9. Noelle
Chapter nine
Noelle
There was a first time for everything. And today, it was the first time I’d seen Lee Shepherd cry.
His haggard face crumpled as he reached out, tugging me into a hug. The aroma of fresh paint and Old Spice tickled my nose. Some things never changed.
“You’re back?” Dad asked with a shuddering breath. “For good?”
I nodded against his worn flannel shirt, barely able to breathe with how tightly he was squeezing me. Not that I could blame him.
“I’ve got coffee on.” He pulled back, scrubbing a hand over his wet eyes and grey beard.
“I’d love a cup.”
Walking through the family house brought me back to my growing up years. The arguing and heartache but also the happier moments when the seven of us used to get along for more than three seconds.
Despite a few cosmetic updates, the house felt the same. The walls were yellow now instead of beige, and the white shag carpet in the living room had been replaced by laminate flooring and a wavy-patterned navy rug.
Pictures of me and my sisters filled the wall down the hallway leading to the kitchen. I paused to study them for a moment. They were a scrapbook of life. Memories my dad had deemed important—worth hanging on to.
Mom was noticeably absent.
The kitchen was a time capsule of unrenovated ’90s glory with oak wood cabinets, peach Formica countertops, and white tiled backsplash with the occasional accent tile—a cluster of cherries.
A small breakfast table with three wooden slated-back chairs was tucked into the bay window on the other side of the peninsula counter.
I sat down at the table, thankful for the cushioned pillow on the seat, and eyed the backyard. Wind rustled the orange birch leaves, and the raised garden beds were already empty of summer produce.
Dad set a yellow polka-dot mug in front of me. “Still take cream and sugar?” he asked nervously, like he was afraid of not knowing me anymore.
I smiled. “Of course. Can’t mess with perfection. Isn’t that what you always said?”
He chuckled, pulling the cream from the fridge. I popped up and grabbed a spoon from the utensil drawer. Funny how some things never left you.
When we settled back at the table—him in the chair opposite mine—he added cream and sugar to his cup. The slow clink of stirring spoons filled the quiet. Finally, he leaned back. “Let me look at you. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.” I fiddled with the cup handle. “Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
“I always hoped you’d find your way back to us.” Dad glanced around the house. “Guess that’s why I tried to keep things the same. Always wanted you to be able to recognize the place.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long.” I sipped my coffee and used every tool in my arsenal to not gag.
For better or worse, some things never changed—my dad still making terrible coffee was one of those things.
And I would absolutely pay for drinking caffeine later, but for now, this moment was worth it. “How are you?”
“I’m an old man.” He chuckled. “But I’m all right. Business always slows down in the cold weather months, but I’m keeping busy enough.”
“And out of trouble?” I teased lightly.
“Always.”
“And . . . Mom?” I hesitated to bring her up because Ruby had already warned me she’d left them years ago.
Dad sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Before we get to that, care to tell me your side of the story? I’ve been waiting a long time to hear it.”
My side? He wanted to hear me out? “It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got nowhere else to be, Elle.”
Who was this man? The dad I remembered, while not unkind, wasn’t exactly involved or present. He was always working. Late hours, early mornings, and the only time I really saw him was meal times. He didn’t rock the boat, letting Mom call the shots.
“I didn’t want to go,” I whispered. “I . . . I walked in on her and Dylan. And I just . . .”
Seeing your mom lip-locked with another man in your own house was something no kid should ever witness.
I wasn’t even supposed to be there. The Fabulous Four were meeting at Donovan’s Downto’n for dinner.
Cal and Greyson waited outside for me because I forgot my phone.
Instead I got the shock of a lifetime, and never had I ever seen Michelle Shepherd so angry.
“You’re getting married, Noelle. You’ll figure out soon enough that marriage isn’t butterflies and roses.
” Her eyes had flashed in fury, like a wounded animal cornered and fighting back.
“It’s late nights and lonely hours working hard at home for a man who barely notices you and won’t kiss you longer than two seconds.
Cal’s got a ticket to fame, and women love that.
He’ll be the hotshot athlete with jersey chasers drooling over him.
The world at his fingertips. Add a baby or two and you’ll fade into the background.
You’ll be the maid. Dishes, laundry, paying bills. Free labour. Nothing more.”
Everything I already was to my own family.
I gripped the handle of my cup till my knuckles turned white. After all these years, the words still haunted me. She’d been speaking from hurt and anger and probably guilt, but she knew my weaknesses and she’d pressed them till they bled.
She confirmed every fear I had about myself. Love is earned by what you can offer. And I believed her.
“I cracked and didn’t know what to do,” I whispered.
“I told her to confess or else I’d have to say something.
But she kept putting it off.” We were in the middle of wedding planning, and my own mother was carrying on an affair.
I left because I couldn’t carry the weight of her secret alone, and her predictions had played out all my insecurities.
Dad fiddled with his cup, paint flecks staining the back of his tanned hands. “About that phone call . . .”
Ah, the phone call. The one I’d made three days after I left to reassure them I hadn’t been shanghaied or worse.
The one where they’d chewed me out for being selfish and ruining the family image.
As if maintaining an illusion of a united front when we were fracturing at the seams was the most important thing.
I’d been holding us all together for years, but even the family glue had a breaking point.
The phone call where after all their ranting, I finally snapped and dropped the bomb about Mom and Dylan. The match had been struck, the house was already on fire—I’d simply added the gasoline. If she was a coward, too afraid to tell the truth, well . . . I guess I wasn’t much better.
Then I’d promptly changed my number.
Dad cleared his throat. “I said some awful things that day, and I’m truly sorry. I didn’t know what went down with your mom until that moment, and it was the biggest wake-up call of my life.”
“What happened?”
The sigh he let out was bone-deep weary. “I begged her to go to therapy with me. Losing you . . .” He shook his head. “I swear, I tried to make it work. But Michelle . . . She wanted out. She left by the end of the year and moved in with the guy one town over.”
Tears streamed down my face. Ugh, I hated crying, but I’d kept this bottled up long enough. It was like trying to patch a dam with duct tape. Utterly ineffective. “Dad”—my voice cracked—“I’m so sorry, I should have been here. Should have—”
He reached across the table, placing his hand over mine. “It was never your job to save our marriage. That was between your mom and me, and we didn’t do a good enough job at protecting our relationship. I wasn’t the husband or father I should have been. I see that now.”
“I should have told you sooner,” I whispered.
“I really believed she’d do the right thing and come clean, but she put it off, and it was getting so close to the wedding.
I panicked. Then Olive took my car, and no one cared.
I . . .” The lump clogged my throat. “I didn’t think anyone would care if Cinderella left because they’d only miss her for doing their chores. ”
Dad sniffed hard. “I’m sorry I ever made you feel like that. We took you for granted.” He gazed around the kitchen, eyes glassy. “I never realized how much until the day there was no fresh flowers on the table and no worship music in the kitchen. My little girl was gone.”
“Can you forgive me? I hurt you, and I know I don’t deserve it, but—”
“Noelle.” Dad’s warm voice full of fatherly concern and affection rolled over me.
“I forgave you a long time ago. I was hurt and angry back then, but I realized something pushed you to that point. It was so out of character for you I knew it wasn’t a snap decision.
After you brought up her and Dylan . . .
Sweetie, you never should have had to carry that burden alone.
It woke me up. Forced me to get my priorities straight.
I’m just sorry it took you leaving for me to see it.
” He absently twisted his mug. “I do forgive you, and I love you.”
“I love you, too, Dad.” After more than a decade, I finally got to say the words in person.
He cleared his throat and stood up. “More coffee?” This was the dad I remembered.
Too much emotional output made him twitchy.
We were cut from the same cloth. He fumbled with the coffee pot, collecting himself, as he refilled my cup before rejoining me.
“So catch me up,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his voice steadier.
“What’s new in the grandness of New York? ”
It was the same way he started our phone conversations every week.
And so I told him—really told him—not the filtered condensed version but the truth.
About nursing school and my ER job. About Macy and our adventures in the Big Apple.
About the car accident last year. The struggles I had relearning to walk.
The chronic pain it left me with. The friends who’d abandoned me after I’d canceled our plans too many times because of flare-ups.
Dad’s eyes were glassy when I finished. “And you never mentioned it? We could have lost you and never known?”
“Another thing I’m sorry for.” I rubbed my thumb over the scratched oak tabletop.
“I made mistakes, too, hon. And I’m sorry I wasn’t the father you needed—I regret that more than you’ll ever know—but not a day’s gone by where I haven’t prayed for you.
Multiple times. I believed God was taking care of my girl, and I’d get her back in due time.
And I hope . . . I pray you can forgive me for failing you. ”
“I already have.” I sipped my coffee. To forgive and be forgiven were healing for the soul. “And thanks for not giving up on me.”
“A good dad never gives up on his kids.”
We shifted to more lighthearted conversation, laughing over his obsession with murder shows—something I was fluent in thanks to Macy—and how much he enjoyed hanging out with Quinn’s three kids.
The man was two seconds away from bursting his paint-splattered flannel talking about his only grandkids.
So far, Quinn had carried on the Shepherd tradition of having only girls.
After the last sip of my third coffee disappeared, I reluctantly stood.
Dad walked me to the door and hugged me tight. “You’re welcome anytime, Noelle. The door’s always open.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I kissed his whiskery cheek. “It’s good to see you.”
“Come for dinner sometime? I make a mean pot roast.”
My dad cooked? Wonders never ceased. “I’d love to.”