Chapter 1 #2
He leaned in and kissed her. Brief. Gentle. More gratitude than passion, but not entirely without heat. She kissed him back the same way, her hand coming up to rest against his chest for just a moment before she pulled away because they’d agreed to be just friends.
"Go feed your mom," she said quietly. "I'll check in tomorrow."
"Okay." He sighed. It was for the best that she pushed him away.
She headed down the steps and across the yard toward her truck, moving with that particular grace she had—the one that said she was always aware of her surroundings, always ready for whatever came next. He watched until her taillights disappeared then went back inside.
His mother was watching him from the couch, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"Don't," he said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"I'm allowed to think whatever I want. It's one of the few pleasures I have left." She patted the cushion beside her. "Now come sit with me, and let's eat whatever that sweet girl brought over."
Trent retrieved two bowls from the kitchen and ladled out the soup, the smell of garlic and herbs filling the small space. He handed one to his mother and settled onto the couch beside her, careful not to jostle her too much. She was fragile these days. Breakable in ways she'd never been before.
She took a sip and made a small approving sound. "This is good. She can cook."
"It's soup, Mom. Not exactly gourmet."
"Good soup is harder than you think." She took another sip, studying him over the rim of the bowl. "I like her."
"I know you do."
"She's good for you."
"We're just friends." There was that damn word again.
His mother laughed—a real laugh, the kind he hadn't heard from her in weeks. It dissolved into a cough, and he reached for her automatically, steadying the bowl in her hands until the fit passed.
"Sorry," she said, catching her breath. "It's just—the look on your face when you say that. Just friends." She shook her head, still smiling. "You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."
He didn't argue. There was no point arguing with Linda Mallor when she'd made up her mind about something. Never had been.
“Why don’t you turn on the news?” his mother suggested.
“Sure.” He pointed the remote at the television, and the first thing that popped up was Stacey Wilkerson. God, he really didn’t like that woman. She wasn’t a very good reporter. She preferred gossip and spinning stories for sensationalism to digging her teeth into something real.
“Turn it up.” His mother lifted her spoon, then blew on the liquid and took a small bite.
“You want to watch Stacey?”
“I want to hear the story about Garrett Dutton. He’s running for State Senate,” his mother said. “He used to be a US Marshal, and he knew your father.”
That caught his attention. “He doesn’t look old enough to have been a marshal when Dad was set to testify.
” Trent had only been fourteen when his father left Mallor’s Landing after witnessing a politician and an executive from Gulf Coast Energy Partners pass papers they shouldn’t have.
And then he witnessed a murder. A few months later, while under the protection of the US Marshals office, specifically, a man named Aaron Slade, Jack Mallor died in a freak car accident, changing Trent’s life forever.
“I don’t know the details, but I believe he was fresh out of training.” His mom took another small bite. At least she was eating. “I only met him once. When he came to pay his respects.”
“I don’t remember him at Dad’s funeral.”
“It was a few months later. When you were away at football camp. I guess he’d been on another detail and couldn’t come to your father’s service. It was nice of him, but I’m not sure I’m gonna vote for him.” She set her bowl aside. “If I’m still around—”
“Why don’t you like him as a candidate?” Trent had promised his mom he’d be realistic about her condition, but he just didn’t want to hear it now that they were so close to the end.
“He supports the mining of limestone. Says we need to do more and would be willing to do it in the Glades.”
Trent stared at the television for a few moments, listening to Stacey ramble about Dutton, and it was obvious she was in his corner.
Well, Trent wasn’t. The mining of limestone was a controversial topic because of the environmental damage it caused, even though it was considered necessary for construction materials.
“I’ve heard enough.” He turned down the volume and set his bowl aside. “Dutton sounds like a slick politician, and Stacey looks like a woman on a mission to get him elected… or on the hunt for a husband.”
“As long as she stays away from you.” His mom patted his leg. “Trent, dear,” she said, and the way in which her tone dropped made him go still. "I need to ask you something."
“Anything.”
"Are you happy here? Running Mallor's Landing?"
The question caught him off guard. "What do you mean?"
"I mean exactly what I said." She turned to look at him fully, her eyes—still sharp despite everything else that was failing—searching his face.
"You've spent your whole life on this property.
Running the business, taking care of the habitat, keeping everything going after your father—" She stopped, swallowed.
"After your father died. You were just a boy, and you stepped up.
Became the man of the house before you'd even finished being a child. "
"Someone had to."
"That's not what I asked." She reached over and took his hand, her fingers thin and cool against his skin. "Do you feel trapped here? If you wanted to leave—to experience something else, somewhere else—I'd understand. I'd be okay with it."
"Mom—"
"I have a buyer." She said it quickly, like she'd been holding the words in her mouth and they'd finally spilled out. "Someone interested in purchasing Mallor's Landing."
Trent went very still. "What?"
"It came in last week. I wasn't sure if I should mention it, but..." She gestured toward the end table beside the couch. "The letter's in the drawer."
He set down his bowl and retrieved the envelope, his movements mechanical. The paper inside was thick and expensive, the kind lawyers used. He scanned the contents, his jaw tightening with every line.
The offer was good. More than good—it was generous—a little over fair market value for a property like this, with all its complications and restrictions.
And the name at the bottom was one he recognized.
"The Hendersons," he said flatly. "I took them out on an eco tour two months ago. They asked a lot of questions about the property. About how to manage the alligator farm with the wild habitat. How permits work and if the two worlds ever crossed. I thought they were just curious."
"They seem like nice people. They said they wanted to preserve the land, keep the natural habitat, including the moat, as well as continue with the commercial business, keeping the employees.”
“That doesn’t sound like a couple who wants to retire, and I’m not interested in selling.”
"Trent—"
"Absolutely not." He shoved the letter back into the envelope and dropped it on the coffee table like it had burned him.
"This land was my grandfather's. Then it was my father's.
Then yours. And when you—" His voice cracked.
He forced himself to continue. "When you pass, it’ll be mine. I intend to keep it that way."
His mother was quiet for a long moment, watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read.
"And after you?" she asked gently. "What happens to it then?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you're not getting any younger, sweetheart. And unless you're planning on settling down and having children—" She paused, and that knowing smile crept back onto her face. "Which brings me back to Dove."
“We’re not doing this again.”
"She's perfect for you. Smart, capable, not afraid of hard work or hard truths. And she looks at you like—"
"I like Dove. I do. But we're not a couple. And I don't see us being anything other than friends."
His mother sighed, but she let it go. "I just worry about you being lonely.
This place..." She looked around the room, at the photos on the walls, the furniture that had been here since before Trent was born, the shadows that gathered in the corners as the light outside faded.
"It's full of ghosts. I don't want you to end up haunted. "
“I love it here. I don’t want to be anywhere else.”
"But if you're not going to sell, and you're not going to have children—what happens to the land when you're gone?"
He'd thought about this—more than he'd ever admit. “We have managers who’d love to take over the commercial part. I have thought about parceling that off someday when I’m too old to deal with it.” He shrugged.
“The natural habitat, well, I’d talk to Fletcher.
See if there's a way to have the National Park absorb it. Keep it protected. Or maybe Fallon could see if Fish and Wildlife could use it for educational purposes.”
His mother’s wrinkles seemed to soften, especially around the eyes. "That's a good plan. Responsible." She reached over and cupped his face in her palm, the way she used to when he was small. "I love you, you know. So much. And I am so proud of the man you've become."
His throat tightened. “I love you, too.”
He shifted on the couch, wrapping his arm around her thin shoulders, pulling her gently against his side. She came willingly, her head finding its familiar spot against his chest.
“Shall we continue with that show? What episode were we on?" he asked, reaching for the remote.
"Fourteen, I think. The one where they finally find the treasure map."
"Right." He queued it up, the familiar theme music filling the room as the opening credits rolled. "This is the good one."
"They're all good."
"True."
She settled against him, her breathing slow and shallow, her body impossibly light against his side. On the screen, characters laughed and argued and chased adventure, living lives that would never end because they existed in a world where the worst thing that could happen was a cliffhanger.
Trent held his mother and watched without seeing, his chest tight with a grief that hadn't fully arrived yet but was on its way—barreling toward him like a freight train he couldn't stop and couldn't outrun.
She had days left. Maybe a week if they were lucky.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and held on tighter.