Chapter 16
16
A very felt like shit all day. Not only did her guilt and shame grow over the hours following the incident with JT, but Trace’s I’ve-had-it-with-you dismissal had cut Avery deep.
She sat on a stool at the café’s bar, scrolling through menu examples online, with residual hurt throbbing inside her like a physical wound.
She’d finished all her daily baking, painted until her arms felt like they’d fall off, sorted through employment applications for waitstaff and kitchen staff, and was now trying to find a few menus she liked to run past Delaney for her opinion.
Trace hadn’t come in for lunch like he usually did. In fact, he hadn’t come in at all. He and JT stayed outside from 5:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., when Trace opened the door to poke his head in and tell her, “The rest of the shingles are in. I’m taking JT to Santa Rosa to pick them up instead of waiting for them to be delivered. We won’t be back for a few hours.”
He hadn’t waited for her response before closing the door and walking away.
Avery exhaled and dropped her chin in her hand. Disappointment tugged at her chest. They were either hot or cold now. All that fun, comfortable middle ground they’d shared before the sex had vanished. Now she felt like she’d lost a friend, a lover, and something more. Something indescribable and intangible. Something she hadn’t realized filled her heart until it was gone.
Avery chose three different menu finalists and e-mailed them to Delaney.
Her cell rang, and Avery pulled it from her back pocket, checking the time before she answered. Already 7:00 p.m.
She didn’t recognize the number but rubbed her eyes and answered, “Hello.”
“I’m lookin’ for my boys.” An older man’s voice rumbled over the phone, clearly angry. “Did Zane drag Trace by the bar again? You know if you serve those boys, you’re serving minors. You can go to jail for that. Get one of those boys on the phone.”
Avery’s mouth dropped open. Her mind slipped gears. “Mr. Hutton? This is Avery Hart. Do you remember me? I make those apple turnovers you like.” When she got silence, she went on. “Trace went into Santa Rosa to pick up some roof shingles. I haven’t seen Zane, but I think he’s working.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about, girl? If you’re in cahoots with those boys, you can bet I’ll be telling your parents all about it. I’m having a hard enough time keeping Zane out of trouble as it is, even with his brother running shotgun. Now send them home .”
He yelled the last and hung up with a click so loud, Avery jerked her phone away from her ear. That was an awesome benefit to old-style phones. You could still really hang up on someone.
Avery toggled her pencil between her fingers, wondering whether she should tell someone about the call. Pearl had told Avery the music therapy had improved George’s disposition, but if that was true, she couldn’t imagine what he’d been like before. On the couple of short visits she’d made to his house to drop off food, Pearl had been there, and George had been straddling zombieland. Trace had mentioned something called a sundown syndrome, but Avery didn’t remember what that was.
She dialed the sheriff’s substation and asked to speak with Zane, but he was out on patrol. She didn’t have Pearl’s number, but she could get it from Phoebe. If she could get ahold of Phoebe. That woman was busier than a corporate executive.
Avery decided not to get a handful of people upset over a harmless phone call and went back to work. By the time she’d made final cuts to the starting menu and scheduled interviews for potential employees, dusk had turned to night, and Trace still hadn’t returned.
Figuring he might have gone straight home, Avery cleaned up and double-checked all the locks on the doors. She’d just drive by their house and make sure his father was okay on her way to Phoebe’s.
She locked the front door behind her, tested it, and jogged down the porch steps to her Jeep.
“You there.”
The voice felt like a punch to her gut. Avery let out a startled sound and spun.
A shadowed figure shuffled toward her. “You there. Where do you think you’re goin’? It ain’t quittin’ time. I’ve been around long enough to know last call is two a.m. We ain’t even close, and I need a scotch and soda.”
George Hutton’s weary face came into the beam of an exterior light. With her hand to her chest, Avery exhaled in relief. “Mr. Hutton, you scared me.” She glanced behind him, searching for a car, but found the driveway empty and dark. “How’d you get here?”
“Walked, how do you think?”
His snappy tone alerted Avery to his mood. She was trying to decide how to handle him when he walked into the light. He was wearing pajamas—and nothing on his feet.
Avery didn’t know what to say or not to say, uneasy about upsetting him further. She pulled out her phone again and pressed the speed dial for Phoebe.
“Get off that phone, girl,” he said, passing her to hobble up the steps, leaving behind footprints. In blood.
“Holy shit,” she muttered as Phoebe’s voice mail answered.
He tried the door. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be cursin’. Not ladylike.” He knocked on the glass as if he expected someone to answer. “Come on—open up, Joe. What’s wrong with you? You drunk again?”
Shit.
Avery disconnected and followed him to the front door. She unlocked it and held it open for him. “Looks like you might have cut your foot. I’ll take a look at that while we wait for Trace to get back.”
“Drink first.”
“Sure.” She flipped on the lights and closed the door.
He was squinting around the bar-turned-café like he’d just walked into an alien’s nightclub.
“Do you remember me, Mr. Hutton? I’m Joe’s daughter, Avery.”
His gaze turned on her. “The middle girl. Sure.” He looked around the café again, confused. “What the hell is he doing in here?”
She didn’t think he’d take the news that her father had been dead over three years very well, so she said, “Just a little renovation.” She took George’s arm and led him to a chair. “Let’s get you a seat.”
He dropped into it with a huff, then sighed. “Thank you, darlin’.”
Avery smiled. “You’re welcome. Now, what can I get you? Are you hungry? I’ve got great sandwich fixings. Black forest ham, honeyed turkey breast?—”
“Roast beef sounds good. Roast beef and cheddar.”
“Roast beef and cheddar it is.”
“Don’t forget the scotch and soda.”
Avery pursed her lips. “I’m afraid I’m fresh out of scotch.” In fact, she didn’t have any liquor in the café at all. Then she thought of the two beers left from Trace’s six-pack. “Could I interest you in a beer?”
“Out of scotch?” He gave Avery a sour look. “Your daddy’s really letting this place go to hell.”
Avery fought a grin. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“Fine, a beer then.”
She spun toward the kitchen, pulled out one of Trace’s IPAs, pried open the top, and grabbed the first aid kit from the pantry before returning to the table. “Here you go. You sip on this while I look at your feet.”
She knelt, gently lifted his foot, and found it chewed up from walking over a mile along a dark country road to get here. Trace was going to be beside himself.
“Hey,” he said with surprise in his voice, “this is good. I don’t usually like beer, but this ain’t bad.”
“You remember Ethan Hayes?”
“Harlan’s grandson. Sure.”
For not knowing current time and place very well, his memory for the past sure was sharp. “Ethan and Harlan brew this beer.”
“Heh,” he chuckled. “The old man loves sharing his hobby with that boy.”
Avery wet cotton balls with hydrogen peroxide and cleaned the bottom of one foot, doing her best the get the embedded gravel out. Since George didn’t complain, she kept working.
“Wish I could be half the father to Trace and Zane as Harlan is to that grandson of his.”
The sadness in his voice tugged at Avery’s heart. “I’m sure you’re a great father. I know Trace loves you.”
He smiled, his gaze distant. “That boy is my pride and joy. Zane’s a good boy down deep, but he’s a wild one. Trace...man, that kid’s got heart. Real heart, you know? That’s something you can’t teach. A kid’s either got it or he doesn’t. Trace’s got it in spades.”
Mr. Hutton drank more beer, and Avery started on the other foot, letting the silence linger. Her thoughts turned to Trace. She agreed with George, Trace did have a lot of heart. And a lot of compassion. And kindness. All of which she loved about him.
“Where is everyone?” Mr. Hutton asked, looking around again. “Can’t play poker with two.”
She pulled out her phone. “I’ll call Trace to see when he’ll be back. Maybe he can bring enough friends for a game.”
Or tell her what to say to his father to placate him until Trace returned.
“Ha. Trace don’t play cards,” George said. “Trace don’t gamble. Trace don’t do nothin’ wrong.”
Avery listened to Trace’s rich voice on his message, and yearning pulled in her chest. She ached to apologize for what she’d said earlier. “Hey, it’s me. Your dad showed up at the café. Don’t worry—aside from cut-up feet, he’s fine. I’m bandaging him up and getting him something to eat, then I’ll bring him home and wait there with him.” She hesitated. “I’d really like to talk later. I didn’t mean to insult you with what I said about JT today. I don’t see you that way, I just...” She sighed. “Well, maybe we can talk about it later.”
Mr. Hutton didn’t even seem to know Avery made the call. He was still talking about Trace. “Trace don’t smoke. Trace don’t drink. Trace don’t touch drugs.”
Avery frowned up at Mr. Hutton, confused. “You mean Zane?”
“No. Zane’s got mischief in his blood. Always in trouble. If his mama and I had Zane first, we’d never have had Trace. But Trace.” He shook his head. “The perfect kid. A natural athlete, comes home with straight As, always happy.” He grew serious and sad. “Boy could have really made something of himself.”
Avery added antibiotic ointment to George’s feet and wrapped them with gauze. “He has made something of himself,” she said, trying to clarify which son he was talking about. “He’s a police officer. I’d say that’s pretty great.”
“No, that’s Zane, and ironic as hell. But he says troublemakers make the best cops because they think like criminals.”
She finished bandaging one foot, then started on the other. Trying to untangle the thoughts of a man with dementia had to be its own kind of crazy, right?
“But it was Trace who ended up in prison,” she said.
“Because of me.” George’s eyes fell closed and a pained look etched his face. “All because of me.” He shook his head, opened his eyes and yelled, “Joe! Where the hell is everyone?” Avery jumped, and her heart banged against her chest. “I want to win back that hundred bucks you stole from me last week.”
Avery finished bandaging up his other foot with rattled nerves, then stood. “All right. I’ll make you a sandwich, and we’ll take it home with you. But I’m driving you this time.”
“I ain’t going home, missy,” he said, annoyed with her again. “I’m playing a goddamned poker game. And I need a scotch and soda. What’s this beer doing here? I hate beer.”
Avery bit her lip. “I guess I’ll get you your sandwich then.”
She turned for the kitchen, tapped into speed dial, and hit Delaney’s number.
“Hey there,” she answered immediately. “What’s up?”
Avery closed her eyes and winced when she whispered, “I need your help.”
“Wait, what ? Hold on, hold on—I’m putting you on speaker. Okay, say that again so Ethan can hear.”
“Shut up.”
“No, not that part, the other thing. You know that word that starts with h .”
“God, Delaney—” She cut herself off, knowing her sister wouldn’t let up until she got what she wanted. “I need your help. Grab a pen and paper and get ready to move.”
Once she had Delaney and Ethan on board, Avery made a quick sandwich for George. When she sat it down in front of him, she said, “Maybe when you’re done you’ll want to try out my new piano.”
George’s gaze lifted to hers. “Piano? What piano?”
She pointed to it. “It was donated, and I had someone come work on it the other day. Trace told me you used to play in the choir. Maybe you can tell me if they did a good job tuning it.”
Without touching his sandwich, George pushed from the chair and hobbled that direction. He lifted the key cover with a gentle reverence. Henry had not only tuned it but cleaned it as well. Now the old wood shone, and the keys gleamed.
“This is an oldie, isn’t it?” George asked.
“It is.”
He ran his fingers lightly over the keys, then narrowed his eyes on Avery. “You sure I play? I don’t remember playing.”
She nodded. “Trace and Pearl told me. You don’t remember singing either, but Pearl says you’re singing every morning.”
He returned his gaze to the keys.
“Sit,” she suggested. “Just play around for a few minutes. See if anything feels right.”
George lowered to the bench, placed his hands over the keys, and played some quick scales. His gaze jumped to Avery’s, and the grin that cut across his face filled her with happiness.
She patted his shoulder. “You just enjoy yourself. I’m going to get ready for our poker game.”