8. Chapter 8
eight
By some miracle, when Mercy dropped me off at my parents’ house, they’d already gone to bed. Mom left a note that she’d sleep with Bowie in the guest room.
I peeked in, and seeing them both deep asleep, I left them.
It gave me the freedom to curl into a ball and cry myself to sleep, something I’ve done too many times through the years.
Nothing Grant ever did cut into my soul like what I saw in Calder’s eyes, because I remembered those blue eyes before—smiling, teasing, flirting, hungry. Last night they weren’t any of those things.
They were… ice. Distant. Guarded.
Like he’d built a wall in the years I’ve been gone, and he’s not about to let me see over it again.
He doesn’t want me anymore. He moved on. Of course he did. Who wouldn’t?
Then why hasn’t he loved someone else?
Maybe he has. Maybe I don’t get to know anymore.
“Mommy?”
I roll to my side, reaching out my arms to lift Bowie up beside me.
“I slept with Grammy,” he says as I pull him to me.
“I checked on you. You were sleeping so snug I didn’t want to bother you.”
I lift the covers, and he burrows in beside me. I pull him tight against me, relishing in his warmth.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, Baby.” I stroke his head, petting his face.
He looks up at me. “Where’s Daddy?”
My breath hitches. “He’s working.”
“Will he come see us?” His voice is so small.
I squeeze him even tighter, whispering, “Someday.”
“There you are! You got away from me!” Mom bursts through the door and reaches under the covers, tickling Bowie, who giggles and squirms. “Are you hungry?” she asks.
“Fruit Loops!”
She tsks. “Boy does not grow on sugar alone. You need bacon and eggs.”
“Aw… bacon, not eggs. Yuk.” He blows a raspberry.
Mom can’t stop laughing. “One bite of scrambled eggs, for Grammy. Then you can have bacon and Fruit Loops. It’s a trade, okay?”
He sighs like a man. “Okay.”
“Come on, let your mom get dressed.”
“Not without a kiss you don’t.” I draw him to me again, peppering him with my kisses. He is my life. My heart. My soul.
Grant Prescott and Calder Boone both have to take a back seat. I’ve spent too many years twisting myself into knots over both of them. Bowie Hayes Prescott is my priority now.
“You want to go back to the park today?” I ask him, sipping my morning coffee, enjoying the bacon.
He nods, his mouth full of whatever he’s stuffed in there. Fruit Loops, bacon, a nibble of scrambled egg?
“What was your favorite? Swings? Teeter-totter?”
“Climbing.” He washes down his food with a gulp of orange juice.
“Oh, my. My son is a climber?”
“Yes!” He fist-pumps. “Climber!”
Mom groans. “Great. That’s just what we need. Him in the top of the trees when he’s five.” She ruffles his hair. “You’ll kill me, kid. Give your Grammy a heart attack.”
“No need to worry. I’ll be right there with him.”
“You were a climber, too.”
Dad had to rescue me more than once. I could manage to get up the old live oak limb that dipped low to the ground, but getting down…
well, let’s just say I was glad my dad was a tall man.
He’d get a ladder and wrap his enormous hands around me, carrying me to safety with a stern warning about climbing, which I’d soon forget. He was patient back then.
The doorbell rings and we all three look at each other.
“Who’s that?”
“Gotta open the door to find out,” Mom says.
“Who would be here at this hour?” I say as I pad to the door.
“Beats the crap out of me,” she answers over her shoulder.
I open the front door to see a deliveryman. “These are for Laurel Prescott.”
I take in the gaudy bouquet—cascading orchids and tropical birds-of-paradise arranged like a hotel lobby centerpiece. Over the top. So Grant. His philosophy is, if a little’s good, a lot is better.
“Thanks. Wait a minute.” I go to my purse and return with money for a tip. “Give those to your significant other. Or your mother.”
“What?” That seems to knock him for a loop.
“I don’t want them.”
His jaw falls far enough to make me chuckle as he looks from me to the flowers. “I’ve never had anyone not want their flowers.”
“Fine. Thank you.” I take them, close the door, and put the vase on the dining room table.
“Someone stole that off a casino buffet.” Mom elbows me. “Read the note.”
“He wouldn’t have dictated a note, Mom.” Not his style. “Trust me, he didn’t pick it out. He had his secretary do it.”
I’m wrong. There it is. “We can fix this. Come home—Grant.”
I hand it to her. “No, ‘I love you.’ No, ‘I miss you.’ Just Grant Prescott’s order. ‘We can fix this. Come home.’”
“Home?” I didn’t see Bowie come into the dining room. “Daddy?” He looks at the flowers.
“No, Baby.” I pick him up and set him on my hip. “Daddy’s at work. It’s just… flowers.”
With Bowie occupied with his tablet, I tell Mom, “I ran into Calder last night.”
“Oh, Laurel.”
“Don’t worry. He’s moved on. He’s not interested in me, even if I was interested in him so, you don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
She gives me the side-eye but doesn’t say anything.
“I need to find a job.”
“You’ve got money. There’s no rush. I’m telling you, Laurel—you could change your mind.”
My patience is over. “You don’t understand. I’m not going to change my mind.”
She places her hand softly on my forearm. “Honey, men make mistakes.”
“So do women. One mistake I lived with and tried to forgive. Remember? We’ve had this conversation.
The second mistake? I locked up my heart—but I was pregnant, so I stayed.
Now three? I’ve had enough. And he won’t change.
You know that. There is no great mystery, Mom.
I just don’t love him anymore. I will not spend the rest of my life with a man I cannot trust.”
It’s time to stop avoiding.
“I’m going to call him. Keep Bowie occupied, please.”
With the bedroom door closed, I dial Grant’s cellphone number and get his voicemail, so I call his office.
“Whitaker, Prescott and Cole.” Ugh. The receptionist almost sings it.
“This is Laurel Prescott. I need to speak to my husband.” That’s the last time I’ll ever say that.
“One moment, please.”
I listen to the hold music until she comes back. “Mrs. Prescott, he’s in a meeting. May I take a message?”
A thousand things I could say flash through my mind, but I take the high road. It’s not her fault. “No. Just tell him I called, please.”
“I’ll do that. You have a good day.”
Next, I call the Ladera Independent School District, asking about openings.
All filled. Of course, school just started.
“But you always need substitutes, right?”
“Oh, yes. Every day,” the receptionist replies.
“I’d like to fill out an application to be a substitute teacher. I have my degree and teaching certificate.”
“You can fill it out online if you’d like.” She directs me to the website.
Clicking through the ISD website, curiosity overtakes me, and I find myself Googling B & B Hardware in Ladera, Texas.
Wow. Who designed that? Nice-looking website.
I click on “About Us.” Yep. There they are—shoulder to shoulder—standing in front of the store. Calder Boone and Tanner Briggs, owners. Either one of them could be on the cover of some rugged outdoorsman magazine.
Both broad-shouldered, narrow at the hips. Calder’s hair is darker with sun-streaks that almost look like he paid to have it done—but I know he didn’t. Sharp blue eyes, the angular jaw with a tad of scruff, and that one deep dimple in his left cheek.
Then there’s Tanner, with the rowdy blonde hair, green eyes, and a smile that has stolen more hearts than anyone knows.
Calder and Tanner. Etched into my memories.
Where did they get the money to put in a hardware store without a bank loan? Nobody does that.
My phone trills, and everything in me tightens seeing Grant’s name.
We haven’t spoken since before I left, which was right after looking at the pictures my private investigator handed me. Yes. I needed proof. I left the photos and the ring on the nightstand before I packed everything, loaded Bowie in the car, and drove away from Franklin.
I clear my throat and answer. “Flowers aren’t going to change anything, Grant.”
“Laurel… you never gave me a chance to explain.”
“A picture’s worth a thousand words.”
A heavy sigh as his voice goes quiet. “I’m sorry.”
“I want a divorce.”
“Laurel, come on… it wasn’t like that.” His voice softens, the one he uses when he wants something. “It didn’t mean anything.”
“It meant something to me.” I close my eyes. We’ve done this before.
“You know how demanding my clients are. I was exhausted. Lonely. You were always busy with Bowie…”
There it is. The excuse. The shift of blame. The rewrite of history.
“Laurel, you’re my wife. I love you. We can work through this.”
“One, you don’t love me. And two, no, we can’t.”
“I guess for better or worse doesn’t mean much to some people.”
“All I ever got was the worse.”
The line goes quiet as the real Grant Prescott emerges. “Laurel, remember who you’re talking to. I will not let you take my son from me.”
“You don’t even know your son.” I want to scream it, but I can’t. It’s a whisper-shout, “You’re never around him. You can’t leave your work or your clients long enough to spend time with him.” I can’t resist the dig. “That is one of your clients in the photo, isn’t it?”
Silence.
“I want a divorce, Grant. Period.”
“I’ll get joint custody. By Tennessee law, you’ll have to live in either Davidson or Williamson County so we can share custody.”
My stomach flips. I can’t go back there.
“And who do you think will take care of Bowie when you have him? You? You’ve never changed a diaper. You don’t want Bowie. You just can’t accept that I’ve stopped being your Stepford wife.”
“Fine. Tell Daddy to get out his checkbook.”
I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face. “You forget, Grant. I don’t need my parents’ money. I have half of everything.”
Asshole.
“We’ll see about that.”
“You wouldn’t have a law degree if I hadn’t worked to put you through school.”
“Wrong. My parents would’ve done it.”
“But they didn’t. I did. We’ll see what the judge has to say about that. You have a good day, Mr. Prescott.”