Chapter Sixteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
R AYNE DIDN'T NOTICE THE scenery as she sped toward Oak Stand Elementary. All she could think about was how selfish she'd been not to give a thought to her only child in the past hour or so. She'd been so focused on taking her relationship with Brent to the next level she'd forgotten who she was.
A mother.
Of course, forgetting everything had always been easy when she'd been wrapped in Brent's arms. But sooner or later, life intervened and reminded her that, first and foremost, she was a mother with a child who had severe anxiety issues.
Remember why you came to Oak Stand, Sister. It wasn’t to get tangled back up in Brent Hamilton.
What had she been thinking?
The answer was she hadn't. She'd been feeling.
It wasn't as if she couldn't have a life of her own. She'd never play martyr, but she still needed to prioritize putting her child before herself, something she wasn't sure she'd done enough of. After all, if she'd been less focused on her career and more focused on her family, she'd have been there for her son when Phillip died.
But she hadn't been.
She'd been in the studio of the local news channel filming a segment on a soufflé. She'd skipped out on Henry's karate exhibition at the school, sending him a smiley face cookie in his lunch to make up for it. Phillip had gotten stuck in traffic and that's where the aneurysm had struck. Henry had waited outside the gym with an annoyed karate instructor until Rayne had thought about him.
What kind of mother forgot her child?
Strike that. What kind of mother forgot her child a second time while she was having hot sex with the neighbor?
A bad one.
She pulled to the curb of the elementary school and shut off the car, her gaze finding Henry who stood next to the duty teacher. He’d been drawing in the dirt with the toe of his sneaker, but his head popped up when he heard the car door slam. The look on his face spelled relief.
"I'm so sorry I'm late. How did this happen?"
The duty teacher gave her a smile. "It's no big deal. Happens to a kid nearly every few weeks.”
Henry's face didn't look as if it weren't a big deal. But then again, Henry wasn't like most kids. Most didn't worry obsessively about being left behind... and then have it happen to them. His shirt was damp around the buttons, and Rayne knew he'd likely been chewing it. She teased him about being a baby goat, but she knew the compulsion was a result of perpetual worry.
She felt her heart break but plastered on a contrite smile. "Not sure it's much comfort knowing children get left often by the bus drivers."
The teacher, whose tag read Mrs. Frye, ruffled Henry’s hair. "There's no time to take roll on the bus. Usually the drivers ask the other children if they don't see a particular student, but sometimes it's rowdy and the drivers get distracted. Things like this happen." She looked down at Henry and smiled. "Don't worry, Henry. We'd never leave you. You're safe here."
"Okay," Henry said, not bothering to look up at the teacher.
"You guys have a good evening. See you tomorrow, Henry." The teacher gave her son a pat and headed toward the double doors of the school, passing Mr. Cleveland, the janitor who had been sprinkling vomit dust and unclogging toilets at Oak Stand Elementary for as long as Rayne could remember. She gave him a halfhearted wave and took Henry's sweaty hand and led him toward the car.
"Are you okay, buddy?" she asked.
"Sure," he muttered, tugging his backpack up to his shoulder. Rayne knew he lied, but didn't know how to make it better. She pretty much sucked at parenting. Obviously. She couldn't fix Henry with a cookie or a bowl of ice cream. She knew. She'd already tried food as a way to heal. It hadn't worked.
And coming home to Oak Stand hadn't worked the way she thought it would. It may have made it worse. So how could she take him to New York City so she could accelerate her career? Just thinking about the fast-paced city inspired anxiety in her. What would it do to Henry? How could she leave him in the care of a nanny or a day care while she worked long days in the studio? Then factor in the time she'd need to fly back to Texas to check on her restaurant.
She opened the car door and grimaced as Henry rounded the front of the car and opened the passenger door. He knew better than to try to ride shotgun. But one look at his face and she closed her mouth.
He dumped his backpack on the floor, fell into the passenger seat, and buried his head in her lap. Sobs shook his body as he cried. Rayne could do nothing more than stroke his back and murmur, "It's okay, baby," over and over again.
Even if she knew it wasn't.
"How did this happen?" she asked when his crying finally stopped.
"I don't know." He sniffed into her wrinkled skirt. "I had to go to the bathroom, and she left me."
She being Freda Ford, the bus driver. Rayne wished she had the bus driver's phone number. Maybe grumpy Mrs. Ford needed a good tongue-lashing. Then maybe next time the woman would take a moment to check to ensure all the children were on the bus. Maybe a note to the ISD transportation office would work, as well.
"Will you pick me up from now on?" He lifted his tearstained face.
"Honey, you can't let this defeat you. It was an accident. The bus driver should have checked, and you should have told a duty teacher you needed to use the bathroom and to let Mrs. Ford know.”
"Please, Mommy. I don't want to be the last one here. What if they don't know I'm here and leave? What if there's a bad person who lives close? I saw this one guy on TV who took this little girl from the school and-"
"No one is going to take you. You have your list. The people on that list are your safety net," she said, smoothing his cowlick, patting his sweaty back.
Henry sat up and buckled his seat belt. "What good is having Meg on the list? She's always in Austin. I want to put Coach Brent down."
Rayne stared guiltily out the window. She'd just crawled from the man's bed and she didn't even know his cell phone number. That seemed wrong. She could get it, give it to Henry. But that seemed a bigger jump than kissing in front of Dawn and Aunt Fran. Even bigger than what they'd done less than an hour ago. Making Brent one of Henry's "safe" people felt binding. "We'll see about asking him to be on your list."
"I know he can take care of things. He's that type of guy."
Yeah, he was. She could definitely put him in that category. Odd, she'd spent so many years cementing him into a carefree, swaggering ladies man when she'd always known deep down that he was far more than that stereotype. Strange how being hurt colored a person's perception. It had been unfair of her, but she understood why it was so easy to hate him, to kick him over into the bad guy category, and keep him there. But she'd been wrong to do so. He'd been a sixteen-year-old kid with baggage that weighed him down. "Okay, unbuckle and get into the back."
"Aw, Mom. I'm big enough to ride up here," Henry grumbled, apparently forgetting he'd lain in her lap minutes ago and cried like a toddler.
"Nope. In the back."
"I don't need a stupid booster, Mom. No one uses them in the second grade. People are gonna think I'm a baby." The disgust in his voice proved he was over being left behind. For the moment anyway. Begrudgingly, he climbed over the seat, nearly knocking her phone and bottle of water from the console.
Rayne smoothed her paint spattered, wrinkled dress as if she could smooth out the wrinkles in her life. But it didn't work. On either count.
brENT STARED AT THE WORDS he'd scratched on the page weeks ago. Coach of the Year was a big deal to the kids on his team. They'd taunted the last team they'd played with that tidbit, something he'd had to address. Bragging was something boys did as naturally as breathing, but they needed to learn humility and good sportsmanship. Something else a coach needed to teach, along with the lessons he'd written on the notebook in front of him-reaching far, trying hard, and giving your best.
It was a decent acceptance speech. But now it rang hollow because he knew that for many years he'd not done any of those things. He'd been content to tread water.
Weeks ago the words had been platitudes. But today he wanted them to be true of himself. He was changed. Or maybe changed wasn’t the best word. He’d never truly been the Brent Hamilton Oak Stand knew him as. Instead he’d existed in a cocoon of his own making, content to remain there. But now that spun binding felt split open. He’d metamorphosed long ago, but had been too afraid to climb out and spread his wings.
Until Rayne had reentered his life.
Rayne.
With her soft hair and rigid spine. Glowing eyes and satin skin. Yesterday afternoon had been the culmination of a long-standing desire to be with her. And it had been as good as any rousing daydream he'd had about the leggy, surprisingly fiery woman. She'd simply given him more reason to toss away the fetters of his old life and try for what he really longed to be-strong and respectable. Proud and upstanding. A husband and a father.
Fear crowded his throat.
He swallowed hard as if it were easy to get rid of the nagging thought that the last two were unattainable. He wanted to be both. But he wasn’t sure if Rayne wanted him that way. She had Henry to think about, too.
The thump of the crepe myrtle branch against his house jarred him from his heavy thoughts and signaled the arrival of his folks. The colossal RV always announced its entrance in the side drive with the same enormous thunk.
He pushed back his chair, picked up the notebook, and ripped the pages from the wire bindings.
''Two points," he said as the paper hit the rim of the wastebasket and fell in.
He stepped outside into the gloaming of Oak Stand twilight. His mother Donna smiled and waved from her perch beside his father in the RV. She looked happy and well-rested. His father looked grumpy and tired.
"Brent! Help your father before he knocks over the sweet olive hedge," she called from the door of the RV.
"Shut the damn door, Donna" his father shouted, turning the wheel too sharply, almost causing his wife to fall.
Brent dutifully guided his father in his parking efforts. Finally, the RV sat where it was meant to. His father and mother bailed out, squabbling about the tire marks in the side yard.
"Nice to see y'all, too," Brent said, following them toward the porch of their house.
"We're happy to see you, baby," his mother said, turning around giving him a brief squeeze. "It's just your father's prostate has been giving him fits and he needs to use the potty."
"Good Lord, Donna, tell everyone why don't you?" Ross grumbled, climbing the steps and fishing his keys from the pocket of his trousers.
"I'm telling your son. He's not everyone." His mother stopped and stuck a finger in the planter housing a hibiscus, presumably checking the moisture level. Brent must have watered sufficiently because she didn't say anything. She opened the screen door and gave Apple a belly rub. "Hello, Apple girl. We missed our baby."
Both he and Apple were her babies. Great. He was on a level with a dog that rolled on dead things and pulled stuffing from pillows. He'd never felt he ranked high on his parents' list unless he was winning awards or excelling on the field. It was an irrational feeling he'd carried with him for most of his life. He'd been a shadow for so long that he wondered if they saw him as one, too. He was the go-to guy for lifting furniture and feeding the animals when they were out of town. He was expected to step into the family business, live close enough to call upon, and show up on all holidays to bring the ice. That was his role.
But no longer.
Because his parents would be the first to understand Brent was cutting ties with his past. He was more than they knew.
"I know y'all just got home, but before you settle in for the evening, I'd like to talk with you," Brent said, watching his mother shift through the two stacks of mail on the granite countertop. She sorted the pile quickly.
"Sure it can't wait? Your father is a grumpy old bear. The bursitis in his elbow is acting up from all that driving," she said, not bothering to look up.
"It's important. I'd like to talk to you before tomorrow night."
"Tomorrow night?" she asked absentmindedly.
''The Little League banquet," Brent said, settling on a bar stool in the cozy kitchen and picking up the Field and Stream magazine she'd tossed aside. A deer with a target centered on its chest graced the front cover. Been there before, buddy. He tossed the magazine aside.
"Oh, of course," she said.
"Did you call that fellow about the Chargers? What did he say?" His father's voice came from over Brent's shoulder. Ross Hamilton took a room by storm. The air sucked right out of the kitchen. Large, domineering, and the former offensive tackle for Texas Christian University, Brent's father bulldozed his way through life, bemoaning his traitorous knees and his propensity for putting on a few pounds by even glancing at a piece of cake or pie.
''That's what I wanted to talk to both of you about," Brent said, meeting his father's eyes as Ross squeezed by Donna and reached for the teakettle. His father always had a cup of chamomile tea before bed, the only even remotely feminine tendency the man possessed.
"Oh?” His father filled the kettle and lit the burner before rummaging around in the cabinet for the tea. Donna ignored them both, her lips moving as she read a letter. The paper looked to be one of her prison ministry letters. "Do you have some training camp dates? Do we need to talk to that agent again?"
“I never called," Brent said.
"Why the hell not?" His father yelled, causing Donna to jump.
"Please, Ross," she said, dropping the letter to the counter. "The whole neighborhood will hear you shouting."
"Why the hell should I care?" his father said, pulling a mug from the cabinet. He refocused his attention on Brent. "I went to a lot of trouble to get you that look-see."
"I know you did, Dad, but I don't think you realize I'm no longer interested in playing football. I'm not in shape for it and the possibility of actually earning a place on the team is slim to none."
His father held up a finger. "But it's still a possibility. You still have it, son. I can see it in the way you move on the balls of your feet. You're fast and could easily be in peak shape by July. Don't pass up this opportunity. It's your last chance to live your dream."
"You mean your dream,” Brent said quietly. He held his gaze on his father. No more looking away.
Brent's mother slid the mail away and zeroed in on the situation. She'd been in this same position many times. Between father and son. She loved Brent, but she had to live with her husband. "Now, Ross, if Brent's not interested, you can't force him. We've talked about how it's time for you to give the reins of the company over to him."
''Not if he can take one more shot at the NFL," his father said in a way that brooked no argument.
"I don't want another shot at the NFL. And I don't want the company," Brent said, rising from the stool. Sitting put him at a disadvantage. He always thought better on his feet.
"What?" His mother looked confused. Or panicked.
''I don't want to buy into the company with Uncle Richard."
“Then what the hell’re ya going to do?" his father shouted as the teakettle whistled. "You can't make ends meet building damn bird feeders."
Anger bristled in Brent. He'd never been able to reason with his father. The man never listened. "Who said I'm going to make a living building bird feeders? You don't think I'm capable of making a living any other way than what you decide for me? I have a degree, you know."
"In British literature," his father scoffed. "What the hell kinda job can you get with that? All that time at UT and you get a degree in something that impractical." He spun toward Donna and jabbed a finger in her direction. "I told you not to encourage him to doodle around and make up poems and crap."
Brent's mother shrugged. "He liked to read and write. So?"
Brent slapped his hand on the granite, drawing the attention of both his parents. "I'm moving out of the carriage house. I'll pay you rent to cover the rest of this month and next. And I'll be giving my two weeks' notice to the company."
"Brent? What has gotten into you?" his mother asked. Her lined face reflected dismay, shock, perhaps a little aggravation.
''Fine." His father almost growled. "But I know you'll come groveling back when you don’t have enough money for all those beers you drink down at Cooley's."
Brent closed his eyes and tried to push aside the anger rushing toward the surface. He knew this would not be easy. Nothing with his father ever was. “I won't change my mind. I've needed a change in my life for a long time. It's past time. I have a new direction and my financial status is secure at present.”
"But surely you don't have to move? Where will you go?" Donna asked, spreading her hands in a pleading gesture she'd used most of her life. Mostly with his father, who was as immovable as a mountain.
"I'm not sure, but I'm tired of treading water, Mom."
A furrow appeared between her eyebrows, but she nodded. "Okay. I see. You feel trapped by us. By the company."
Brent's father poured water from the kettle into his mug, but didn't say a word. His face was florid, making the shock of white hair look even more pronounced. Brent had always seen his father as strong and invincible, but he noted that the man had aged considerably in the past few years. Time had stamped its mark on Ross.
"I've been talking to Tyson Hart about the possibility of merging the companies. It's something you might want to consider."
''The hell I will!" Ross shouted, sloshing hot water over the lip of the mug. "Hamilton Construction belongs to me and Richard, and I'll be damned if I let some upstart come in here and try to buy us out."
Brent shook his head."Dad, he's not trying to buy you out. Just merge construction companies. He's been getting more contracts than we have. Business has been tough for us lately and joining with Hart will ensure there's a future. Tyson's a good man. I've drawn up preliminary paperwork. He's interested. Since I won't be continuing with Hamilton Construction, it's up to you. I'll send the proposal over and let you look at it. I didn't want to leave you hanging."
"Glad you thought about me.” Anger blossomed in his words. Their relationship felt thick as a fur parka and just as suffocating.
"Yeah, I did think about you. And me. And how it's been tough between us for a long time. Ever since Denny died." Brent moved to the other side of the counter so he stood beside his mom. Donna stiffened at the mention of Denny's name. As she always did.
"I don't want to talk about it." Ross tossed down the spoon he'd used to stir sugar in his tea.
"That's fine. We don't have to talk about it. Just know I love you and Mom. But it's time I cut the apron strings. I've stayed here in Oak Stand because it was easy. And I've been slowly dying inside."
"Oh, Brent," his mom said, reaching out a hand to stroke his arm. "Don't say that."
He patted his mom's hand. "It's okay, Mom. I'm fine because I know what I want in life. It took me a while, but I can see where I need to go."
"That's a bunch of hogwash," Ross said, jerking the tea to his mouth. The liquid must have been scalding because he hurriedly set it upon the counter after one sip. "You've been fine. The company's fine. What the hell have you been doing? Listening to self-help crap? You been going to that singles' ministry over at the Presbyterian Church? I heard they're all into empowering young folks."
Brent almost laughed at the disgust in his father's voice. He'd planned to tell his parents about his writing. A box of his newest books had arrived this afternoon. He'd planned on revealing his secret career and then taking them both to the carriage house to show them the books he'd penned. The awards he'd won. A copy of the three-book deal he'd just inked for a nice six figures. But now wasn't the time. His father needed space to adjust to the abdication of his only remaining son.
"Not exactly, Dad. But I have been doing some soul searching. And I guess that's been empowering." Brent leaned down and kissed his mother's head. Her graying hair smelled of some Estee Lauder perfume she'd worn since he was small. "I'm glad you're home. Get some rest. I know you're both tired."
His mother reached up and hugged him. 'We love you, sweetheart. We'll try to understand what you're feeling. It's not easy and it may take some time." She looked pointedly at her husband.
Ross grunted. “Night."
Then his father left the kitchen, taking his tea with him. Brent shrugged. "Guess that didn't go very well."
Donna returned his shrug. "Your father is a complex man. He'll come to accept it in time. He's always wanted so much for you. Maybe too much. But, Brent, he loves you. Never doubt that."
His mother whistled for Apple and gave him a light kiss on the cheek before disappearing into the den where her husband had likely gone to sulk. Or brood. Or perhaps watch the Rangers who were playing the Tampa Bay Rays.
Brent stared at the empty fruit bowl on the counter a moment before leaving. It could have gone better. Or it could have gone worse. Either way, he knew he'd taken the first step toward claiming himself.
He had more steps to take, including making Rayne see he was ready to be the man she needed.
But one move at a time.
He crossed the yard toward his small house. He needed to work up a new speech for the banquet. Something to reveal the man he now was. It was time. More than time.
A horrid smell filled his nose as he stepped onto his porch. He looked down at his tennis shoe. Dog poop caked the bottom.
Crap.
Literally.
Not the step he wanted to take. He jumped from the porch and headed to a thick patch of grass to scrape the mess from his shoes, hoping this wasn't an omen.
Lord, he prayed it wasn't an omen.