22. Jonah
T he gates to Crest Lawn Memorial Park groaned open at exactly 8:30 AM, and Jonah wasted no time slipping through. Not that there was a line to get into the home for a thousand dead bodies.
No one else was insane enough to be standing in a graveyard on a miserably wet, sunless Friday morning, but Jonah wasn’t just anyone.
He was a Lawson, and somewhere in the generations of architects and control freaks, high-hopers and overachievers, ran a flair for self-inflicted emotional torture. He got it in spades, apparently.
Which was why he drove all night in that bucket of rusty bolts he called a van and somehow made it to this place that had seen so many tears for literal centuries.
He stopped at the same 7-Eleven he always visited for the specific ingredients he needed, making his special “Mom meal” in the van and stuffing it into a backpack he had over his shoulder.
As he walked, the rain picked up again, driving harder and slowing his steps.
He didn’t care, though. He took the long way around the massive rolling hills, pausing a moment to check out the graves, some of which were dug in the 1800s. Many of which he remembered every single year.
Like Leyton Wiggle—dude’s real name—who kicked the bucket on December 14, 1899 and got a primo spot on a hilltop overlooking the Atlanta skyline.
“Hey, Wiggles,” he said, as he did every year when he passed. “Still got the best view in the house, man.”
He squinted toward the horizon, but the distant skyscrapers of downtown were obstructed by thick fog and rain, which drenched him as he plowed on to the newer section.
He cut over the flat stones, sorry for walking on any graves and all, but this wasn’t a day for meandering.
He slowed when he passed the super creepy giant sculpture of two angels and a massive headstone for Letitia Burns, who lived for three days in 1878. Beloved daughter of John and Ida Burns, and sister of Mathilda.
He’d seen this over-the-top monument more than a dozen times, but it hit different today. Jeez. A baby had died. He’d never really thought about that before. But then, the last time he was here? He never dreamed he’d have one coming in the not-too-distant future.
This time little Letitia was personal .
Powering on, his sneakers squelched against the muddy ground, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Rain had turned the grass into a sponge, soaking through the bottoms of his jeans, but he barely felt it.
He sucked in a lungful of the scent of pine needles and wet stone, the kind of smell that stuck in your nose and made you feel like you were breathing in the past. It fit.
This wasn’t a choice, he told himself when a tiny, unfamiliar voice whispered in his head that this was a dumb idea.
It was a magnetic pull he couldn’t resist any more than he could resist taking his next breath of rain-scented air. This was a ritual he never let himself break, no matter how much it wrecked him.
Because if he skipped it, if he let one year pass without folding in half in front of that headstone, it would mean he was forgetting her. And Jonah couldn’t let that happen. Not after fifteen years. Not after spending just as many years without her as he had with her.
Half his life with Mom. Half his life without.
There was no doubt which was the better half.
He came around the big section of the Lafayette family who must have been burying their dead here for six generations. A minute later, he found Mom’s headstone without really looking for it.
Honestly, this trip was muscle memory at this point.
The grass had been cut and it looked like recently laid flowers had shriveled next to the simple gray headstone.
Meredith? Probably. She came out here pretty often and made sure it was tidy. Dad did, too. And Aunt Emily, his mother’s sister. Others might show up today, if anyone remembered the date.
But no one was around now, not at this hour. It was why he always came the minute they opened, so he could beat the crowd.
Very slowly, he shook back his soaking wet hair and lowered himself to the ground in front of the stone, finally letting his gaze settle on her name.
Melissa Anne Lawson.
He let out a slow breath and wiped the rain from her name with the sleeve of his jean jacket. It was pointless, but he did it anyway.
“Hey, Mom.”
His voice came out rough, barely audible over the soft patter of rain. He crouched, pressing his palms against the damp earth, and stared at the headstone like it might blink back at him. Like it might tell him what the hell he was supposed to do next.
Instead, silence. Just him, the rain, and a growing pit in his stomach.
He reached into his backpack and pulled out the sandwich he’d just made, wrapped in a paper towel.
“Got me a Mrs. Lawson special,” he said with a wry smile. “BLT with burnt bacon—no mean feat on that wretched cooktop in my van. Three thick slices of tomato, or, as you called it ‘To-maht’ with no O.” He grinned at the memory of her goofiness. “Got a swipe of mayo mixed with a splash of Tabasco because you knew I liked a little kick on my sammy.”
He stared at the wet stone but all he could see was that pretty lady behind the wheel of her SUV. She’d be rushing from work after she finished reporting on some fire or town council meeting, turning her world upside down and backwards so she could pick him up from football practice.
He lifted the sandwich in a half-hearted toast, silently thanking her for caring about him so much.
“Not as good as yours,” he said after the first bite. “Remember, you always had one in the car but wouldn’t let me eat until I changed my shirt because you ‘weren’t about to let sweat ruin a perfectly good sandwich.’” He sniffed, rubbing at his nose. “I used to think that was annoying. Now I’d give anything to hear you say it again.”
The rain picked up, soaking into his jean jacket, dribbling down the collar of his T-shirt. He pulled out a bottle of lemonade—sadly, not the tart kind she made from scratch—but it was lemonade, and she always had that for him.
He took a swig and set it on the wet earth.
“So, uh. Guess what? I have a kid on the way. Really stinking soon, too.” The words felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else. He let out a breath. “A whole entire human that’s gonna be looking to me for…whatever kids need.” He snorted. “Everything, I guess. I mean, assuming I meet Carly’s exacting standards.”
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine his mother’s face. What would it look like today? Would she have any gray hair or wrinkles? Probably not. She was magic like that. Plus, she was a TV reporter, so she’d have probably done the tricks to keep her looks.
But what would she say? Would her green eyes go wide with shock? Would she make that squeaky noise when something excited her and insist she be called “Gramma Missy” from this day on?
“Anyhoo, can you imagine that? Me, a dad?” He huffed out a laugh, bitter and small. “Yeah, me neither.”
He ran a hand through his rain-drenched hair, frustration bubbling under his skin.
“Carly says I have to get my life together if I want to be in the baby’s life. And she’s right. But I don’t know how. I don’t know how to be anything but a screw-up.” He exhaled sharply, his hands clenching into fists. “I spent the last fifteen years running, and I don’t even know what from anymore.”
The lump in his throat swelled, tight and unrelenting. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Now I ran again,” he admitted. “’Cause wasn’t this just the perfect excuse not to go to an interview that could change my life? Not to fail? I can’t do it without you, Mom. A chef? Can you imagine? And a kid that’s going to be born in a matter of weeks? What am I gonna do, Mom ?”
The sob escaped, ripping his chest open.
Crap, he was slobbering now, but who cared? Call it rain. Call it pain. Call it a kid who was unfairly cheated out of the best mother in the world.
“I miss you so much,” he managed. “I can’t even tell you how much. Same today as fifteen years ago. It never gets better. It’s just a hole, Mom. A fat, empty hole where you should be. I know I’m a man and I should grow up and accept this. But I was a kid, and I feel like everything stopped— everything —when you died. I don’t know how to start it again.”
A gust of wind cut through the cemetery, sending rustling branches and spring leaves around him. Jonah wiped his face, forced himself to breathe.
He couldn’t eat anymore, so he stuffed the sandwich and drink back in his bag and swiped his face again, the denim scratching his cheek.
“I’m going back to California,” he said gruffly, hearing the defiance in his voice. “I mean, the baby’s coming in a coupla weeks. I know she doesn’t want me there, but I’ll just…try. I know, it’s a dumb move, but hey, I’m famous for those.”
He shifted on the grass, soaked to the bone now and not caring.
“I’m not going to be a chef! What the heck am I thinking? And now that I’ve pulled this stunt, I guarantee Dad’s done coddling me. And Kate…” He made a face. “Yeah, you don’t know about Kate. She’s…”
How would she feel if she knew Dad might have found someone? Knowing her? She’d have approved.
“She’s pretty cool,” he said. “But I’m?—”
He heard movement, footsteps, leaves rustling. He swallowed his sentence, dreading the idea of coming face-to face-with Aunt Emily or, God forbid, Meredith.
After what she did to help him find that Culinary Arts program? Miss Perfection would blast?—
“Jonah!”
Swearing under his breath, he stood and peered through the rain at two figures sprinting toward him, drenched and frantic.
“Jonah!”
Kate’s voice hit first, breathless and sharp with urgency. Eli was right beside her, his father—always composed, always put together—looking like he had just run through a hurricane. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his jacket dripping.
Jonah sighed, already knowing why they were here. “You didn’t have to come looking for me.”
“Yes, we did,” Eli shot back, his breath coming in heavy puffs. “You have an interview in five hours and forty-five minutes.”
“Yeah, I’m going to miss it.”
“No, Jonah.” Kate’s voice cut through his excuse, sharp but not unkind as she ran ahead and reached him first. “ No, you are not .”
The vehemence took his breath away more than the fact that the two of them had come all the way here to…save him. She was furious and determined and, good God, she reminded him of the woman six feet under where they were standing.
Not in looks, personality, or anything but…mom-ness.
He looked away, almost unable to take the impact of it. “It’s dumb to think I even have a chance.”
“It’s dumber not to try,” she shot back.
He let out a shuddering breath as Eli stomped his way closer, taking a moment to look at the gravestone, a shadow of grief darkening his blue eyes before he leveled a hard gaze at Jonah.
“I lost her, too, Jonah.” His voice was raw, the words scraping the air between them. “It’s the worst thing in the world.”
“You don’t seem…like you still hurt.” It wasn’t an accusation or indictment—if anything, Jonah envied the peace his father seemed to have found.
He snorted. “Define hurt, son. I’m sure you’ve heard that grief is just love that has nowhere to go. I found a place for it.” His eyes flicked toward the sky. “I found…other things.”
Jonah swallowed hard. Other things like God. Hey, whatever worked, man. He couldn’t argue that he was the one screwing up his life and blubbering in the rain and Dad…
Dad had come here, with Kate, on their special long weekend, to get him.
That…wow. That was love.
“What did she say?” his father asked, glancing at the stone again.
Jonah jerked back, not sure if he understood. “What?”
“Your mom. I always get answers when I come here. I can hear her voice, and I can imagine what she said. What did she tell you to do?”
“I didn’t…she didn’t…” His throat grew thick. “Nothing.”
Kate exhaled and wiped some rain from her face, then reached for his arm. “Can I tell you what I would say if you were my son?”
Jonah didn’t answer.
“I’d tell you that you are the finest cook I ever saw in the kitchen.” She looked up at him, her brown eyes easy to see since she must have ditched her glasses, and her bangs were plastered to her head. “I’d tell you that when you layer flavors or test a spice or cut a radish, you do it with the flair and touch of a great chef. And you have an opportunity to learn exactly how to be that chef. You are brilliant, Jonah Lawson. And you were made for great things.”
Made for…more. He could hear his mother’s voice, echoing exactly what this dear, good woman was saying.
“Is that why you drove three hundred miles overnight in the rain?” He tried to slather the words with attitude, but he knew he sounded petulant and small. “To tell me I cut a mean radish?”
“I came because I believe in you completely.” She lifted her chin, undaunted by his tone or the rain. “I have bone-deep faith in you. I would do anything—and so would your father—to help you realize your amazing potential.”
It was like…it was like Melissa Lawson herself was speaking from that grass-covered hole in the ground.
Something shifted in his chest.
“I don’t know if I can be a dad,” he admitted, the words barely audible but it was the truth, and it was at the heart of this matter.
He was scared out of his mind and if he didn’t get his life together, like Carly insisted, he wouldn’t get to find out what kind of father he’d even be. The whole thing just sucked.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” she said softly. “You just have to show up. And earn that child’s respect by following your dreams and passions and talents. By not letting roadblocks and complications get in the way. I know you can do that, Jonah.”
His breath hitched. Could he?
Kate sighed. “Plus, you have a good role model.” She glanced at his father and in that one second, in that flash of a look, he saw…love.
She loved his father. And there was nothing anyone—including the great and powerful Maggie Lawson—was going to do to stop that.
As if he saw it, too, Dad took a step closer. “Son, if you leave now, you can make that interview. Might break a few speed limits, but?—”
“Not in that van,” he said. “That is not happening.”
“Take my truck.” He held out keys. “You can make it.”
Something inside him cracked wide open. The years of running, of pushing people away—it all felt so heavy. He let out a breath, unsteady and uncertain and right on the edge of agreeing with them.
“I’ll drive with you,” Kate said, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “I’ll drive for you. Whatever it takes, but you are going to make that appointment and get into the Culinary Arts program.”
For a moment, hope surged. Then he looked down at muddy, wet clothes.
“I’m a mess.”
“You can change in the van first,” Eli said. “No more excuses. Just try. Just give yourself that chance.”
Then, slowly, he nodded.
Kate’s smile was small but full of relief. She wrapped him in a quick hug—warm, steady, safe.
As they hustled away, he turned back and took one more look at the gravestone, silently thanking her for whatever hand she’d had in this small miracle.
He heard it in the breeze, rustling the spring buds in the trees. A voice he loved saying words he treasured.
You were made for more, Jonah Lawson.
Maybe he was.
He looked down at Kate and smiled. “Let’s run. And let’s break some laws.”
She laughed and picked up the pace. “And let’s win the day!” She sprinted ahead, her wet hair flying.
He turned and looked at Dad, who was grinning ear to ear, staring at Kate like…like…yeah.
These two loved each other. They might not know it yet, but Jonah did. And maybe Mom did, too.