Never Say Never: Gravel Hill Boys Book Two

52. Madison

An hourlater we pulled up the driveway next to a tidy brick and shingle home on a large, corner lot. Night had fallen, but the house was well lit inside and out, and it looked warm and welcoming.

“Before we go inside, I just want to say that it’s small. I’ve offered multiple times to buy my folks a new house, but they won’t let me. They say they don’t need the room with everyone gone, and the time for me to buy them a bigger house was right after I was born.”

I laughed. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

He sighed. “Now you know what I have to deal with.”

I opened the door but Ian was out his side and standing next to me in seconds. “Will you please let me get the door for you? One of these days I’m going to trip or slip on the ice and break my neck trying to open your door first.”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “I’m capable of opening my own doors and getting in and out of a vehicle on my own.”

“Humor me, okay?”

He held out his hand and I took it. Then he reached in unhooked Finn from his car harness and grabbed the bottle of Irish whiskey and the box of assorted chocolates that we’d picked up in the city before we left. I would’ve also brought flowers, but I was afraid they’d be drooping after the long ride. Or worse, Finn would eat them and get sick in the car.

“Are you sure they’ll be okay with you bringing the dog inside?”

He looked at me as if I was the only person who’d ever responded badly to someone showing up to their home accompanied by a dog. “Of course. They love Finn.” I’d forgotten that Ian had been here last weekend with his new pal.

Ian extended his elbow for me to hold. “You ready? Ma’s likely to come barreling out the front door if we don’t get a move on.”

We’d just entered a bricked-in sunporch when the front door flew open, and just as Ian predicted, his mother burst through and flung her arms around me. “There she is.” She rocked me side to side. “What a wonderful surprise. When Ian called me earlier I couldn’t believe our luck.” She let me go and hugged Ian just as tightly, then looked up at him, beaming, as she said, “We hardly get to see you these days and now here you are, twice in one week.” She turned back to me. “And you! Well I’m just tickled pink to have you here.”

She looped her arm through mine and led me into a cozy living room furnished with reproduction Queen Anne pieces and an overstuffed sofa and matching recliners on either side of a brick fireplace where a fire roared. “Thank you for having me.”

“It’s our pleasure, sweet pea. Daniel!” she hollered. “Where’d you get to?”

“Quit howlin’ like a banshee, woman, I’m right here. I was just I’ some libation for me and my boy.”

Ian’s father was tall, ruddy complected, and just as handsome as he was. He bore a wide grin and a bottle of Irish whiskey and two glasses. “Great minds,” he crowed when Ian held up the Tullamore Dew he’d brought. “Looks like you brought the good stuff.”

Ian hugged his father and gave him a pat on the back before letting go.

“Now is this the beauty who’s about to make me a pawpaw for the third time?”

“I am, unless your son’s got someone else tucked away.”

“I’ll take him behind the woodshed if he does. C’mere and give his old man a hug.”

I did as he asked, and when he let go, I couldn’t help but notice his eyes were full. He didn’t even try to hide it. Naturally, with my emotions so close to the surface these days, my eyes welled up as well.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Donohue,” I said, but just as his wife had instructed me when we’d first met, he insisted I call him Danny or Pop. We’d been there for all of two minutes, yet I felt an overwhelming sense of family with Ian’s parents.

“How about a toast?” Danny suggested. “Let me grab a glass for my bride and something for the little mum.” He gave me a wide smile. “What can I get you, darlin’? How about something fizzy? Ginger ale?”

“Yes, please.”

He dashed out of the room while Ian’s mother guided us to sit on the sofa. “Would you like to put your feet up?”

On someone’s coffee table? Never.“Thank you, but no. I’m good.”

Ian lifted a long leg and set it on the table. “Thanks, Ma,” he teased before she could knock it off.

“I wasn’t talking to you. Good lord.” She sat in one of the recliners across from us. “This one’s the reason I have to color my hair.”

I’m sure she was referring to the old Ian, the one I’d originally met. This Ian was turning out to be damned near perfect in my opinion.

“Where are you staying?” she asked. “You know you’re welcome to stay with us.”

Ian smirked. “Thanks, Ma, but I outgrew those bunkbeds back in high school. My feet hang off the end.”

She waved him off like he was spouting nonsense, but given his height, I imagined he was right. I didn’t relish the idea of sleeping in a bunkbed either, although spending time with the Donohues wouldn’t be a hardship.

“Here we go,” Ian’s father carried in a tall glass of ginger ale for me and a rocks glass filled with ice for his mother. He unboxed the 18-year-old whiskey and poured a couple fingers in each glass, with a scant less in the one for Ian’s mother.

Mr. Donohue held up his glass. “A toast for our little mother. Now bear with me, this one’s a little long.”

Ian leaned toward me and whispered loudly, “The real performer in the family is that guy over there.”

“Amen to that,” Ian’s mother added.

His green eyes sparkling, Ian’s father ignored them and made a show of raising his glass to me.

“May God grant you always a sunbeam to warm you; a moonbeam to charm you; a sheltering angel so nothing can harm you; laughter to cheer you; faithful friends near you; and whenever you pray; heaven to hear you.” He lifted the glass higher. “Cheers to you, Madison. May God bless you and the little family you and our Ian are creatin’.”

Ian and his mother lifted their glasses and blessed me along with him before following up with a healthy swallow. I lifted my glass as well, but the best I could do was a tiny sip because I was a bit of a mess after that. I blinked away tears before trying to speak.

“Thank you. Oh dear.” I helped myself to a tissue from a box on the end table and dabbed the corners of my eyes, hoping I wasn’t going to sit through dinner looking like a raccoon. “That was so very kind.”

Ian slid close enough to wrap an arm around my shoulders. “You okay?”

I fanned my face. “Uh huh. Just emotional.” I leaned against his chest, and he kissed my head. When I looked up, both his parents were beaming.

I took another sip of ginger ale, and then attempted to redirect the attention away from me.

“Whatever you’re cooking smells wonderful, Siobhan. May I help with anything? Need me to whip up some biscuits perhaps?”

That got the laugh I was hoping for.

“Everything’s just about ready. Why don’t y’all come on into the dining room and sit?”

There was no denying that Ian’s parents’ house was small. The downstairs was a warren of closed off rooms decorated with inexpensive furniture that more likely than not, wasn’t even made of real wood but a composite of sorts. And while it boasted four bedrooms, they were also tiny. It was a cramped, crowded space to raise five children. Ian, being the only boy, ended up with his own bedroom, although it was outfitted with bunkbeds. Almost a necessity, he’d told me, because Beau—whose mother had disappeared when he was six and his father had been in and out of prison—had spent a lot of time at his house while they were growing up.

Despite the size, however, it was bursting with love. Family photos covered the walls, from baby pictures with Bridget, the oldest, holding Ian, the youngest, to high school portraits lined up on the fireplace mantel in the living room.

I’d had high school portraits taken the summer before senior year, but I had no idea where they were. Family photos didn’t hang on the walls of my family home. The only things that hung on our walls were original oil paintings, some worth more than the Donohue home.

I grew up on roughly eight acres just outside of the city in one of the most exclusive communities in Pennsylvania. Our house was nearly thirty-thousand square feet in size, had seven family bedrooms and I don’t know how many staff bedrooms. It featured every luxury imaginable and was lavishly decorated.

Outside there were numerous fountains and stone-carved patios and terraces, basketball and tennis courts, and a tree-lined avenue that led to a circular courtyard all enclosed by a tall iron fence and a locked gate.

Ironic how I’d teased Ian about living in a museum when in reality, I was the one who had lived in one. It was a cold, lonely existence, and not the way I wanted to bring up my child. I had never wanted for anything growing up, except what was so prevalent within the walls of this cozy little home in rural West Virginia.

Ian came up behind me while I was taking in the photos spaced out along the wall in the hallway from the living room to the kitchen. I pointed at a picture of a little boy who looked to be around three or four years old, barefoot and wearing dirty overalls with the cuffs rolled up and no shirt. On his head he wore a backwards baseball cap and his reddish blond hair looked as if it had been cut with a bowl. An enormous smile displayed neat rows of pearly white baby teeth.

“You,” I assumed.

He chuckled. “Unfortunately.”

“It’s sweet.” I glanced up at him over my shoulder. “Looks like you were a happy kid.”

“Yeah, I guess. For the most part. I mean, having a learning disability wasn’t fun, but I got by.”

“By being the class clown?”

“Pretty much.”

“Show me your room.”

He hesitated. “Maybe next time. We should head out.”

I grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the stairs. “Come on. I want to see where all the magic happened.”

“Trust me, with a stay-at-home mom and four sisters, the only magic that happened up there was of my own making after I made sure the door was locked. Fucking Bridget.”

“I still want to see.” I pouted, giving him my best overexaggerated sad face. “Please.”

“Fine.” He called over his shoulder. “I’m gonna show Maddie my bedroom.”

“You keep that door open, young man,” his father shouted from the living room, followed by a laugh from his mother in the kitchen.

Ian hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s your class clown.”

“I like your dad,” I said as Ian took my hand and led me up the steps. “And your mom. I like your entire family. They’re so real. Very down to earth.”

“Jeez, I hope they’re real.”

“It’s hard to explain. Everything in my life is about appearances. It’s hard to know what’s real and what isn’t. Like, I’ve never seen my mother or my grandmother without a full face of makeup. My father lives in suits and ties or golf clothes. The only time I’ve ever seen his bare feet is on the rare occasions he might swim on one of our family vacations in Palm Beach or at our villa in Champeaux.”

An uncomfortable look very much like pity crossed Ian’s face. I didn’t like it. “Anyway,” I rushed to say, “I like your family. They’re all lovely.”

He smiled, but unlike his usual smiles where his eyes sparked mischievously, this one had an underlying sadness to it. “Guess I’m lucky. My folks are good people. My sisters too. Even when they drive me crazy.”

We paused outside a closed door in the narrow upstairs hallway. “Ready?” he asked.

“Is it going to smell like dirty gym socks and Axe body spray?”

“Shit. I hope not.”

Ian opened the door with a flourish, and I hated that my first thought was that the primary bedroom closet at my penthouse was bigger. I hated it even more when I also called to mind that the closet wasn’t even big enough for all my clothes and accessories.

My sense of self was taking a beating at my own hand tonight.

I made a point of sniffing the air. “Smells fresh.” I smiled. On the wall nearest the door was a set of bunkbeds. Each topped with a matching patchwork quilt in different shades of blue. A small desk sat against the wall in one corner, topped with a pirate ship lamp, a dictionary, and a cup made from a tin can and decorated with pieces of felt that held pencils and pens. The radiator on another wall had a piece of wood on top of it that was being used as a shelf where several books; framed photos of Ian with his parents at his graduation, another of Ian and Beau during that gangly, prepubescent boy era, and another with what appeared to be a teenage Ian, Beau, and Brooklynn sitting on a stack of hay bales. The last photo was the largest and showed Ian after a concert with his parents. It wasn’t recent, but it looked to be long after the gawky teen years.

On the wall across from the bed were a bunch of posters of some of his favorite musicians and bands from Duff McKagan of Guns ‘n Roses, to Chris Cornell, and of course, his all-time favorite, the Foo Fighters.

As if reading my mind, Ian chuckled. “After I left for Nashville with Beau, my ma trashed the more X-rated posters, including the one of Duff and his wife posing naked with his bass guitar for some PETA campaign.” He leaned against the wall and stared at the empty spot on the wall. “Ink Not Mink. That was a classic.”

For a teenage boy, I’m sure it was. “What other indecent images did young Ian have hanging on his walls?”

“Mostly Sports Illustrated swimsuit models.” He winked. “I kept the good stuff hidden.”

An idea popped into my head, and I laughed. “That reminds me.” I sat on the bottom bunk and then carefully lowered myself onto my knees.

“Did you drop something? Let me look.”

“I’m good. Just give me a sec—” My fingers connected with the smooth surface of what was very likely a magazine. “Aha!”I captured the pages between my fingers and yanked, shouting, “Margaret Thatcher, I presume!”

Ian looked horrified as I waved the magazine over my head. With what could only be called a scream, he lunged for it. Confused at his reaction, I turned my back on him and looked at the worn, dog-eared copy of Playboy in my hands and screamed louder than he had. He grabbed the magazine, opened the closet, flung it inside, and slammed the door shut, but it was too late.

I lowered myself onto the floor. I needed a hypnotist or exorcist or some kind of brain and eye bleach. Oh, how I wished it had been a photo of Margaret Thatcher tucked under the mattress. That I could live with.

Ian slid onto the floor in front of me and held onto my shoulders. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I had no idea that was there. Honestly. I didn’t know!”

The ability to form words had abandoned me. There was a good chance I might have PTSD.

“Say something. Madison, please.”

The bedroom door flew open and Ian’s mother burst into the room. “What’s wrong? Is it the baby?” She too dropped to her knees. “Ian, help me get her up onto the bed.”

“No!” I clung to what little bit of sanity remained. There was no way I was getting on that bed—the bed where a teenage Ian had done unspeakable things to a picture of… I couldn’t even think it let alone say it aloud.

Ian jumped to his feet. “This is your fault,” he shouted at his mother. “I thought you were a better housekeeper than that.”

“What?” Siobhan looked up at him, confused. “What in tarnation are you spouting off about?”

He swung his arms, encompassing the small space. “You got rid of all of the rest of them. Did it ever occur to you to check under the mattress?” He paced a few steps one way and then the other while I swayed back and forth, squeezing my eyes shut, and trying to block out the image that had been burned into my retinas.

Siobhan wrapped her arms around me and rocked with me, soothing me slightly. “Somebody please tell me what’s wrong.”

“You,” Ian pointed at his mother. “This is your fault.”

“Ian, it’s not her fault.”

Mr. Donohue arrived and demanded to know who was at fault and for what.

“Your wife!”

“Ian,” I was still trying to find my words. “Stop. It’s not her fault.”

“Yes it is.” He leaned toward his mother. “Ever hear of spring cleaning.”

“Quit’cher caterwauling, boy. And don’t speak to your ma that way.” Mr. Donohue turned to Ian’s mother who held me in a protective stance. “What did you do?”

Shocked, she shouted back, “Nothing. I have no idea what he’s carrying on about.”

“We have to go,” Ian announced. “Madison, we need to go.”

We did, but the thought of his parents finding what was in that closet had tonight’s meatloaf churning dangerously in my belly. Trying desperately to compose myself, I braced myself on the bed and as I attempted to stand, Ian, his mother, and his father all grabbed some part of me and lifted.

“I’m fine,” I assured them, forcing a smile. “But I am tired.”

“Did you see a mouse?” Ian’s father asked. “They like to come inside this time of year. I should set more traps.”

A mouse would’ve been delightful compared to what I’d seen. I nodded. Let them think it was a mouse.

“Daniel, you best go set more of them traps. I don’t want to lay abed tonight and worry that a mouse is going to run across the covers.”

I shivered at the thought, but still, preferable to the reality of what had happened.

“On it,” he said, leaving the room and thumping his way down the stairs.

“I’m gonna run and wrap up some of them leftovers for you. You can make yourselves some meatloaf sandwiches for lunch tomorrow.” Siobhan went to leave, but then turned back. “You sure you’re okay, sweet pea?”

I nodded and smiled. Despite the shock of what had just happened, I leaned into the concern. “I am. Sorry to scare you. I hate mice.” Not a lie.

“Don’t you give it another thought. Daniel’s gonna take care of them, and when y’all come for Thanksgiving, you won’t have nothing to worry about.”

She narrowed her eyes at Ian. “I’m gonna get them leftovers together while I’m waiting for your apology.” After a quick squeeze of my arm, she stormed out of the room. We could hear her muttering something about next spring Ian better come to help her with spring cleaning if he was going to go around accusing her of not keeping a clean house.

It would’ve been comical if the incident didn’t have me ready to vomit.

Ian stepped closer. “I’m sorry, babe.” He looked as if he wanted to touch me but held back. “Are you okay?”

“I guess, but you need to take care of that.” I pointed at the closet. “No one can see that.”

When we got back to Ian’s little farmhouse, I got ready for bed while he told me he had something to do and would be back in a little while. We hadn’t exchanged more than a few words since we’d left his parents’ house, and I didn’t ask him where he was going. I just settled into bed, fired up my Kindle, and sipped the decaffeinated tea I’d made, wishing it were a bowl of the French hot chocolate my nanny used to make me whenever I was sad or upset.

After reading the same paragraph multiple times and still having no idea what was happening in the book, I gave up. I was about to see if I could find something mindless on television when Ian returned, bringing with him the smell of outdoors and woodsmoke.

He stood in the bedroom doorway, his hands jammed into his front pockets, looking sheepish. “I really am sorry. That was…all kinds of disturbing.”

I pressed a knuckle against the tip of my nose to keep from snorting. “Yes, it was.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I can say it enough. I feel horrible.”

Was it disturbing? Hell, yeah, but the more I thought about it and how everything happened after I’d discovered that old issue of Playboy tucked under Ian’s mattress, it was also kind of funny, now that I’d gotten over the initial shock.

“You already apologized, Ian. You don’t have to keep saying it.”

“I think I do.”

“You don’t. It’s fine. I mean, it would be weird if you were still masturbating to images of my mother. But way back then, you had no idea that you were getting off to photos of your future child’s grandmother, right?

Ian covered his face and groaned. “Fuck me. I’d give anything for that magazine to have had sexy photos of Margaret Thatcher.”

I nibbled on my bottom lip and laughed. “While I hate lying to your parents, I’d much prefer they think I saw a mouse than know that I discovered my mother in the centerfold of a twenty-year old magazine under your bed. Okay?”

“Fine by me.” He lowered his hands. “I suppose you want me to sleep in one of the other bedrooms?”

“Of course not.” I patted the bed beside me. “You’ve suffered enough for one night.”

He came and sat beside me, curling his hand around the back of my neck and leaning in for a chaste kiss. “I’m going to take a quick shower. Can I get you anything before I do?”

I shook my head. “I’m good.” He stood and rifled through his suitcase, pulling out a long-sleeve T-shirt and a pair of sleep pants.

“What did you end up doing with that magazine?”

“I set it on fire in the burn pit out back.”

“Probably for the best,” I teased, not letting on how relieved I was. “Although, knowing my mother, if she knew you had it, she would’ve autographed it for you.”

The horrified look on his face was priceless.

“Just so you know, I never want to meet your mother. Ever.”

I picked up my Kindle. “That’s a shame. Especially with you being such a big fan and all.”

There was a loud groan as the door to the bathroom closed.