12. The Grocery Store #2
What am I going to tell Gran Iris?
I look at the empty passenger seat. I had left the list and the groceries. I can't walk inside and tell her that a stranger's child caused me to have a public breakdown. I close my eyes, trying to formulate a lie about the store being closed, or leaving my wallet on the counter.
The front door of the cottage cracks open just then, and Gran Iris pokes her head out, her silver hair catching the porch light. She peers into the driveway, catches my eye, and waves her hand with a sharp, urgent motion.
I let out a long, heavy groan. "Here we go."
I step out of the car, slamming the door, and walk up the wooden steps. I pull the screen door open, the excuse already loaded on my tongue.
"Gran, I am so sorry," I start, keeping my head slightly bowed so she won't see my swollen eyes. "I couldn't find the…"
I stop, the words trailing off as I realize that Gran isn't looking at my empty hands or my face. Her usual warm, patient demeanor is completely gone, replaced by a tight, gray mask of absolute worry. Her hands are knotted tightly in her apron.
"What's wrong?" I ask instantly, my protective instincts flaring.
"Your father," Gran says, her voice low and tense. "He's been waiting for you in his study."
My stomach bottoms out. I drop my keys on the console table and hurry down the narrow hallway, my boots thudding softly against the worn rug. If my father is in his study, sitting upright at this hour, something is terribly wrong.
I push the heavy oak door open, and the smells of old paper, leather, and peppermint greet me. My father is sitting behind his large mahogany desk, his frail frame looking even smaller beneath the green glass shade of his desk lamp. But he doesn't look sick right now. He looks angry.
"Daddy?" I ask softly, stepping into the room.
He looks up, offering a small, tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Come in, Nora."
He gestures with a trembling finger toward the center of the desk. Sitting in the middle of the leather blotter is a crisp, white sheet of paper.
I step closer. Even from two feet away, the bold, embossed logo at the top of the letterhead jumps out at me like a venomous snake.
Whitfield Development.
Everything about it is designed to intimidate. The weight of the paper. The precision of the embossing. The font chosen to say we are permanent and you are not. I've seen this before — developers who lead with their letterhead because their arguments won't hold up without it.
"They came while you were out," my father says, his voice raspy but coated in iron. "Two men in dark suits. Parked a silver car right at the edge of the grass."
My breath hitches. "What did they want?"
"They offered to pay for my medical care," my father says, his eyes locking onto mine. "All of it. The specialists in Houston, the private nursing, the medications. All of it in addition to a higher market value for the land than what we were quoted."
I stare at him, the air rushing out of my lungs.
"In exchange for what?" I whisper, though I already know the answer.
"In exchange for me to sign away the land today," he replies. He leans back in his chair, his jaw set stubbornly. "I didn't sign anything."
The anger that wells up inside me is a sudden, blinding inferno. Stanley bypassing me. Stanley coming to my childhood home to exploit a dying man's illness. He knew exactly what he was doing. He thought my father was the weak link.
I want to scream. I want to drive back to Houston and burn Whitfield Development to the ground. But I look at my father's pale, lined face, at the slight tremor in his hands, and I know that my anger will solve nothing right now. It will only elevate his blood pressure.
I force the fury down, locking it in a cage deep inside my ribs.
I step around the desk and kneel beside his chair, taking his cold, thin hands in mine.
"I will handle things, Daddy," I say, my voice steady, projecting a confidence that I do not feel. "Don't you worry about them. They are grasping at straws because they know I won't sell. I will deal with Stanley."
He sighs, the fight draining out of him, leaving him looking exhausted. "They were aggressive, Nora. The way they spoke... they aren't going to just walk away."
"Let me worry about that," I soothe, rubbing my thumb over his knuckles. I force a light, casual tone into my voice to change the subject. "Now, how are you feeling this evening? Really. Do your joints ache now?"
"Just stiff," he murmurs, letting me steer the conversation away from the precipice. "The dampness in the air always does it."
"Did Gran make sure you took the blue pills after lunch?"
"She hovers worse than you do," he grumbles, a tiny spark of his usual humor returning.
"Good," I smile, kissing his cheek. "Rest now. I'll take care of this."
I stand up, taking the Hargrove letter off the desk, and walk out of the study. The second the door clicks shut behind me, the smile drops, and the pure, unfiltered rage returns. I fold the letter sharply, my fingers itching to rip it to shreds.
Gran Iris is waiting for me at the end of the hallway, holding a dish towel.
"Is he alright?" she asks quietly.
"He's fine," I say tightly. "But I swear to God, if they come back here…"
"Someone wants to see you," Gran interrupts, her blue eyes shifting toward the front of the house.
I blink, derailed by the sudden change in subject. "Who?"
"Margaret's boy," Gran says.
I stare at her, my surprise cutting through my anger. "Jax? Why is he here? Do you know what he wants?"
"I don't," Gran says, offering nothing else. She simply turns and walks back toward the kitchen.
I take a deep breath, pulling my cardigan tightly around my torso, and march toward the mudroom hallway. I push the screen door open.
Jax is standing on the bottom step of the back porch.
The evening shadows cling to his massive frame. He is wearing his faded denim cut-off, his tattooed arms crossed loosely over his chest. The moment the screen door groans, his head snaps up.
His bright blue eyes immediately lock onto my face, scanning my features with a sharp, piercing intensity. He tracks my face and body, and the worry radiating off him is palpable, an almost physical weight in the humid air.
It isn't pity.
I know what pity looks like. Pity looks away.
He isn't looking away.
I pull myself upright, lifting my chin and throwing my shoulders back, engaging my corporate armor.
"What do you want, Jax?" I ask defensively.