Chapter 20
Just past dawn the next morning, repeated rings of the doorbell dragged Karl out of bed.
Normally, he was up way earlier. Normally, he wasn’t fucking the woman of his goddamn dreams or cuddling with her in his bed,
though. Much less lying wide awake most of the night, either basking in the glory or worrying the whole thing might be a once-in-a-lifetime
event.
He’d slept four hours, max. But he knew who was at the door, so he fumbled in the shadowed bedroom for his clothing, didn’t
let himself look at Molly’s still-resting form under his covers, and closed the door silently behind himself.
Sure enough, one glance through his peephole showed Mrs. Carter and her walker stationed on his front porch. Wincing, he swung
open the door.
“Sorry, Mrs. C,” he said before the sharp-tongued, bent-backed harridan could lay into him. “Planned to come by later than
usual. Should’ve let you know.”
“Yes. You certainly should have.” Her crackly voice wavered, and she glared at him above her bifocals, gray curls hidden beneath
her pink silk bonnet. “I was worried about you, young man.”
“Sorry,” he repeated, and meant it. Getting around was hard for his neighbor these days, and he didn’t like that she’d climbed up his front steps alone.
“I’ll help you home. Then give me an hour, all right?
” He pictured Molly upstairs, wrapped in nothing but his family quilt.
“Maybe two. I’ll be over and ready to go. ”
On Sunday mornings, he mowed Mrs. C’s lawn early. Everyone on their block hated it, but none of them was brave enough to defy
her. Neither was he. If the woman wanted her yard clipped low and tight as a golf course, all before the sunrise service at
her church? Her yard would look like hole fucking eighteen before the Deemer family’s damn roosters quit crowing, and no other
creature on the block would utter a single peep.
The older woman harrumphed. “I suppose that’s acceptable. Additional tardiness may result in decreased wages, however.”
He dipped his chin in acknowledgment, then intervened before she finished rotating her walker to descend the porch steps.
For once, she allowed him to take her elbow to help her stay upright and steady on her feet, and thank fuck for that. Another broken hip, her asshole son in New York was gonna put her in a home, and she’d be totally miserable.
By the time he got Mrs. C comfortably settled in her recliner and sorted out her morning pill and breakfast situation, Molly
had apparently registered his absence. When he let himself back into his home, she was sitting on the carpeted stairs and
waiting for him, legs stretched out in front of her, wearing one of his old tees.
Fit her great. Especially since it left those long legs of hers bare.
Her kiss-swollen lips twitched. “Young man, huh?”
Apparently she’d heard the whole thing. Didn’t even look sleepy anymore. Damn shame. He’d hoped to climb back into bed and
wake her up with something more enjoyable than an overly loud doorbell.
Arms folded across his chest, he leaned against his front door and enjoyed the view. “Woman’s five hundred years old. To her, I’m still a kid. Always will be.”
“If I’m remembering correctly . . .” Her forehead creased in thought. “You used to mow her lawn every weekend from spring
to fall and shovel her driveway and sidewalk every winter.”
Teenage Molly had been paying more attention than teenage Karl realized. “Still do.”
“For over twenty years now.” Her face had softened, her smile turning warm and sweet. “Out of curiosity, what kind of wages
are you risking with your tardiness and unrepentant hooliganism?”
“Five bucks.” Same as ever. “Ten if I trim her hedges or do a bit of weeding.”
Every birthday, he also received a crisp twenty in a Hallmark card featuring Snoopy. Like clockwork. And every birthday, he
snuck that twenty back into her purse when she wasn’t looking. Same with his yardwork income.
While he was growing up, Mrs. C had checked on him regularly. Strong-armed him over to her place whenever elementary school
ended and his mom was running behind schedule. She’d bitched about his loudness, his messiness, his clothing, his terrible
handwriting on his homework. She’d also planted powdery-lipstick kisses on his dirty forehead to show her approval when he
aced quizzes and baked him chocolate-chip cookies from refrigerated dough.
He loved that woman. Planned to help her live forever, even if that meant doing her yardwork until the day he dropped dead
himself.
Molly’s fingers plucked at the shitty beige carpet on his stairs. “My dad thought about hiring you to mow our lawn too. I
don’t think I ever told you that.”
It was the first time she’d mentioned either of her parents since returning to Harlot’s Bay. Of her own volition, anyway, rather than in response to a direct question.
That had to indicate some level of trust, right?
“Why didn’t he?” Teenage Karl would’ve jumped at the opportunity. The money would’ve been the least of it.
She frowned down at a bit of fuzz. “He enjoyed doing it himself. Said no matter how often he had to travel for work, he could
still make sure his family had a nice yard.”
The weird inflection in her voice? He couldn’t read it. But it wasn’t happy reminiscence, that was for damn sure.
If he pushed too hard or too fast, she’d pull back. The reunion was next weekend, though. Only six days from now. If he didn’t
ask now, maybe he’d never find another chance. And since his friends seemed to think the topic might be important . . .
“Speaking of your parents . . .” He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably against the paneled wooden door. “You haven’t
said much about them. They okay?”
“Mom’s good.” Her shoulder lifted in a brief shrug, and she kept squinting at the carpet. “My father, I have no idea.”
Not dead, then. But not in her life. Which, knowing how undramatic a person Dearborn was, didn’t bode well.
Before he could gather the nerve to keep pressing, her head rose. She looked directly at him, her jaw set with determination.
“Want a bonus secret, Dean?”
Abso-fucking-lutely. But first . . . “Cuddling okay with you?”
“Uh . . .” Her brows drew together. “Yeah. I guess.”
Pushing off the door, he grabbed her hand and towed her to the shadowy living room, then plopped down on the ancient couch
and tugged her onto his lap. Because if she was going to share something shitty? He was going to hold her.
Briskly, trying not to elbow Molly in the face, he shook out the quilt hanging over the sofa back—his favorite of his mom’s work—then swaddled Molly and himself in the fluffy, lavender-scented cotton.
Way better. “Tell me.”
Slowly, she relaxed into his embrace. Let herself slump against his chest. When she finally spoke again, she sounded weary
to the marrow.
“Okay. So . . .” Her voice was muffled against his tee. “Mom didn’t want me to say anything back then, and she’d probably
want me to keep my mouth shut now too. The memories don’t hurt her like they used to, but what happened still humiliates her.
A lot. Even my stepfather doesn’t know the full story.”
Holy shit. Had her father murdered someone? Or—
“All right, here goes.” She sucked in a deep breath. “You know when Mom and I suddenly left for California, right before graduation?”
He nodded and stroked his palm down her spine, trying like hell to remember whether anyone had ever found the Zodiac Killer.
Also racking his brain for the last name of the Unabomber, which he couldn’t quite—
“My father had gotten his other wife pregnant. Again.”
Karl’s mind blanked. “His . . . what?”
Her chest rose and fell on a sigh. “As Mom and I found out right before prom, he had another family in NorCal. A wife named
Cara, although their marriage wasn’t actually legal back then. Two sons in elementary school. He visited them on all his”—her
fingers crooked—“‘business trips.’ And once he found out Wife Number Two was having another baby, he decided his most urgent obligations were to them instead of us. Especially since I was graduating from high school and going away to college soon anyway.”
“Holy fuck,” he muttered, gathering her closer, and she rubbed her ear.
No wonder the woman had trust issues when it came to men. Between her ex and her father, she’d gotten up close and real damn
personal with two incredibly crappy examples of the breed.
“I mean, he wasn’t wrong. Young kids do need a dad more than an eighteen-year-old does.” She tugged at a fold of his tee,
straightening the fabric and avoiding his eyes. “But my mom was devastated and embarrassed. She needed the support of her
family. So we moved.”
Just her mom, huh? No one else was devastated too?
He called bullshit. “What about your hurt? What about your embarrassment?”
“I wasn’t embarrassed.” A stout declaration. Sounded honest. “I didn’t do anything wrong, and neither did my mother.” She
paused. “Other than being a bit too na?ve, I guess. In retrospect, Mom recognized lots of signs that something wasn’t quite
right, and she beat herself up for ignoring them. But she loved my dad, and he was good to us both. So when he said his work
required frequent trips out of state, she believed him. We both did.”
Karl hid his wince as he kept rubbing her back.
Yeah. The two most important men in Molly’s life? Both those bastards had yanked the rug out from under her. Punished her
for having faith in them.
Karl had no idea what that kind of bone-deep betrayal would feel like. Hoped he’d never get the chance to find out.
“You’re right. No cause for anyone to be ashamed but him.” Gently, he tugged at a rumpled strand of her soft hair. “Bet it still hurt like hell.”
“Well . . .” Her neck bent, and she resumed smoothing his shirt. “He was . . . he was kind of my role model growing up?”
Aw, shit. Leaning down, he pressed a hard kiss to the top of her head.
Sadness crept into her neutral tone, freighting each heavy word. “Mom and I are similar in a lot of ways. Too similar to get