Chapter 15
Jamal sat on the edge of the rock-strewn cliff, looking out over the red clay that stretched for miles around him. He’d give anything to have his sax in his hand. He needed the solace that came with losing himself in a piece of music.
He rubbed at the ache that had resided in his chest for the past five days. It started the moment he’d sent Phylicia away. No matter what he tried, the pain refused to let up.
Jamal pitched a rock into the hollow vastness that lay before him. He’d been so damn philosophical this week, he was driving himself crazy. But he could not escape the symbolism. The never-ending stretch of nothingness mimicked his life to perfection.
He’d reached a new low point. The most amazing woman he would ever have the luxury of knowing had told him she loved him, and he’d sent her packing.
Here he was, only a couple of hours from his family, and yesterday, he’d spent Thanksgiving with two strangers at a bed-and-breakfast in Lake Montezuma. What did that say about the state his life was in? What did that say about him?
That he was a damn coward.
The ugly truth had hit him square in the gut as soon as he’d returned to the suite he’d shared with Phylicia back in Sedona.
She’d tried to save him from suffering the same fate she’d met, but he’d been too much of a coward to face the truth of her words.
Too afraid to accept his role in the mess he’d made of his relationship with his father.
Jamal figured it was easier to just walk away, to lay the blame for his shattered relationships at everyone else’s feet.
It was his father’s lack of respect that had caused this chasm to stretch between them.
It was Phylicia’s dogged insistence at sticking her nose where it didn’t belong that had caused him to send her away.
But it was his own stubbornness that had him here, all alone, his mind reverberating with all the things he’d fought valiantly to keep at bay.
The truth was laid bare now, demanding an audience, and Jamal could do nothing but see it for what it was.
Phylicia had been right. He could spend the rest of his life coming up with projects to keep him occupied so that he could put off opening his firm.
The only thing that had been stopping him was him.
And his gut-wrenching, soul-stealing fear of failing.
It was that fear of proving his father’s prophecy right—that he would have to come crawling back a failure—that was at the root of his fear.
But what if he didn’t fail?
What if he finally put to use those ideas he’d been stockpiling for years and they actually worked?
He’d crunched the numbers countless times; he knew the tide was shifting and that making older homes more eco-friendly was the wave of the future.
What was he waiting for? Some other architectural outfit to step in and make a success of his ideas?
“What in the hell is wrong with you?” He pushed himself up from where he’d been perched on the cliff and quickly made his way down the side of the foothill.
As soon as he got in his car, he pulled up the number for his Realtor in New Orleans, hoping she wasn’t out scouring the day-after Thanksgiving sales.
When she answered on the second ring, Jamal’s chest nearly burst with relief.
“Is the house on Saint Charles Avenue still available?” he asked.
“Yes, it is,” Tiffany said.
“I want it. I’ll be in New Orleans by tonight. Do whatever you can to make the sale happen quickly. I want to be in there as soon as possible.”
He returned to the bed-and-breakfast he’d found in Lake Montezuma and packed his things, booking a return flight home as he shoved his clothes into his bags.
Soon, Jamal was driving south, making his way back to Phoenix. But instead of continuing straight on I-17 toward Sky Harbor International, he took the exit at Camelback Road and headed east toward the suburb of Arcadia.
He was done running away. Phylicia was right. He didn’t want to live with regrets, not when he still had a chance at making things right.
Jamal pulled up to the gates of the home he’d grown up in, modest by the standards of some of the mansions springing up in other parts of the city. He dialed in the key code, a measure of comfort washing over him at the knowledge that the numbers had not changed.
He entered the house using the key he’d kept stuffed in his wallet—the key his mother had insisted he have, even though he hadn’t lived in this house in nearly a decade. She was in the foyer, watering the large, fresh flower arrangement that sat in the middle of a round marble table.
She twisted around and gasped. “Jamal?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“How…why?” She walked up to him. “What are you still doing in Arizona? I thought you left the day after the wedding.”
Shame washed over him. He didn’t want to tell her he’d been here the entire week and had purposely missed Thanksgiving yesterday. It would hurt her too much. Instead, he got right to the point of his unexpected detour.
“Where is he?”
“Jamal, please, no more fighting,” she pleaded.
“I don’t want to fight with him.”
The hope that sprang to her eyes made her look ten years younger, and Jamal was hit with the reality of the toll this rift with his father had taken on the rest of the family.
“He’s in his office,” she said.
Jamal started for the marble stairs that led to the second floor, but his mother stopped him before he could take a step.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for coming back.”
He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “You’re welcome,” he said. “And I promise never to stay away this long again.”
He took the stairs two at a time, stopping short as he came upon the dark wood door of his father’s home office. He gave it two short raps.
“Come in,” came the deep voice from the other side of the door.
Jamal pushed it open and stared at his father. “I think we need to talk,” he said.
“This is nice, isn’t it, Agatha?”
“Yes, it is,” Phil replied. She leaned over and peered at her mother’s canvas. Her rendering of the small gazebo surrounded by flowers was nearly an exact replication of the actual structure that stood before them in the serenity garden on the grounds of Mossy Oaks.
She tilted her head to the side as she gazed at her mother. “I’m so grateful you can still paint.”
“I don’t know for how much longer. I’m getting old. Arthritis may soon set in.” Her mother’s cagey smile warmed Phil’s heart.
“You’ve been robbed of so much,” Phil whispered. “I think God will let you paint for a while longer.”
Her mother set her brush in the easel’s tray and walked over to her. “Is that your young man?” Sabina asked as she stared at Phil’s painting.
Most of the portrait was still in outline form, an outline she’d sketched from memory. “It is.”
“I hope he comes back to see me soon. He is a very nice young man, Aggie. I’m so happy you found someone like him.”
Phil just smiled. She knew if she tried to talk, those damn tears would start flowing.
They stayed in the garden for another hour, their conversation jumping from one decade to another.
As usual, Phil tried to follow as best she could, and she embellished whenever necessary.
When the nurse came to retrieve Sabina for afternoon exercise, Phil bade her mother goodbye with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to return in a few days.
On her way out of Mossy Oaks, she stopped in the director’s office.
“She seems to be doing well,” she said to Dr. Beckman.
“We haven’t had any more episodes,” he told her. His face took on a thoughtful, contemplative look. “Can you close the door? I’d like to speak to you privately, Ms. Phillips.”
Fear threaded down Phil’s spine. “Is there a problem?” she asked.
“No. Actually, this may be the best thing that’s happened in quite some time.
” He gestured for her to take a seat. When she was settled, he continued.
“There is an experimental study being conducted at LSU’s medical school, and they’ve contacted Mossy Oaks for study subjects.
I believe your mother would be a good candidate. ”
Phil’s heart started pounding against her ribcage, curiosity and hope flooding her brain as the facility’s director gave her an overview of what the study would entail.
“This wouldn’t cure her,” Dr. Beckman was quick to point out. “But, if successful, it could significantly slow the progression of her disease.”
Phil brought a trembling hand to her mouth.
“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” he cautioned her. “Remember, it’s experimental, and there are no guarantees, but it’s something to consider.”
“Whatever can be done, do it,” she said. “I need her here as long as possible. Even if she thinks I’m my aunt Agatha.”
Dr. Beckman nodded and smiled. “Good. I’ll keep you abreast of the study. And when it’s time, I’ll have the paperwork for you to sign.”
Phil couldn’t help it. She stood, walked over to the director, and wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you so much for all you do.”
Even if she had to sell her house and live on the streets, she would do whatever she had to do to keep her mother at Mossy Oaks. Moving her from this place and its amazing staff wasn’t an option.
Her cell phone started ringing as she made her way to the parking lot. Phil recognized the number; it was the real estate company she’d hired to sell the properties she owned in Maplesville. Dread climbed up her spine. What was it now? A fire? Vandals? Termite infestation?
“Hello?” she answered, preparing herself for the worst.
“Hello, Ms. Phillips, this is Marla Conner with Conner Realty. I have some good news for you.”
Phil stopped in her tracks. “Yes?” she asked, too afraid to hope.
“We have a buyer for one of your properties,” the woman said.
“Oh my God,” Phil breathed. Her knees nearly buckled with the relief that crashed through her. “Are you serious?”
“I sure am. A husband and wife and their beautiful twin girls. They just moved down from Jackson, Mississippi. They said the house is perfect for them.”