Chapter 6 Wiser Now
WISER NOW
It’s amazing what a man can accomplish in only twenty-four hours.
Sure, I didn’t get myself to the office to start my re-training with Dad, but I packed my shit, caught a flight and arranged a meet with the real estate agent I’d used six years ago when I bought property here in Rubble Ridge.
She’d promised discretion, and I’m confident she did all she could to see that promise through to me.
But Rubble Ridge is small, and I bought the property with my own name. Whoever filed it must have blabbed to Dad. I have no doubt it was Dad who made sure the blabber didn’t blab again.
Herman Wilder was a prominent figure in Rubble Ridge.
He’d been that as far back as I could remember, being born and raised in the small town that was little more than a dot on a map.
He knew everyone and everyone knew him. He had his nose in a little bit of everyone’s business, a finger in nearly every pot, what with his investments and donations into pretty much every startup.
While just driving through town, it’d been impossible not to note the new rec center that stood proudly on the outer edge.
Gleaming tinted glass and angled timber crafted an architectural piece of art that, although modern, fit with the ambiance of the town that bled rustic charm.
The sponsors were etched into the massive stone out front.
The Vancouver Vikings one of the biggest, followed closely by the Wilders.
In my talks with Mom, Wilder Builds and Reno’s had slowed significantly since Tate’s death. Dad hadn’t accepted a project outside town borders in fourteen months, even going so far as letting some of his guys go. Mom says it’s a shame.
Although there’s a cookie cutter builder monopolizing the pop-up new builds in town, if you want custom, you trust Wilder Builds and Reno’s.
“Will this do, Mr. Wilder?”
Mr. Wilder. It sounds different here than it does under the flash and fame of the city.
“It’ll do, Quinn. Thank you.” I call her by her first name, hoping she takes the hint and returns the favor.
Quinn joins me by the spread of windows overlooking a view that’d take the breath away from most men. There was once a time it was so familiar to me; I hardly saw it. Then I lost it.
Now I can’t stop looking.
I’ve been the same way with Faye’s social media pages since I saw her fourteen months ago.
Kenny likes to tell me I have a problem.
I’m liable to believe the guy. I’ve basically been stalking her.
With every picture I come across, the blade that lodged in the deep of my heart that day fourteen months ago, twisted.
Every twist sent pain knifing through me even as the obsession drove me to seek out another, and another.
The pain of it—of her—was—is unending.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
I clear my throat. “You don’t see it while you’re here, living in it.”
“I don’t know about that. I’ve never stopped seeing it.
Never stopped thinking it was the most beautiful view.
” From the corner of my eye, I watch as she settles into the power stance, I’ve come to find familiar from her.
“I’ve been here for nine years now, and I still take my coffee each morning while looking at those mountains. ”
I don’t know why her words make me sad. “Maybe I was just ignorant then.”
I feel her eyes on me. “Or maybe you were just a kid with big dreams.”
Of course, everyone in Rubble Ridge knows the story of Holt Wilder. The hockey prodigy. Rubble Ridge’s claim to fame.
“I don’t know.”
“Something tells me you won’t be blinded by the familiarity of this view again.
You’re older now. Wiser. You’ve lived. You know the value of what you have in front of you.
” Why do I feel like she’s not talking about the mountain view?
She must sense my frown, because she tells me, “The owner has agreed to a month-by-month lease. I will draw up the contract and have it to you by five pm this evening.”
The way she pivots is jarring. But I remember this from the last time I’d worked with her. Remember being struck by her heels with their killer spikes and dark burgundy red lipstick that made all her sharp angles look sharper than they really were. Quinn LaBonton is a force to be reckoned with.
“Thank you,” is all I say.
She nods once. The sharp shoulder-length bob of her sleek black hair hardly moves. “The condo is yours. I’ll see myself out.”
The scent of Mom’s lasagna hits me as soon as Dad opens the door. It’s always been a favorite of mine. I think I’ve tried every homecooked style of lasagna that Vancouver has to offer at least once. Every time, the effort to feel that sense of coming home failed me.
No one made lasagna with a thick layer of shredded spinach and fetta between the noodles. No one bothered with extra sauce, or the shaved ham fried in a pan with butter before being sprinkled on top to crisp with loads of cheese in the oven.
Kenny always teased that I was nuts, until Mom visited, and I invited him over for her lasagna.
If Dad wasn’t there, I’m pretty sure he would have proposed.
I’m not entirely certain he didn’t whisper some offer to run away to the Caribbean with him while he hugged her goodbye as she stood next to Dad.
It’s a good thing Mom loves Dad. Kenny is a catch.
I enter the unfamiliar house tucked into a patch of trees at the base of the mountain about seven minutes from town limits. It looks like it sprouted from the land it stands on, all stone and timber and earth tones.
I slide out of my shoes. “This is nice, Pop.”
Dad claps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing as he gives me a fatherly shake. It’s a little rough and chocked full of familiarity. “You like it?”
“I do.” I don’t have to ask to know Dad built it for Mom. He always said, when his boys move out, he’s building Mom her dream house. He’d have done it sooner, but Mom wanted us to live in the house she brought us home to until we chose to go.
She always blabbered on about the little boy memories she had of us. Honestly, I’m surprised she let herself move from that house at all.
I guess she still frequents it, though, being that they gifted it to Faye and Tate. Those memories aren’t really gone.
At least not until Faye sells. Or maybe she won’t sell at all. Maybe she’ll bring another man in.
The idea of Faye inviting another man into my childhood home has that knife twisting in my chest. Dad mentioned Tanner was sniffing around…
Jeez, no. No. Not going there.
Prickly heat licks at the back of my neck.
I clear my throat, but Dad beats me to speaking. It’s probably a good thing.
“Got two acres and a shop way bigger than I need.” Dad tucks his fingers into the front pocket of his jeans as he widens his stance. “And the view don’t hurt none.”
The sound of glass clinking precedes Mom’s high-pitched, “Ohhhhhhh you’re heeeerrrrreee!”
She beelines for me, plowing into me the way mothers do. At least, it’s the way my mother does. Every. Time. She. Sees. Me.
“Hey, Mom.” I hug her close.
“I wasn’t sure you’d really come.”
It’s true, I hadn’t agreed to it. Not really.
My eyes slide to Dad’s. He’s wearing the look only a winner wears. I’ve seen it, although rarely, from the opposing team on the ice.
I smirk, letting him know I’ve accepted the challenge—whatever that may be.
His grin drops. He rocks back on his heels as he commands gruffly, “Let the boy in, Elise.”
I catch Mom’s eyes roll as she leans back. Experienced in the art of appeasing Dad, she pats his chest on the way by. “Of course, darling. The lasagna is just finishing up in the oven. Will you stay the night, Holt?”
“No.”
Dad’s head turns like it’s on a swivel. “No?”
“I’ve got a place in town.”
“My son isn’t staying in a damn hotel in his hometown.” Dad says a little too loudly. He takes the beer mom offers but doesn’t take a swig. “We’ve already got a room made up for you. Don’t worry, you’ll have privacy.”
“Thanks.” I take the beer Mom offers me. “I don’t have a hotel room. I’ve got a condo.”
Mom’s brows shoot to her hairline. Dad narrows his eyes as he takes a long pull on his beer. I take a pull from my own, waiting.
Dad doesn’t disappoint. “This mean you’re staying?”
“Until the season starts again, yeah.”
“How long is that?”
“I’ll need to leave by the end of September.”
Dad rolls his lips, as though he’s thinking. As though this is a negotiation. It’s not.
Mom gives me a cheeky grin as we both wait for Dad.
“I can make that work.”
I don’t bother telling him it wouldn’t matter either way. The season begins again in October.
I will be back in Vancouver no later than September thirtieth.
“Glad to hear it, Pop.” I don’t give Mom’s mouthed ‘thank you’ more than a single chin dip. “So, now that you got me, what are you planning to do with me?”