything gleamed as if on display, a fact which dismayed Lilly. “Yes, retired. And he’ll probably be underfoot the whole time, pestering me.”
“Pestering you? Mom, Uncle Shep is hilarious and sweet. I doubt he’ll pester you for anything,” Jordana disputed, shaking her head at her mother. “Did you and Uncle Shep get into it or something?”
At Lilly’s sudden sharp look and subtle flushing as she murmured, “No, don’t be silly,” Jordana recalled a hazy memory that popped in her head for no reason she could figure.
It was the summer her dad was working long days and nights—barely home at all—and Uncle Shep was helping out around the house, filling in the gaps for Fitz. She remembered her mom laughing a lot with Shep, something she rarely did with Dad. Dad was a hard man to please and that critical eye fell on his wife often, particularly after the triplets arrived.
To be fair, triplets would’ve put a strain on any family. And then her baby sister, Yvette, came along—it was a lot of kids.
But there was love, too. There had to be for Lilly to stick around; that was always the argument Jordana made when people whispered under their breath about Fitz Colton being a raging maniac.
Fitz was as different as one could be from his half brother, Shep. Maybe that’s why Jordana had gravitated toward her uncle. Uncle Shep had been encouraging and entertaining whereas her dad...well, he was so focused on work that he’d had little time for the six kids all clamoring for a bit of his attention.
Again, six kids was a lot.
She didn’t fault her dad for being overwhelmed.
“You don’t want Shep moving into the carriage house?” Jordana surmised, curious as to her mom’s reaction.
“I’m too old for a roommate, Jordana,” Lilly said stiffly.
“Mom, the carriage house isn’t even attached to the main house. You’re hardly roommates. You and Dad had talked about renting out the carriage house for extra cash.”
“Yes, and ultimately we decided against it,” reminded Lilly, straightening the dish towel for the third time. “Honestly, I just don’t understand why your dad couldn’t have encouraged Shep to find a nice apartment in town.”
“Maybe because we’re family and there’s no reason? The carriage house isn’t doing anything but collecting dust. It’ll be fine, Mom.”
But Lilly looked more agitated than ever. “Yes, of course. You’re right. I’m just feeling out of sorts today.” And then she did what she always did, pasted a blinding smile on her lips as if nothing had happened because Lilly Colton had the steel spine of a soldier who made living through chaos look like a walk in the park.
While Jordana was out, Clint made use of the empty house to study his own business, Broadlocke Enterprises. He figured it was time to make that call to his partner, Alex, but he wanted to have some kind of idea what they might have to talk about.
Dialing the number Jeana gave him for Alex, he made the call.
Alex picked up on the fourth ring, as if he were on the other end trying to figure out who was calling.
“Alex Locke,” he answered.
“Hey, Alex, it’s me, Clint. Thought I’d reach out to you and see how things are going without me barking orders all the time.”
The surprise in Locke’s voice was evident as he answered, “Clint, where the hell have you been? No one’s seen or heard from you in days. I was starting to get worried. Not even Jeana knew where you were.”
“Needed a few days off to decompress,” he lied. “The stress was getting to me. It was either take a few days or start drinking my breakfast. I figured I’ve earned a few days of R and R but I’m sorry for worrying everyone.”
“You take a few personal days? Who is this pod person? Clint Broderick doesn’t take vacation days unless ordered to because he’s banked up too many,” Locke refuted with a chuckle. “Seriously, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Went rock climbing two days ago,” he said, amending, “Well, indoor rock climbing but it counts. It was hard as hell and my fingers are still jacked up. Not sure I’ll take it up as a hobby.”
“Rock climbing? Little early for a midlife crisis, don’t you think?” Locke teased. “You should stick to golf, even though a five-year-old could beat your swing.”
So he golfed? Golf sounded boring. Hit a ball and chase it. Over and over. It was aggravated walking. But he played it up to Locke. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. So, everything good while I’ve been gone?”
“See, there’s the guy I know and love—can’t keep business off the brain,” Locke said. “Yeah, of course. I’ve always told you that the world wouldn’t stop spinning just because you weren’t there to micromanage it.”
Micromanage? “I’m a changed man,” he told Locke. “I’ve had...an epiphany.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I know I was a workaholic and a bit of a control freak,” he said, taking an educated guess at his own habits, “but you know, life is short and you can’t take it with you. I’m going to start spending more time making memories that matter.”
“Are you joining a cult? Oh, God, you joined a cult, didn’t you? Please tell me you didn’t pledge your assets—our assets—in your initiation?”
“What the hell is wrong with you? I said I wanted to create memories and you think I’ve joined a cult?”
“Hey, if you were on this end, listening to Clint Broderick wax philosophically about stuff he generally didn’t care about until now, you’d start to freak out, too.”
Clint was beginning to realize maybe it wasn’t far-fetched to theorize that whoever had tried to kill him probably worked for him.
Jesus, talk about a rude awakening.
“So, when are you wrapping up your little impromptu ‘Finding Clint’ tour and returning to Chicago?”
“Not sure. I still have some things to do here in Braxville.”
“I don’t understand how you managed to find your zen in a small nothing town in Kansas. As far as anyone is concerned, the only thing you can find in Braxville is tumbleweeds.”
He chuckled. Locke had a good sense of humor. “Actually, Braxville is kinda nice. The small-town atmosphere is a nice change from Chicago.”
“I’ll bet you can’t get a decent deep-dish there,” challenged Locke, and to that Clint couldn’t argue.
“The pizza situation here is marginal at best but I did have an incredible burger the other night and that made my taste buds happy.”
“You, the foodie? I don’t believe it. You’re impossibly picky. You made the chef at Harold’s want to quit.”
Clint didn’t remember the chef or Harold’s but he played it off. “Well, if you’re going to call yourself a chef, you better be prepared to accept criticism.”
“The man fed heads of state but apparently your palate was more sophisticated,” Locke returned dryly. “Anyway, kudos to the burger man for managing to please Clint Broderick.”
Ouch, there it was again, proof that maybe he’d been an insufferable ass before getting the stuffing knocked out of him.
He shifted, discomfited. Maybe getting assaulted would turn out to be a blessing in disguise?
Never in a million years would he ever have imagined thinking or saying anything like that statement.
But here we are.
“Okay, I gotta run. This is my new number. Lost my old phone. Call me if there are any issues you can’t handle.”
“Enjoy your tumbleweeds and five-star burgers.”
“Will do.”
And Clint clicked off. So, Locke sounded like a decent guy—the opposite of himself apparently. Maybe that was their dynamic. Locke was the good cop, Clint was the bad.
Their dynamic must’ve been successful. If he wasn’t that same guy anymore, would their dynamic still work?
He supposed he’d just have to play it by ear.