20. The Reckoning
twenty
The Reckoning
Nora
The pale sunlight pools over the wide planks of a wraparound porch.
I can smell wild clover, sweet and damp, thick enough to taste on the back of my tongue. A red-and-white checkered quilt sits spread across the wood, and in the center of it sits a little girl.
She has a tuft of strawberry-blond fuzz that catches the light and a pair of impossibly round, bright blue eyes that blink up at me with warmth and pure love.
For the first time, her face doesn’t blur when I reach for her.
The mist that usually keeps her hidden simply melts away.
I can see the tiny, perfect dip in her upper lip, the small smudge of freckles forming right across the bridge of her button nose, and the deep, double dimples in her flushed cheeks.
She looks as bright as sunrise.
"Come here, Clara," I whisper.
My voice doesn’t echo or fade into the dark like it usually does. It stays solid in the warm air.
The baby lets out a sharp, bubbling cackle, her tiny fingers curling and uncurling in the air as she kicks her bare feet against the cotton quilt.
When I lean down, she reaches up, her small, milk-scented hand planting itself squarely against my chin. Her palm is warm, sticky, and real. She lets out another delighted squeal, a high, musical sound that fills every hollow crack in my chest until I feel as if I’m floating.
I pull her into my lap, burying my nose into the soft fold of her neck, laughing right along with her as she tugs on a loose strand of my red hair.
"I see you," I murmur against her skin. "I see you now, sweet girl."
Her laughter stays with me as the porch begins to fade away and the scent of clover slowly gives way to the heavy, familiar smell of motor oil, iron filings, and old timber. The soft wood beneath the quilt hardens into the thin, canvas-covered mattress of the salvage yard office cot.
I slowly come awake, realizing that a wide, lingering smile is locked onto my face. My cheek was pressed into the rough wool of Jax’s blanket, but the warmth from the dream is still buzzing beneath my skin.
I continue to lie where I am without moving, staring at the peeling gray paint on the baseboards, tracking the way my chest rises and falls in a steady, unbroken rhythm.
I know something has shifted.
The shadow that usually follows me out of sleep has stayed behind in the dark.
For seven years, almost every morning had felt like wading out of a pool; today, it feels like a truce.
I love it so much that I want to pull the wool over my head and stay inside that quiet space until the sun goes down again.
But just then, a heavy, scraping sound breaks the silence.
I turn my head toward the small wooden crate by the door. Jax is sitting there on a low upturned five-gallon bucket, his massive frame hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees.
He’s already dressed in a clean black t-shirt, his thick blond hair damp from a morning wash, and is sticking up in short, unruly spikes. His blue eyes are fixed directly on my face, steady and unblinking.
He isn’t smiling outright, but the hard line of his jaw has completely relaxed, and he looks as if he has been staring for a while.
“Good morning,” I whisper, feeling self-conscious.
He looks down at his hands, then back up at me. "You look different when you aren't fighting the pillows."
"Maybe I'm just tired of fighting," I say, my voice still thick with sleep.
I shift under the blanket, the rough fabric scratching against my bare shoulders.
“Hm.” He grunts.
He reaches down to the floor beside his boots, his large, grease-stained fingers wrapping carefully around the handles of two heavy ceramic mugs. The steam rising from them smells like chicory and dark roast.
Next to the mugs sits a small pewter plate holding two thick biscuits, split down the middle with butter melting into the dark, crusted edges.
"Eat," he says, setting the plate on the edge of the mattress near my feet.
I notice he’s not leaning in to crowd me; instead, he keeps his weight centered back on the bucket, giving me room to sit up.
I pull the blanket tight around my chest, shuffling backward until my spine is braced against the exposed timber studs of the office wall. I reach down and take the mug he offered. The ceramic was hot, biting into my palms, forcing the last remnants of the dream to settle into reality.
"Thank you, Jax," I whisper.
He gives a short, single nod, taking a slow sip from his own mug.
"You're in a good mood," he mutters, his eyes tracking the way the corner of my mouth keeps twitching upward. “Did you have a good dream?”
"Yes, I had a good dream," I say, taking a bite of the biscuit. The butter is salty, the bread still warm enough to steam. "The best one I've had in a very long time."
"About what?"
I clear my throat, the coffee tasting bitter and dark as I swallow. I look down at the swirling black liquid in my mug, watching the small bubbles pop against the ceramic edge. "Just... a random dream."
Jax’s left eyebrow raises slightly, but he doesn’t push things. He just watches me, his blue eyes dark and without judgement.He knows there's a place inside me I still won't let him enter. It’s obvious that he is content to sit on his side until I let him in myself.
"The boys are working on Stanley," he says after a long silence stretches between us. "Reed’s at the county building. Knox is watching the rental."
The mention of Stanley’s name doesn’t hit me with the same frantic panic it had yesterday. The workbench behind us is still stained with the oil from our skin, a physical reminder of the boundary we’d drawn around this property.
But the reality of things is still waiting outside the screen door.
I know if Jax and I are going to keep doing this, if the heat between us wasn't just a temporary shelter from the storm, he’s going to need the whole truth. He is going to need the ugly parts of Houston. He is going to need to know about Clara.
He has promised he won’t push. I know he’s a man who keeps his word down to the letter. He would never ask first.
Now that I think about it, maybe today is a good time to talk to him.
I set the coffee mug down on the floorboards, the ceramic making a dull clink against the wood. I slide forward on the mattress, the wool trailing behind me, until my bare knee is almost brushing the heavy canvas of his work pants.
I reach out, my fingers hovering over his forearm, noting the small, silver scar near his wrist and keeping in mind to ask him about it sometimes.
"Jax," I say softly, my eyes locking onto his. "There's something I need to…"
A sharp, drilling vibration cut through the air just then.
My phone, sitting flat on the corner of the wooden desk three feet away, is buzzing violently against a stack of invoices. The screen flashes bright amber in the dim office light. I lean over, my eyes tracking the numbers across the digital display.
It’s a number with an unlisted Houston area code.
The warmth from the clover porch completely vanishes from my skin, replaced by a cold, leaden weight that drops straight into my stomach. My fingers freeze an inch above the plastic casing.
“I think it’s him,” I whisper.
"Stanley?" Jax asks, and I nod.
His voice doesn’t rise, but the baseline drops, becoming dangerous. I look over at him. The relaxed line of his jaw is gone; the muscles along his neck have turned to corded stone, his blue eyes narrowing down into two slits.
"It's a Houston line," I whisper, my heart starting that familiar, frantic double-tap against my ribs. "It has to be him. He’s calling to gloat about the deed."
"Pick it up," Jax growls, his hand dropping to his knee, his fingers flexing against the heavy denim. "Put it on speaker."
I swallow the dry lump in my throat and swipe the screen. My thumb is shaking, just a little, but the anger inside me is already rising up to meet the fear. I press the speaker icon and set the phone down on the mattress between us.
"What the hell do you want, Stanley?" I bark into the microphone, not giving him a chance to start his smug, rehearsed speech.
"What kind of gut do you have to file a fake affidavit against my father? You can only stoop so low…"
"Ms. Beckett." A voice interrupts on the other side, and I realize it isn’t Stanley's.
It is older, heavier, carrying the dry, metered cadence of a man who spent his life speaking into boardroom microphones and dictaphones. It’s Victor Hargrove.
The air in the small office seemed to thicken. Jax doesn’t move a muscle, but his chest expands, a slow, deep breath rattling in his throat.
"Mr. Hargrove," I say, my fingers clamping hard onto the edge of the blanket.
"I owe you an apology," the old man said through the small speaker.
There is a faint rustle of paper on his end, followed by the distant click of a heavy pen being capped. "My son acted entirely without my knowledge, and without corporate authorization. I am currently withdrawing the county filing. The clerk is processing the cancellation as we speak."
I sit perfectly still, my mind racing to find the trap. A man like Victor Hargrove won’t call to apologize unless he has something he wants. "You're withdrawing it?"
"It is already done," Victor says flatly. "The affidavit was an error in judgment. A reckless maneuver by a junior member of our acquisition team. It does not reflect the policy of Hargrove Development."
A sharp, breathless laugh tears out of my throat before I can stop it. I look at Jax, but his face remains a hard mask of skepticism. It’s obvious he doesn’t believe a single word of the corporate clean-up routine.
"An error in judgment?" I repeat, leaning closer to the phone. "That’s a real pretty way of saying your son is a total idiot, Mr. Hargrove."
Silence stretches over the line for three long beats. I can hear the faint, steady hum of an air conditioner on his side.