Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lot
Project Peacemaking duty.
Rayne checks in the next morning.
You okay, boo?
I brought my shit home to Dice. Tried to fuck his brains out like it was therapy, but he said no. Wanted to talk instead.
Aw… that’s so sweet
I didn’t think so at the time. But yeah. It helped. We ended up hugging it out.
You hugged?
IKR
You also called his place home.
Figure of speech.
Whatever. Gotta pick up Maurice. Pray for me.
…
I finish dressing with Queenie wrapped around my feet like a pair of fuzzy slippers, separation anxiety in full swing.
“I won’t be gone long.”
“Meow.”
She sounds sad. I bend down to pat her head and scoot her out of the way. “How are you going to get adopted acting like this? You’re a mess. I told you not to get attached.”
“Meow.”
Girlfriend is not listening. I woke up to her on one side of my pillow and Dice on the other.
How did I even get here? I don’t want a cat.
And I really don’t want to fall for Dice.
But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Today’s issue is taking Maurice to his appointment and facing my mom.
If anyone had accused me of stepping out on my husband, I’d have kicked their stupid ass into next week.
But not Mom. She delivered a blow that struck harder than any kick.
Finding middle ground with Maurice. Is that even possible?
After a shower, I pull a shirt out of my bag. Dice cleared a drawer for me last night, but I haven’t used it. Unlike Queenie, I know better than to get attached to someone who doesn’t do attachments.
I tuck my plain white top into my jeans—no midriff or “lewd” graphics to offend Maurice’s sensibilities—and head to the kitchen for coffee. Out in the hall, I’m hit with the scent of cooking.
“Wait. Where am I?” I ask, finding Dice at the stove, barefoot in joggers that cup his tight ass.
“Scrambled eggs in a pan. Even added lobster.”
“Look at you, fancy boy. They smell amazing.” I make a beeline for caffeine.
“No kiss for the chef?”
“Careful, Jones,” I say, popping a coffee pod into the machine. “Hugs and kisses might ruin your player rep.”
“I’ll take my chances.” He offers his lips while stirring the eggs.
I smack a kiss on them, just a simple one. But he makes a whole production of licking them like I’d just fed him a juicy burger. I cut my eyes, but there’s a slight squeeze in my chest. I pretend I don’t feel it and turn down the burner on the eggs.
“No backseat cooking,” he warns, like those eggs weren’t on the edge of crispy.
Even so, they’re delicious.
“Peace talks commence in twenty,” I say.
“All geared up?”
“Yep. Reporting for Project Peacemaking duty. Armed with smiles and pleasantry.” I flash a wide, ear to ear grin. “How’s that?”
“You look like the clown from It.”
“Shut up.” I laugh, then toss a chunk of lobster at him. Of course, he catches it in his mouth. Man’s smoother than silk sheets. That’s why I have to be extra careful.
“Seriously, Lot…” He places his hands at my waist when I carry our plates to the sink. “Now that you know your mom is happy, you can let that go and focus on finding some common ground with Maurice.”
“Thanks, Jones.” Despite all the shit Maurice has thrown his way, Dice is still in my corner, still pushing for me to try with my father. Letting me lean on him when I usually just muscle through on my own. “I’m not even sure where to start.”
“Ask about how he grew up. I once asked Val, and he lit up like a Christmas tree. Talked my ear off for two hours.” He mimics the voice of a crusty old man as he says, “Had to walk ten miles to school with a big ol’ hole in my shoe, rocks rollin’ between my toes, dust all in my eyes…”
I laugh so hard I snort. “I might try that,” I say, catching my breath.
He kisses me, soft and quick. I raise an eyebrow.
“For good luck,” he says.
Then he kisses me again—longer this time. “That one was for me.”
Okay. I melt—a little. “Thanks for breakfast and the advice. I’ll see you and Queenie later. I’ll get her in the carrier before I go.”
“Naw, leave her.”
“I don’t want her claws in my back.”
“Don’t worry, I got you.” He leads me to the door and helps me into my jacket.
Queenie lowers her body to the floor, ears pricked forward, eyes locked on me.
“You better not,” I warn, bracing for the cling-on ambush. “I do not have time for your nonsense today.”
Dice tosses a treat in the opposite direction.
Queenie flicks her eyes between me and the flying pellet, weighing her options. Zoom! She bolts for the chicken.
“Wow. Blown off for a snack.”
But it gives me a clean getaway.
When I pull up to the house at nine thirty sharp, Maurice is already at the curb in his Sunday best, leaning on his cane with a thundercloud scowl. Nothing new.
“Good morning,” I say, bright as sunshine, circling the car to greet him. “Right on time for my VIP.”
His eyes narrow. “Are you on something? I’m not driving with you high.”
“I’m not on anything,” I reply, taking a deep breath that tastes like restraint. “Just wanted to start off the day pleasantly. Think you can do the same?”
“I’m always pleasant.”
“Okay, then. Let’s get you in this car, shall we?”
“Watch my leg, Charlotte. You almost hit it on the door.”
“Sorry.” I flash my best Stepford-daughter smile. “I’ll be more careful.”
He huffs, irritated, but shoots me a look that says Who are you and what have you done with the surly version?
I manage to get him into the car with fewer grunts and complaints than last time, smiling so hard my cheeks are going numb.
“Have you noticed any improvement since starting the exercises?” I ask, easing into small talk as I pull away from the curb, remembering the indicator, even though the street’s empty.
“It’s all hogwash,” he grouches. “A money grab. Doctors and therapists in cahoots.”
“Physio’s key to healing,” I remind him. “If you want full mobility back, you need to do it.”
“Hmph.”
Okay, cool. New subject. “I was thinking… I don’t know much about how you grew up. What was that like? Bayside must’ve been so different back then.”
“Why are you asking me this?” Suspicion curls around each word like barbed wire.
“I’m interested.”
He hmphs again, eyes fixed on the road ahead like he’s monitoring my every turn.
Then finally, he answers. “It was hard. Back then, most of this was farmland. Your grandpa Webber worked on one. My mother was a seamstress. We lived in a little box house—one bathroom, one fan. Summer heat was brutal. We’d fight for a spot in front of the air.
Mo was scrawny, so I’d hog my share and his.
” He lets out a laugh, catching me by surprise.
It’s deep and hearty, making the corners of his eyes crinkle.
“We ate beans and rice three times a week. And when it rained, we bailed the water out the back room.”
“Money was tight.”
“Yes, indeed. But I never thought of us as poor. That was just life. Still, your grandfather wanted better for us, like most parents. He worked himself to the bone to make sure Mo and I got an education. Couldn’t afford a farm of his own, but he used to say, ‘Ownership is freedom.’ That stuck with me. ”
“That’s why you bought Docks?”
“Mm-hmm. Didn’t set out to own a bar, but it was a good deal. Something solid. Something that’d be mine. That would take care of your mother and you.”
“Grandpa Webber would be proud you made it happen.”
He pauses, like that landed somewhere unexpected. “Probably would be,” he says. “But he never would’ve told me.”
“Why not?” I ask, pulled in now. Not just making nice. Invested.
“You kids think strict parents are mean. Need ‘attaboys’ and participation trophies. Everything all sugarcoated. I grew up with a firm hand. With the belt.”
My stomach twists. “Grandpa Webber beat you?”
“Life was hard,” he says simply, “and Pops believed a man had to be harder.”
“That’s awful.”
“I don’t see it that way. It pushed me. I looked up to him. Worked the fields by his side every summer. Wanted to be just like him—strong, disciplined, a good provider.”
“What about Uncle Mo?”
He exhales through his nose. “Mo was different. Always had his head in the clouds. Too sensitive. He’d be writing those poems in his notebook while I was hauling sacks of feed. My father thought he could beat it out of him.”
Maurice looks down at his hands for a second, then lifts his eyes back to the road. His voice becomes rougher, quieter. “I used to cover for him. If he forgot the feed, I’d say it was me. I took the licks. I could handle it. Mo… couldn’t.”
That falls heavy. Maybe Uncle Mo was the gentle one because my father gave him the space to be.
“Did that affect your relationship?” I ask, knowing they aren’t close.
“Guess it probably did. I never understood him.”
“You see softness as weakness.”
“On a woman, no. That’s how it’s supposed to be. But on a man? Yes. I was raised to believe that.”
I open my mouth to argue, and he lifts a hand.
“Don’t start with your feminist soapbox. I got firm thoughts on how men and women should be. If that makes me old-fashioned, so be it. I’m not changing.” He crosses his arms, like that’s the end of it.
“No wonder I’m a disappointment to you,” I say. “I’m not soft.”
“Disappointment’s a strong word.” He stares at the road like it’s easier to talk to the windshield than to me. “But are you the daughter I imagined? No.”
Here it comes. I brace for the list of my shortcomings.
“You’ve always had a mouth on you. Always had an opinion.
Never liked rules or structure. Always had to do things your way.
Even when you were little. It was an argument to get you to wear anything with ruffles or bows.
Now you’re all pierced up and tattooed. Can’t make sense of that or why you paint on the street or design those shirts.
And don’t get me started on calling yourself Lot.
That’s not a name, it’s where you park a car. ”
Ouch.
“But…” He finally glances over. “You hustle. I’ll give you that.
You moved to a whole new city and grinded your way through.
Once you set your mind to something, you don’t quit.
So no, I don’t like the way you live. Don’t approve of your lifestyle.
But I can’t say you’re a disappointment.
” Then he solemnly adds, “If you stayed away all these years because you thought that… that’s a damn shame. ”
I swallow the lump that had grown with every word. He didn’t say he loved me or missed me. Didn’t say he was proud. But this… this is the closest he’s ever come.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat. “Guess I’ll have to put Not a Disappointment on my next T-shirt. Father’s Edition.”
“Hmph.” But his lips twitch with the semblance of a smile.
The physio appointment is uneventful. On the ride back, Maurice grumbles about the therapist. “Nails so long she could pluck chickens.”
I saw those acrylics—completely out of place in that setting—and laugh. Once I accept his grumpy commentary isn’t always mean-spirited, just high-grade sarcasm, I can appreciate it.
When we get back to the house, Mom’s already there.
“How was your morning together?” she asks.
“Good,” we both answer at the same time, and she stares at us like she just saw a unicorn.
“I brought your favorite.” I hold up two pints of caramel swirl ice cream and kiss her cheek, packing another apology into the gesture.
She gives me a knowing smile, then starts fussing over Maurice, asking about physio while prepping his lunch.
I try to see them through a different lens.
Not mine. My mother isn’t weak at all. She brings softness to his tough shell.
Maybe that’s the balance between them. I don’t know.
But she seems happy, and I realize it’s not for me to judge.
Once he’s settled in the den with his tray and an ice pack, I join her at the kitchen table. We pop the lid of the caramel swirl and dig in with tablespoons. No tiny scoops for Mom. She doesn’t play about ice cream.
“I’m really sorry,” I say after the first bite. “What I said last night was criminal. Can you forgive me?”
“Already done, honey.” She licks a bit of cream from the corner of her lip. “I’m just glad to see you and your daddy getting along.”
“It was an interesting experience. I asked him about his childhood. Dice suggested I start there. Now I get him a little better. I still don’t agree with most of what he says, but… he was a protective big brother to Uncle Mo. That counts for something.”
“You’re keeping an open mind,” she says. “That’s all I ask of both of you.”
“Yeah, and apparently, he thinks I have some redeeming qualities too. Said I hustle and that I’m not a disappointment.” I laugh. “Not exactly a Hallmark card, but it’s more than I’ve ever gotten from him.”
“He loves you,” she says, spoon paused. “And he’s proud of you. In his own way.”
“I guess. I mean, we’re not about to plan a father-daughter cruise or anything, but… it’s a start.”
“More than.” She digs back into the container. “So… you and Dice have been spending a lot of time together?”
“You could say that. I’m helping him host tonight at Docks. Gonna spin a few tracks.”
“Like old times.”
“Mm-hmm.” Not exactly, but not a lie either.
We talk more about everything and nothing, and I realize how much I’ve missed her. I make a quiet promise to come back for Thanksgiving, her favorite holiday.
Before I leave, I poke my head into the den to say goodbye to Maurice, something I wouldn’t have done before.
“See you soon,” he says, looking up from the news.
“Yep.” I wave to him, kiss my mom, and head home to Dice.
Damn. I just did it again. Put Dice and home in the same sentence.
Innocent slip… or am I starting to blur the line?