Chapter Nine #2
My mother’s sedan was in the driveway when we arrived. She was standing on the sidewalk, with her arms crossed and her purse over her shoulder like she’d been ready to leave her house the second Darla told her I was coming in today.
Coleman came around to my side of the SUV, and we walked up together.
My mother closed the distance before we made it to the sidewalk.
She wrapped both arms around me and squeezed tight.
Finally, she stepped away and held me at arm’s length.
Her gaze moved over me the same as Darla’s had this morning.
“You look better than I expected.”
“That’s the third time someone’s told me that today.”
“Then, you must have looked terrible before.”
I laughed, and she didn’t, which meant she wasn’t joking.
Her hands tightened on my arms. “I’ve been so worried.”
“I know, Mom, and I’m sorry.”
Her eyes shifted to the man standing two feet behind me.
“Mom, this is Coleman. Coleman, my mother.”
He extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Sinclair.”
“Sherry.” She held it several seconds too long. My mother did everything with intention, including handshakes. “So, you’re the colleague Emma’s been staying with.”
He gave me the side eye, and I shrugged, then nodded.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is that all you are?”
He didn’t flinch. “And I’m her boyfriend.”
When my mother turned to me, I gave her a look that said later, and she gave me one that said you bet your ass later.
“Well, Coleman. Thank you for taking care of my daughter.”
“She doesn’t make it easy.”
My mouth dropped, and he nudged me and smiled.
“No. She doesn’t,” my mom agreed a little too hastily. Then she faced the house. “Let’s go see if it’s as bad as you said it was.”
I hadn’t been through the front door since the night I’d found the bomb. Coleman noticed my hesitation and entered first. “Let me make sure it’s safe before you two come in,” he said.
While my mom might think he meant structurally safe, I knew that wasn’t it at all.
“All clear,” he said a few minutes later, holding the door open for us. As I passed, he put his hand on the small of my back and left it there.
My mother stopped in the middle of what used to be my living room, covered her mouth with her hand, and left it there for what felt like an hour. Then she lowered it and rotated in a slow circle.
“The second floor is fine, Mom,” I said. “They never made it up there.”
Rather than respond, she went into the kitchen and ran her hand along the countertop.
She opened the cabinet under the sink where the pipe had been cut and crouched to inspect it.
When she rose, she brushed off her knees and made her way along the dining area perimeter with her phone out, taking photos.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Making a list.”
“Of what?”
“Everything that needs to be torn out and replaced.”
The insurance company had had a crew come and remove the water and a lot of the debris, which only made the remaining damage look worse.
The hardwood was buckled and warped across the entire first floor.
Baseboards had been stripped from the walls, and the drywall was cut at two feet, exposing the framing and insulation beneath.
The cabinets in the kitchen gaped open, and everything was water stained.
Most of my furniture had been removed and put into storage.
They’d also sent a list of the things that couldn’t be salvaged, but I hadn’t looked at it yet. I still didn’t feel ready.
“I’ll call tomorrow and see where they are with scheduling the demolition.”
Demolition? I rotated in the same slow circle she had. She was right. Everything would have to go.
“I wish I would’ve thought to bring a notepad. I’ll have to come by again tomorrow.”
“Mom, you don’t have to—”
“Stop, Emma. I know I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to.”
I rolled my eyes at Coleman. He chuckled.
“You know, you could see this as a good thing. That kitchen was outdated thirty years ago. If we’re gutting it anyway, we’re doing it right.
New cabinets, new counters, real tile instead of that peel-and-stick the previous owner put in.
The floors need to be replaced on the entire first level.
” She was already somewhere else in her head, measuring and planning. “Do you have a contractor yet?”
“I haven’t had time to—”
“I’ll find one. If I can’t, I’m sure Darla knows someone who’s licensed and bonded and doesn’t cut corners.”
This was my mother. When she couldn’t fix the thing that was broken, she fixed everything around it until the broken thing had no choice but to heal. I wondered what she saw in me that she was now overcompensating for.
“Okay,” I said.
“Did you say okay?”
“Whatever you think is best.”
“You’re giving me full authority?”
“The floors. The dining area. All of it. Whatever you see that needs to be done.”
Her chin trembled for half a second. “Well. That’s the most sensible thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
“Ever?” I gasped.
“Okay, maybe not ever, but definitely lately.” She hugged me hard. It hurt, but I’d never tell her that or even do anything to give it away.
Coleman had gone upstairs and stopped halfway on his way down. “The second floor looks the same. The furniture and, uh, clothing have been removed, but I’m sure it’s all in storage.” He winked, and I felt the heat rise to my face.
“You can always get more, Emma,” my mom said, patting my hand.
“Mom—”
“Well, you can’t keep wearing the same clothes every day, now, can you?”
My mother released me and climbed the stairs. “Thank you, Coleman,” she said as she passed him.
“Yes, ma’am.”
After she photographed each space upstairs, saying it didn’t matter if they hadn’t sustained damage—if we were remodeling, we were doing it all—she announced it was time to leave.
“Mom, I know I said you had full authority to make decisions, but you’ll need to run the costs by me.”
“Don’t worry, Emma.”
If Coleman weren’t here, I’d ask what that meant, but given it would probably turn into an argument, I refrained.
We locked up and walked to the sidewalk together. My mother hugged me, then reached for her phone. God knew who she’d call first. My guess was Darla, though.
Coleman was at my side. “I like her.”
“Everyone does. Give it time, and she’ll change your mind.”
“Come on. She’s great.”
“She’s redoing my entire townhouse. I’ll probably have to take out a second mortgage to afford it all.”
“Don’t worry, Emma.”
“Ew, you sounded way too much like her.”
“Maybe you’ll like this better.” He lowered his voice. “How about lingerie shopping on the way home?”
“What I need is a run.”
“Even better. I like you sweaty.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You’re smiling.”
I was. He put the SUV in gear, and we headed for the bay.
We changed into running clothes at the house. Coleman was lacing his shoes when I came out of the bedroom in running tights and a long-sleeve pullover.
“There’s a trail along the shoreline,” he said. “It starts at the end of the road and goes about three miles before it loops.”
“How’s the terrain?”
“Packed dirt with some roots. Flat for the first mile, then a few hills.”
I stretched in the doorway and considered how far I wanted to attempt to go. My ribs hadn’t bothered me since yesterday morning, and my legs were restless. I’d spent the last five days walking the beach and jogging the gravel path. Nothing that challenged me. I needed a challenge.
The trail entrance was marked by two wooden posts and a gap in the tree line.
We started at an easy pace. The air was cooler under the canopy, and the ground was soft enough to absorb the impact.
We ran side by side for the first quarter mile without talking, matching each other’s rhythm without trying.
When I picked up the pace, Coleman did too.
I pushed harder. I’d spent two years training for the Marine Corps Marathon. Runs at five in the morning and hill repeats on Rock Creek trails had made me strong enough to hold my pace over twenty-six miles.
Coleman was beside me. His breathing had changed, but his stride hadn’t.
So I dropped the hammer.
The gap opened within fifty yards. My lungs burned, and my legs ached, and I didn’t care, because this was the most I’d felt like myself since before I found the bomb.
The footfalls behind me were heavier and more frequent than mine, which meant Coleman was pushing and losing ground. I grinned.
The turnaround was a wooden post with a painted arrow. I reached it and bent over with my hands on my knees. My heart was pounding, and my shirt was soaked, but my smile was wide.
Coleman arrived fifteen seconds later. He stopped, put his hands on his hips, and tipped his chin up.
“Where the hell did that come from?”
“Marine Corps Marathon, three years ago, remember?”
“That’s right. What was your time?”
“Three twenty-eight.”
“Damn.” He was still breathing hard. “You sandbagged me for a quarter mile.”
“I wanted to see if you could catch up.”
He laughed. “Not even if I’d tried.”
I straightened and stretched my hamstrings.
“For the record,” he said, “I didn’t let you win.”
“I know.”
“That would’ve required being close enough to make a decision about it.”
I laughed, and it echoed off the trees. When I looked over at him, he was studying me.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Coleman.”
“I’m recalculating. That’s all.”
“Recalculating what?”
He started running the way we’d come. “How much of a head start I need to beat you home.”
I caught him in four strides, and we ran the rest of the way together.
Coleman held the door open when we reached the porch. “I’m making dinner. You earned it.”
“You’re making dinner because you always make dinner.”
“Fair point. But tonight, you did actually earn it.”
Coleman made pasta while I showered. When I came out in his sweatshirt and a pair of shorts, he raised a brow.
“You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”
“I am.”
“You have clothes in my dresser now.”
“Your sweatshirt is softer.”