Finding peace, p.4
Finding Peace, page 4
“Oh, you made it!” Trudy’s white high heels clack loudly against the marble. Somehow, even though she looks cute and casual in her handkerchief dress and heeled sandals, I feel more at ease. Trudy just projects a sense of normalcy wherever she goes.
“I did, thanks for the address,” I say.
“I’ve heard their strawberries wild salad is to die for,” Geo says.
“Of course she loves salad.” Trudy winks at me as she pulls out a chair and plonks down on it.
“It’s got a poppy seed dressing and candied walnuts,” Geo says. “It barely counts as a salad—it’s almost a dessert.”
“I like my desserts without a side of spinach,” Trudy says. “But you’ve sold me on trying it as a side.”
“How are their burgers?” I sling my purse over the back of an unclaimed chair.
“Amazing.” A squatty waiter with a shock of blonde hair that sticks straight up in the air hands me a menu. “As are our sweet potato fries.”
“I love sweet potato fries,” Trudy says.
“So do I,” I say.
And lunch is so much better than sitting in front of my laptop—from the juicy cheeseburger, to the cinnamon and sugar sprinkled sweet potato fries, to the conversation.
“So what are the odds you choose this venue?” I ask.
“The bride and groom wanted me to be sure and try the stuffed mushrooms and the strawberry salad,” Geo says, “and I thought both were excellent.”
“So will you do the wedding here?”
“I’ll need to bring them to confirm that they like the lighting and the banquet hall I have in mind, but I think it’s likely.”
“Not a waste of resources by the restaurant then,” Trudy says. “That makes me feel better for being completely stuffed and not spending a dime.”
Geo waves the waiter over. “I absolutely loved the food. I’d love to set up another lunch for next Tuesday, so that the bride and groom can make a final decision.”
“I’m so happy you were pleased,” he says. “But unfortunately, after this Saturday, we’ll no longer be serving lunch. Could I reserve a dinner time?”
Geo blinks. “Not serving lunch? Why ever not?”
The pinched look on the blonde, puffy-haired waiter’s face makes it clear he’s not a fan of the new plan either. “Apparently the profit margins aren’t high enough to justify the expense.”
“That’s a terrible decision,” Geo says. “Lunch isn’t about the profit margin on the particular meal as much as it is about keeping your clientele happy.”
“Well, maybe you can march into his office and tell our new manager that, because everyone else is afraid of Mr. Trainor.”
Geo’s full lips part and her eyes widen. “Wait.” Her eyes narrow. “Mr. Trainor? Is his name, by chance, Ethan Trainor?”
Blonde puff nearly drops the mostly empty pitcher of water he’s holding as his arm goes slack. He’s lucky the pitcher wasn’t full, or he’d have soaked Geo. “I think it is.”
“Does he look like a blonde surfer-guy?”
He nods dumbly.
“Tell Mr. High and Mighty Ethan Trainor that a patron would like to file a formal complaint. Tell him I’m livid and insist on speaking with him personally.”
“Should I tell him your name?” Blonde puff’s eyes tighten and the water at the bottom of the pitcher shakes a little, betraying his hand tremble.
Geo bites her lip. “What fun would that be?” She beams, and I suddenly can’t wait to see how this plays out.
4
Ethan
The air in Atlanta hits me in the face like an open-palm slap.
I’d almost forgotten how hard the summer in Georgia tries to suffocate me, but the dense, heavy air as I walk down the steps of the plane reminds me right quick.
“You made it.” Dad’s standing at the bottom of the stairs.
“You’re here, waiting on me?” I narrow my eyes. This is not typical behavior for him. Not at all. “What’s going on?”
Partner barks and barks and barks at him, until I command her to stop and sit. Dad uses the distraction to grab one of my suitcases, which is already resting on the ground. His flight crew is efficient—no surprise there. “There has to be something wrong for me to be eager to see you?”
I shake my head. “I mean, no. I guess not, but it’s weird that you’re here waiting on me in the middle of a business day.”
“You arrived on my jet. I figured the least I could do was ensure it actually arrived safely.”
One of the greatest perks of having a rich adoptive father: use of a private jet. “Thanks for sending it for me.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” He’ll never say that he’s missed me and he loves me, but I know that’s what he means.
I expected him to have aged in the twelve months that have passed since I last saw him, especially with his talk of the years catching up to him, but he looks and sounds exactly the same as he did when he came out to Hawaii last summer: broad shoulders, thick, wavy, dark brown hair, and small, delicate wrinkles framing his bright, golden eyes. He looks and sounds as strong and steady as ever.
“I’m not relocating permanently,” I remind him. “I’m here until I’m sure Adriana is safe from him and this new hotel is in good shape.”
“I know.”
“Alright, then.”
“You packed pretty heavily for someone who isn’t staying.” He rubs Partner’s head. “And you brought your dog.”
“I couldn’t just leave her in Hawaii for an undetermined period,” I say. “And if I’m here for very long, I’ll need cold weather clothes too, so I brought some. Sweaters are bulky.”
“You had sweaters in Hawaii?” Dad asks.
“It’s not like I was going to rent a storage unit when I moved,” I say.
“If you really didn’t mean to come back, why didn’t you toss them?”
He’s trying to distract me, which means. . . “Something else is wrong,” I say. “Just tell me what it is.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” he says. “But I do have a small bit of news.”
“What?” I knew it.
“I called the warden.”
My grip tightens on both my suitcase handle and the end of Partner’s leash. “Why?”
“Your sister is giddy about meeting him on his release date.”
“I know. That’s the real reason I came.”
“I thought it prudent to arrange an earlier release—one she’s not aware is happening.”
I’ve never wanted to hug Dad more than I do right now. “Brilliant,” I say. “Did it work? Did the warden agree?”
“For a generous donation to the facility, he was willing to release Phillip three days early.”
I blink. “That’s tomorrow.”
“I’m glad your flight made it without any hiccups and that you’re here. I imagine you’ll have a few things to say to him when he’s released.”
I’ve been planning to see him, but I thought I had more time to prepare. Knowing he’ll be released tomorrow, well. I’m just surprised, that’s all. “I do.”
“Good. Well, I won’t bother you more, then.”
“Can your driver take me to the Riviera Grand? I’d like to check in today.”
“Actually, I arranged to have your car brought here. You can drive yourself.”
My car? “I don’t have a car here, remember? I need to call Enterprise.”
Dad smiles. “No, you don’t. Let’s call it a welcome home present.”
Oh, no. This is the man I remember. Overly generous, with a strong dose of heavy handed. “Please tell me that you didn’t buy me a car.”
“Why would that upset you?” He shakes his head. “I swear, it’s like you look for reasons to get mad.”
“I told you I’m not staying. I don’t want to own a car here, but if I did, I could buy one for myself. I’m thirty years old, Dad.”
“Well, once you’re done with your hissy fit, you can follow me to the car I bought you in an unparalleled act of heinous villainy.”
I sigh. How does he always succeed in making me feel like a petulant baby when I’m in the right? I grit my teeth and follow him to the parking lot, where a dark blue Porsche 911 Carrera 4S Cabriolet waits for me, the top already down. All it’s missing is a neon sign that says “midlife crisis underway—trying way too hard to act like a high-roller.”
But I don’t sigh or make a fuss. It wouldn’t matter if I did.
“I know how you hate red, so look. I bought you a blue one.”
“Red is just fine. It’s Porsches I don’t like,” I can’t quite keep from pointing out. “And my suitcases won’t even fit inside it.”
“Oh, please. Everyone loves Porsches once they get behind the wheel. Drive this one for a day, and if you still hate it, I’ll take it back for myself. I don’t have this one in blue.” He hands my suitcase to his driver, Raul. “My driver will drop your suitcases off for you. Don’t worry about that.”
Sometimes I wish he could step out of his body and listen to the words coming out of his mouth. How practical is a car that won’t even hold my two suitcases? And he doesn’t have this one . . . in blue?!? But pointing those things out as excessive is pointless. “Thanks, Dad. I’m sure it’s wonderful.” And the second I leave, he can have it back. At least it’ll spare me the trouble of renting something. “I’m really grateful.”
“I’ll text you the address of your house.”
I nearly choke. “My what?”
“You said you were bringing your dog.” He tries not to stumble over the word, but not quite hard enough. He hates pets and always has. “You can’t keep that thing at the Riviera Grand, obviously.”
Is he serious? “I’ll tell people she’s a service dog.” When I open the door, she races up and into the passenger seat, drool slinging across the dash and onto the seat with a plop.
Dad shudders. “I will never understand why you want . . . that bouncy, slobbery thing with you.”
“No, and it’s okay that you don’t understand all the human things. Cyborgs often struggle with ideas of affection and connection.”
He rolls his eyes.
Well, even if he thinks my dog is bizarre, plenty of things about him make no sense to me either. “I appreciate you lining up a rental home, but I can find my own lodging—even with my dog along.”
“Now who’s being bullheaded? I found a nice, clean, comfortable house less than five miles away from the hotel.”
“And you rented it for me.”
“Of course not. We don’t rent.”
“Please tell me you didn’t buy it for me.” My tone is as flat and calm as I can make it.
“Of course I did. I’d hardly buy it for myself.” It never even occurred to him that I might not want him to buy me a house, as a thirty-year-old man. Clearly he doesn’t believe that I can take care of myself in any way.
“Well, I’ll let you know how it goes with Phillip tomorrow.” I start to slide into the driver’s seat of my new, ridiculously shiny sports car.
His hand grips my shoulder. “Be careful,” he says. “He’s a dangerous man.”
“So am I.” I shake him off.
“I know you are,” he says. “But I didn’t mean physically dangerous. If you need to talk, tell me. I’ll meet you wherever, whenever.”
I swallow, buckle up, and drive away.
Dad hasn’t ever lived in the real world with us plebeians, but he means well. And he might be on to something with this overpriced convertible. The wind in my hair doesn’t feel nearly as humid racing past at eighty. The roaring of the engine makes my heart accelerate pleasantly, and the looks of envy from passengers in the cars I pass lift my spirits.
I don’t want to keep it, but it’s fun on a temporary basis.
“What do you think, Partner? What will this house look like?”
She barks by way of response, her eyes as happy as I’ve ever seen them, checking out every single thing we pass with a lolling tongue and rapidly billowing fur. I’m pleasantly surprised when the house is large without being ostentatious, and it’s centrally located, in an older but well maintained neighborhood, the central streets all lined with huge, majestic live oaks. You can’t even see the neighborhood from the main roads, it’s so tucked into a tiny corner.
Plenty of dogs bark at Partner, and she barks happily back. There’s even a dog door that leads into the securely fenced back yard of the new place.
All in all, I don’t feel too bad about leaving Partner while I check out the state of things at the Riviera Grand. Dad wasn’t exaggerating that it’s a mess, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
Which leaves me more time than I wish I had to think about Phillip’s release tomorrow.
But no amount of thinking leaves me feeling prepared. The next morning, I try on six different things before settling on a black t-shirt and jeans with heavy black boots. I’m not dressing up for him, and I don’t want him thinking any part of me is happy to see him. Funeral garb, without being nicely respectable, it is.
The entire drive, no matter how hard I try, memories keep popping into my mind like a miserable game of past horrors whack-a-mole.
Christmas morning, when he gave me a bright green guitar and showed me how to play a few power chords.
New Year’s Eve, when he let me light off fireworks, and then cheered as they exploded overhead.
My eighth birthday, when Mom and Phillip took me to adopt a dog. I loved that beagle puppy more than anything.
Until Adriana was born the next year.
Two weeks after Adriana came home, Philip used my green guitar to smash a hole in the wall right next to Mom’s head. Even the good memories are twisted with the bad. My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly, I wonder if I’ll damage the leather.
I’m close to the prison when the night I’ll never forget flashes across my mind. Phillip, his lip curled, his teeth shining brightly in the dark, yelling at Mom for flirting with the fifty-year-old neighbor who had cleared the driveway of snow. I should have stood up for her. I should have told him she wasn’t flirting, that she was just grateful that he had helped her out so she wouldn’t be late for work.
But I was too afraid of Phillip to defend my own mother.
I shake my head. It’s been eighteen years. I’m bigger, and Phillip is older. Unlike Dad, he’s probably aged significantly. Of course, there’s a chance he’s gotten tougher and scarier in prison. He’s only fifty. He was only two years older than I am now when he was locked up—
But even if he’s just as tough, just as scary, I’m not a little boy anymore. I’m a champion boxer. I’m a successful businessman. A college graduate. A son. And most importantly, a brother. That’s why I’m here. To make sure Phillip never hurts another woman close to me. Never again will I fail to protect a woman I love.
My hands shake when I shove the Carrera into park outside Hancock State Prison in Sparta, Georgia. It looks nothing like I imagined it would. The drive took longer than I expected, thanks to the Atlanta traffic, and I’m ten minutes late. I assume the prison warden will wait until I arrive to release him, seeing as Dad made a huge contribution to the prison for an early release.
But, of course he didn’t.
Phillip is standing near the bus stop at the edge of the parking lot when I step out of my car. I might not have recognized him, except that he’s wearing the same shirt he had on that night. It’s clean—no blood at all—but it’s the same navy blue polo shirt he was wearing when he killed my mom.
I’ve imagined this scene a million times. A billion. The moment I come face to face with my horrifying birth father—the man who raised me until I was twelve years old—as an adult. He was a scrappy musician who fought better than he rocked and drank better than both combined. I would finally punch him in the nose, shattering cartilage and bone, repaying him in small part for the pain he has inflicted on my world.
But he’s not the man I remember.
He smaller. He’s covered in tattoos. And he looks so sad and . . . so broken. And when he hears me walking his direction and he turns to face me, his eyes widen.
Not with fear, like I hoped. Not with guilt, or remorse, or anger. No matter how many times I imagined this happening, I never considered he’d look at me with joy or hope.
“Son?” He sets a small black canvas bag on the concrete bench.
My lip curls when he calls me son.
“They changed my release date. I didn’t know if anyone would even realize. . . I’m surprised you came for me.”
I’ve probably imagined this moment a thousand times. Ten thousand. But now that I’m here, every single plan I made, every single cutting word I imagined that I’d eviscerate him with . . . evaporates. Vapor. Mist. Smoke. Gone. “I didn’t come for you.” I’m not sure why I’m focusing on that word, but it’s what caught my attention. “I wouldn’t have come at all, if it was up to me.”
He frowns, the hopeful look sliding off his face in a very satisfying way. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted to hurt him, not just physically, but in every single way, until right now. I want to laugh with complete joy at the raw, baffled injury.
“I’m here for only one reason.”
“You’re angry.”
“You killed my mother,” I whisper. “Of course I’m angry. Did you think I’d bring flowers?”
He shakes his head.
“I came here to tell you that Adriana doesn’t see you for who you are. You’ve been writing her, but that’s not the same as knowing you like I do. You may have duped her, but you’ll never fool me.”
He looks at his feet, his shiny black shoes shifting. Something about the submissive gesture hurts me, like I’m kicking a puppy, or crunching a beetle.
Like I’m the villain.
“Do you hear me?” My hands ball into fists. “Do you understand what I’m telling you right now?”
He clears his throat. “You don’t want me to see Adriana.”
“I arranged for you to get out early so she wouldn’t be here. I’ll ensure that they don’t share your parole information and your whereabouts with her. I don’t want you to see her, and I don’t want you to call her. Is that clear?”
