CHAPTER SEVEN
Home.
The sun was making a slow, lazy descent off Coral Bay’s coast as I finally pulled up in the front driveway, casting everything with a soft, golden glow. The house was a sprawling ranch style with a wraparound porch, its once pristine white exterior peeling, stripped from weather and sun. Gatherings of clingy vines wound their way up the side of the house, ending in a profusion of flowers I couldn’t quite name.
I parked behind my father’s old Buick in the driveway—not a speck of dust on that puppy. That man had been parking in the driveway the same way my entire life. Not a millimeter to the left or right. But the little blue Focus behind his car was new. His girlfriend’s car, probably.
As I got out of the car, I took a deep breath and…there it was. That sweet, salty smell of the ocean. The slight rustle of the palm trees mixed with the soft sounds of the waves, lapping at the shoreline. It smelled like the beach. It smelled like bonfires and marshmallows and sand in my sandals.
It smelled like home.
The yard was completely different and I looked at it for a moment, staring at the barren hedges. My mother and I had spent many a Saturday in the rose beds, our knees covered in soil and grass stains. I could still picture her instructing me on how to treat the finicky flowers, her face leaned toward me, cast in shadow and relief by the light, her usually brown eyes gone whiskey in the sun. In my vision, she smiled and pointed at one of the flowers. Her gardening gloves were speckled with dirt as she plucked thorns from between the flourishing leaves.
We’d had a wide variety of roses of all colors—common red, of course, along with a few white. Then there were the wilder colors that made it all worthwhile—orange roses so vivid they almost hurt your eyes and yellow ones that fairly burst with sunshine. The blue had been my personal favorite, the petals deep bluish purple and soft as baby’s skin. The blue on such a delicate flower had been such a juxtaposition of sadness and love.
The yard was less whimsical now, with more weeds than grass. As long as it was cut, trimmed, and neat, my father was happy. I understood. Roses and marigolds were a lot of work for something so delicate and non-sustainable, something grown for beauty and not much else. The truth of the matter was my mother’s roses were gone, just as she was.
It was only fitting.
“Avery?” I blinked to find Jackson looking at me, his eyes dark with concern. “You okay?”
I let out a breath of air I hadn’t even known I’d been holding. “Ask me that in another ten minutes.”
His mouth lifted. “I will.” He reached out and tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear, smiling as it immediately came untucked. “It’s going to be fine.”
I nodded, almost automatically. “And if it’s not?”
“Then that’s what I’m here for.”
He was standing there beside me, his hand lightly on the small of my back. It felt like he was shoring me up, and I was grateful. Fake date or not, I was suddenly very, very glad he was here. Even more so a minute later, when my father’s girlfriend came rushing down the porch steps.
“Avery, sweetheart!”
Irene gathered me in a hug that was so tight, I couldn’t even reciprocate. My arms flopped uselessly at my sides like a broken marionette as I wondered where the tiny woman got her strength. Must be all that pomegranate juice she was always going on and on about. Note to self—go buy some POM.
When my father had introduced her to us, I’d been pleasantly surprised. She wasn’t the requisite twenty-five-year-old bubblehead required for every mid-life crisis. Not the type that I’d demand an autopsy if my father passed suddenly. She was his age and while she was pretty, she certainly wasn’t a model. Right now, she was dressed in a becoming sundress with a blue, lightweight cotton shrug that matched her eyes, comfortable but stylish at the same time. Those warm blue eyes, rounded pink cheeks, and wispy brown curls made her look more like a kindly baker.
A kindly baker with a mouth that never quit running. “When your father told me you were coming down, I almost didn’t believe it.”
“Well, I—”
“I had it all planned how I was going to cook all of you guys’ favorites, but I got held up at an appointment this morning. I didn’t even get to go to the grocery store!”
“That’s all right. Art and I can go—”
“And who. Is. This?” Irene’s eyes went round as they landed on Jackson. He smiled at her politely, and I feared the woman might fall out on the ground. I kind of understood. Jackson’s smile certainly did things to my insides that I didn’t want to admit.
“This is my boyfriend, Jac—”
“So he’s real! I mean here. He’s here!” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “I mean, well, Lane told us that you had a boyfriend and all, but we didn’t really…” She finally sucked in a breath, one hand on Jackson’s tattooed bicep. “My God, you’re a good-looking one, aren’t you?”
My mouth couldn’t help curving into a wry grin. You didn’t really need to participate when you had a conversation with Irene. Once you got over the urge to knife yourself in the throat, it became kind of endearing. She was a nice woman, and made my father very happy.
She just wasn’t my mother.
After sufficiently pawing Jackson, she linked arms with both of us, one on each side. She ushered us into the house, talking the whole while. I tuned her out mostly, but I think she was still going on about the grocery snafu. The next few minutes were a blur of activity as the introductions and greetings began. Several of my aunts and uncles, a few cousins, and a few of their friends had stopped by, and everything was a bit of a madhouse inside.
Art came barreling through the kitchen doors with a tray of appetizers, adding to the chaos. He had barely sat the tray of chips and dip on the table when he spotted me. A grin crossed his face as he headed my way. He lifted me clear off the ground and spun me around in a way that had us both laughing.
“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, setting me on my feet.
“I didn’t know we were on a timetable.” I peered around him, looking at the dish he’d set on the table. I had questions of my own. “Is that spinach dip? And pita bread?”
He rolled his eyes. “Leave it to you to arrive just in time for piping hot spinach dip.”
I grinned, swiping a pita wedge. “I do what I can.”
Lane came downstairs not long after, her husband Rick trailing behind. I greeted them both as Rick, a big bear of a man who had no idea of his own strength, gave me a bone-crushing hug. When he finally released me, I inconspicuously patted my sides, feeling for possible internal damage.
“I think I need an MRI,” I gasped so that only Lane could hear.
She jabbed me with a bony elbow, which didn’t help one whit. “No, what you need is to tell me how and when you met that gorgeous thing over there.” She pointed to Jackson who was doing some half handshake, half hug deal with Rick. “Who is that?”
“That’s Jackson.”
“I thought you said his name was Jake.”
“You heard wrong.” I smiled sanguinely. “I said Jack. As in Jackson.”
“Julian’s Jackson?” She gave me a curious look. “So you’re dating your best friend’s brother and failed to mention this why, exactly?”
I pretended not to hear her, which I knew wouldn’t get me far. “Where are my nieces?”
“Out back playing with Molly.”
Knowing the disdainful Yorkie, “playing” was probably too generous of a term. Her favorite activity was finding a better vantage point to look down on us from. After Mom’s passing, we’d brought the shelter rescue here to keep Dad company. He’d rejected our gift, and we’d wound up leaving Molly here against his will. Despite his general apathy toward animals and threatening to kill us all if we didn’t come get “that creature” right this instant, within two weeks of having her, he was a goner. Even if he still wouldn’t admit it. Yes, the manly man that was my father could often be seen watching Sports Center with a well-groomed Yorkie on his lap. As far as I knew, she ate better than we did and slept on a custom made orthopedic dog bed.
“Well, this makes things awkward.” Lane sent me a scowl. “I guess I should tell Aunt Rebecca to send Ryan home.”
My brow creased in confusion. “I guess. Who’s Ryan again?”
She inclined her head at the man laughing and chatting with Art in the living room. He was handsome enough, with dark-brown hair and a nice smile. In all the chaos, I hadn’t really noticed him. Even if I had, I would’ve assumed he was one of Art’s friends. Understanding hit me all at once, and I groaned.
“You didn’t.”
“I didn’t. Aunt Rebecca did. He lives nearby. She thought it might nice for you to meet him in a low pressure situation.”
“What about this is low press—”
“There’s plenty of family around, so it’s not like a date date. And he wasn’t going to stay long unless you hit it off.” She looked embarrassed as she scratched her ear. “How were we to know that Jackson was real?”
“So you guys brought me a blind date?” I barely moved my lips as I spoke, trying not to draw any attention from the object of our discussion. “What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know!” She threw her hands up. “If I apologize and make him go away, can we call it even?”
“Be nice to him,” I instructed. It wasn’t his fault that my aunt and sister were interfering busybodies. Lane nodded and waved off my concern as she made her way across the living room. Determined not to watch, I turned and almost ran smack into my dad.
“What am I, chopped liver?” He held out his arms. “Where’s my hug?”
His hair was more salt than pepper now, but it was still thick and healthy. He had the requisite Florida tan—a little too tan, if you asked me—and wore a polo shirt, pressed Dockers that ended neatly below the knee, and thick, horn-rimmed glasses that he would never believe were not in style. He had a little more gut than usual, whether due to age or the fact that his girlfriend was a baker, I didn’t know, but he looked fit and hale. More importantly, he looked happy.
It didn’t seem to matter how long it had been or what he was wearing, he looked the same. In a world where everything seemed to change minute by minute, that was some strange kind of comfort. An almost overpowering surge of love for him rushed through me. We had our differences and I didn’t visit as often as I should. But he was the only parent I had left.
If my smile was a little wobbly, he didn’t notice. “Daddy.”
Just leaning in and giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek made me feel like I was twelve years old again. I had tried a brief period of calling him “Dad” when I was a teenager and oh-so mature, way too mature to be calling my father “Daddy”, but it hadn’t stuck. Whenever I was tired and forgot, or sick and needed him to be my rock, he was “Daddy” all over again.
“Hi, honey.” He gave me a squeeze and then proceeded through the room to his favorite armchair.
I grinned. Like I said, very little had changed. It didn’t matter if he had company or not. If there was any talking to be done, it was going to be in his armchair, near his TV. I hesitated, glancing around to see if everything was in hand. Ryan was gone, and Jackson appeared to be still being grilled by various members of my family.
Art waved him over. “Come on, Jackson. I’ll show you where you can put your bags.”
I wanted to object, but I had no real reason to. Jackson seemed to sense my worry, because he came over and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek. Well, the kiss was chaste, but my thoughts were not. Maybe they would have been if he didn’t smell so good. His hands on my waist were strong and secure, and I felt the tension in my shoulders fade a little bit. We could do this. I could do this, and Jackson had my back.
The way he’s looking at me, looks like he wants my front, too. I scolded my subconscious for being a cheeky tart and stepped back before I did something stupid and inappropriate. Otherwise known as my modus operandi.
*
I shamelessly fought Lane for the seat on the sofa closest to my father’s armchair and won. She finally conceded defeat, keeping one eye on my sharp elbows, and plopped down on my other side.
I didn’t know why I bothered. My father was far more interested in channel surfing than anything we had to say. Frankly, I didn’t know why he had to look through all eight thousand channels before settling on the channel he always settled on—ESPN. As long as the screen had a field, a court, and or players in jerseys of some kind, he was happy.
My gaze drifted over the various memorabilia in the den. It was like time had stopped. The room was still the warm, cozy haven it had always been with dark paneled walls and multicolored rugs on the already carpeted floor. The bookcases and walls still served as a monument to our grade school achievements—trophies, ribbons and, pictures everywhere. The overall feeling was comfortable. Homey. Lived in.
As I looked at the family photo of us in ugly Christmas sweaters and grinning in front of a flocked, artificial tree, I wondered how I’d managed to stay away so long. I was sure a few minutes in my brother’s and sister’s company would remind me.
My eyes landed on an old art fair painting of mine with a second place ribbon attached. I shook my head and pointed. “I can’t believe you still have that. I think I painted that in seventh grade.”
“And I still don’t know what it is.”
“It’s called abstract art,” I informed him snootily. “Seems like it was good enough to grace your walls.”
“Means nothing.” He popped the top on his beer. “I keep all of my kids’ crap.”
I snorted. Sentimental enough to hang on to it; honest enough to call it what it was. “Thanks, Dad. That means a lot. You don’t even have to speak at my eulogy; this was special enough.”
“I’m so glad.” He patted my hand, trying not to chuckle. “Hang on to this feeling, kitten.”
Any time I forgot where I got my whack sense of humor, I just had to spend a few minutes talking to my pops.
Lane sighed next to me, kicking off her Miu Miu sandals. They were blue suede with a peep toe and cute as all get out, but they didn’t look like shoes a sane person would wear to the airport. “God, it’s good to be off my feet. I’m starting to really hate travel.”
My dad glanced over briefly. “How was your flight?”
“Uneventful.” She wiggled her pedicured toes in the shag carpet. “We made pretty good time.”
“Avery?”
“We had an uneventful trip as well.”
He smiled. “Irene was pleased as punch to hear you guys were coming.”
Of course she was. And God knew there was no seeing my father without seeing Irene. Obviously they’d been fused at the hip at some point. I only wished they’d invited us to say goodbye to them as individuals before they’d had the surgery.
“I expected you at Christmas,” he said after a pause.
Lane and I looked at one another with mirrored expressions of guilt. “He’s talking to you,” we said simultaneously.
“We decorated and brought out the reindeer. You remember the reindeer, girls?”
I did. We had a set of four white wire reindeer that lit up. They made the yard look magical in the dark, and Dad hated wiring them up. He must have really wanted us to come. I bit my lip, trying to think of anything to excuse my behavior.
Dropping any sense of camaraderie, Lane promptly threw me under the bus. “I would’ve been here, but we promised Rick’s parents that the kids would see them on Christmas.” Her voice was smug as she hit the gearshift and rolled the bus back over my twitching legs. “I thought Avery would be here, so I wasn’t worried.”
I sent her a sizzling glare, and she smiled sweetly, scratching her brow with an upraised middle finger. I cleared my throat. “Jules and I had a busy season. When you’re the boss, you can’t just pick up and leave.” He didn’t say anything and I tried again. “I get away when I can.”
“That’s not very often.”
No, it wasn’t. I avoided his gaze, and when I finally risked a look back, he was already looking back at the TV.
“You look just like her, you know.” He didn’t look away from the TV, but I felt the weight of his regard all the same.
“I know,” was all I said.
“I’m glad you guys are here.”
So was I, but damned if I was going to get mushy on the first fucking day. So before the Black Eyed Peas could pop out of the hall closet and start singing “Where is the Love”, I cleared my throat and looked at the game. “So who’s winning?”