22. Theyre Alive
twenty-two
They're Alive
Nora
"Iprefer the blankets loose, Nora," My father grumbles, shifting his shoulders against the headboard as I tuck the frayed edge of the blue quilt beneath the mattress, pulling the cotton taut until the wrinkles smooth out under his calves.
"Loose blankets let the draft in," I say, smoothing the top fold over his chest. "You need the heat."
He’s sitting propped against three pillows, the afternoon light cutting through the window blinds and highlighting the sharp silver in his hair. His skin carries a pale, papery thinness, but his eyes track my movements.
He lets out a rough huff of air, tapping his knuckles against the mattress. "Tell me again. Word for word. What exactly did Hargrove say on the phone?"
I step back, resting my hip against the edge of the mahogany dresser. "We’ve been over this several times, Daddy."
My father’s mouth curves into a slow, satisfied line. "I love to hear how he backed down."
"His embarrassment was obvious through the phone," I say, not willing to recount all the details again. "Also, you should thank Jax for extending our lease indefinitely."
My dad exhales a long, heavy breath, his chest deflating against the quilt. He turns his head toward the window, looking out past the porch toward the tree line. "I should. Rowe is a hard man, Nora. But he honors the dirt."
I turn as the wooden floorboards creak behind me and I see Gran standing in the doorway. She’s wearing her faded yellow baking apron, the front dusted with white flour.
Her fingers grip the wooden doorframe, her knuckles white, her jaw set in a rigid line. The deep wrinkles around her mouth pull downward, and I can tell there’s something going on.
"Gran?" I push off the dresser, the soles of my shoes squeaking against the wood. "What's wrong?"
Her eyes dart past me to my father, then back to my face. "There is a car in the driveway."
"Jax?" I ask, my pulse ticking up.
"No. A black sedan with city plates." Gran wipes her flour-covered hands down the front of her apron. "Stanley is standing by the front porch steps. He wants to speak to you."
My father tries to move instantly. He throws the heavy blue quilt off his legs with his good hand, his bare feet hitting the floorboards with a heavy thud. He grabs the edge of the nightstand, his knuckles turning white as he forces himself upright, his breath rattling in his throat.
"Dad, sit down," I say, stepping into his path.
"Get my boots, Nora," he snarls. A dark flush of color darkens his pale cheeks. "If he steps foot on my grass, I will break his jaw with the fire iron."
"Dad, stop." I press both hands flat against his chest, feeling the frantic, uneven thumping of his heart through his undershirt. I push him firmly back until his knees hit the edge of the mattress and he sits. "You are staying right here. You can barely stand."
I turn to Gran. "What does he want?"
Gran shakes her head, her sharp features tightening. "I don’t know, Nora.”
“Do I need to?” I look at her. “I could get Jax to handle him.”
“I don’t think he’s here for trouble.” Her gaze holds mine, steady and insistent. “Go out to the porch. Open the door and look at him."
I pull away, my stomach twisting into a tight knot. I leave my father's protests behind, walk out of the bedroom, and head down the narrow hallway. The summer heat presses against the windows.
I hit the front entryway, grip the brass handle, turn the deadbolt, and pull the heavy wooden door open.
Stanley stands at the bottom of the three wooden stairs. But the minute I see him, my hand locks on the brass handle.
His usual expensive charcoal suit jacket isn’t present. His white dress shirt hangs open, missing the top three buttons, the torn fabric exposing a dark, yellowing bruise on his collarbone.
His face is purple and swollen. His left eye is pressed completely shut beneath a mass of black and deep green bruising. A jagged cut splits his lower lip, sealed by dried, rusted blood. He favors his right leg, his weight shifted entirely to his left side, his left arm held rigid against his ribs.
He looks up, and I see that even his one good eye is bloodshot.
"What happened to you?" I ask, unable to help myself.
Stanley lets out a wet, rattling scoff.
He tries to smile, but the movement pulls the split in his lip.
He winces, bringing a shaking hand to his mouth. "Didn't you cause this?"
I step forward, bringing my foot right to the edge of the top stair and realizing my pity is lost on him. "Get off my property, Stanley. You have ten seconds before I call Jax."
He flinches. His whole body jerks backward, his polished shoe slipping on the crushed shell gravel. The defensive sarcasm vanishes from his face, replaced by stark fear.
"No. Wait. Please." He holds both hands up, his palms facing me, his fingers trembling. "Don't make a call. Please, Nora. Don't call anyone."
I stay on the top step, watching the panic vibrate through his shoulders.
I watch as Stanley swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply against his bruised throat. He looks over his shoulder, his good eye darting toward the tree line, then toward the empty road. He turns back to me, his chest heaving under the torn white shirt.
"I am sorry," he says, his voice shaking. "I am sorry I hurt you at the university. I am sorry about the check. I am sorry I came to Moonrise. I am sorry for everything."
The humid air feels thick in my throat as I draw in a sharp breath.
Stanley shifts his weight, a sharp hiss of pain escaping his teeth as he guards his ribs. "I will do anything you want. I will transfer whatever funds you want. Just tell me I have your forgiveness."
I look at his shattered eye and the terror radiating from his skin.
I knew instinctively that Jax had found him. Jax, Rafe, and the boys found him in Houston, and they broke him down until the entitled heir was reduced to this.
I realized this is the reason Jax hasn’t been around for days.
"They told you to come here," I say; it isn’t a question.
Stanley nods, a single, jerky motion. "The big one. The blonde. He dragged me out of my office garage. He used his hands, Nora."
Stanley swallows, a tear leaking out of his good eye and cutting a clean path through the dirt on his cheek. "He said I had to look you in the eyes and apologize. He said if I didn't get your forgiveness, he would come back for my knees.”
I can’t believe Stanley can be reduced to a quivering fool, but it’s happening right in front of me.
“He has people sitting outside my apartment. They follow my car. I can't sleep. Tell them to stop, Nora. Please. Tell them I did what they asked."
I look down at him. For years, this man’s shadow stretched over my entire life. Seeing him broken in my driveway leaves a hollow, quiet ringing in my ears, and I realize he has never been worth being in pain over.
"You have my forgiveness, Stanley," I say, keeping my tone perfectly level. "Because I want you gone. I want you to vanish from my life."
"I swear it," he gasps out, nodding frantically. "I am leaving. You will never see me again."
"Then we are done," I say.
I step backward, grip the brass handle, and slam the heavy wooden door shut. I throw the deadbolt, the metal sliding home with a heavy click.
I stand in the entryway, surrounded by the sudden silence of the house. My fingers clamp around the wood, rock-still before I begin to walk back toward the kitchen.
Gran stands by the center island, obviously waiting for me. She holds a wooden mixing spoon, the oven radiating a thick wave of heat into the room. She watches me cross the threshold, her blue eyes sharp.
"Well?" she asks, tapping the wooden spoon against the edge of a ceramic mixing bowl. “What does he want?”
"He apologized," I say, sitting on a wooden stool.
I rest my forearms on the cool granite. "He apologized for everything. He begged me to tell Jax to call his men off."
Gran drops the wooden spoon into the bowl in surprise, looking stunned. But in the next second, she throws her head back and lets out a loud, delighted cackle. The sound bounces off the kitchen cabinets brightly.
"Good," she says, her eyes flashing with pride. She wipes her hands on her apron. "I knew that boy was the right kind of trouble the second I saw him look at you. He handles the business."
“He has my blessings already.” She says as she turns toward the stove, adjusting the flame under a small saucepan. The rich and heavy smell of browning butter hits the air.
"I am making the pastry," she announces, grabbing a jar of cinnamon from the spice rack. "Pecan and peach turnovers. The dough has been chilling since morning, and now it’s even more perfect.”
“What do you mean, Gran?”
“It is a day for celebrating, Nora. I will bake a full dozen. You can take a batch down to the salvage yard for Jax. It's your favorite, anyway. Want a taste of the filling?"
The smell of the melted butter and the warm peaches seems to hit the back of my throat at the thought of tasting, and my stomach executes a violent, sudden roll.
A rush of cold saliva floods the space under my tongue. The rich, sweet scent of the pastry smells rancid, cloying, and suffocatingly heavy.
I push back from the counter, the wooden legs of the stool scraping loudly against the tile.
"No." I cover my mouth with the back of my hand, swallowing hard against the rising bile. "No, thank you, Gran."
Gran stops. She lowers the spoon, the cinnamon sugar mixture dropping back into the bowl. She tilts her head, her sharp eyes scanning my face, dropping to my neck, then back to my eyes.
"You are pale," she says.
"I'm just tired," I say, taking a slow, measured breath through my nose.
I step away from the kitchen island, putting distance between myself and the stove. "Handling things and now seeing Stanley took a lot out of me."