Touch Me (Promise Me Book 2)

by Viragh, Brea

I needed to see him.

  The drive home took a little over four hours on a good day. I turned off the main drag onto a series of side roads. Soon traffic would increase until both sides of the freeway were clogged with vehicles of all shapes and sizes. Temperatures would continue to spike until going outside without assistance was unbearable. The gift of South Carolina. Florence, located on the coastal plains, boasted great weather year-round. The majority of tourists came for the history, including the Columns Plantation. I’d grown up several miles down the road from it, where the summer humidity clogged the lungs until it was hard to breathe, and all good children knew the South should have won the war.

  Minutes later I pulled into a gravel drive with weeds overgrown at the edges. It wound around past a moldering gazebo left to rot, coming to its end in front of a rustic Cape Cod in desperate need of TLC. Numerous golf carts were parked in the driveway, some able to run and others projects my father hoped to fix one day. He called them his toys, but I remember Deborah saying she was “repulsed” by the sight. Toys belonged in a toy box and my father had no place to store his. He worked from home out of a backyard garage, with the majority of his business coming from word of mouth and spreading when the locals saw that any broken vehicles he touched stayed fixed.

  Hudson would be on his knees on the concrete garage floor today, as he was every other day aside from the weekend. Those special weekend hours he reserved for hobbies, most of which still involved machines with four wheels. It was easier to fix cars than deal with humans and their hang-ups. He and I were more alike than he figured. I found my solace in the kitchen while he found his in a garage.

  He still loved Mama, I knew, although he did his best to make me believe he didn’t care a lick.

  My world had come to a crazy turning point. I felt more confused than ever, from the terrifying tingle whenever I saw Duncan to the once-steady customers who canceled for no given reason. The stolen packages and denials. My life was moving too fast for me to understand and up until now, helping August had suited my needs. Part of me warred with giving up on him, when the wind was no longer at my back, but the other part listened to Nell and urged me to think about myself. And how, at the end of the day, my own dreams weren’t worth sacrificing.

  I parked next to a ratty pickup and wondered if I should have called first.

  The moment I stepped out of the car the heat hit me with the force of a thrown brick. A ton of them, in fact. Fighting against the weight, I drew moist air into my lungs and walked toward the front porch, hesitated. Maybe my older self recognized, subconsciously, the consequences of that porch, what I’d see inside. Would I see the same boxes stacked, evidence of Deborah sealed away but unable to be discarded, when I crossed the threshold?

  An insignificant vegetable patch pushed against its boundaries, squash threatening to overtake the lawn, bright yellow gourds dotted here and there amidst the verdant summer vines. Watermelons, too. They weren’t there by choice. More than likely each was a product of some seed or another spat over a porch rail on a weekend day.

  Sunglasses shielded my eyes from the worst of the rays. I took one step forward across the heat-baked lawn, then another. Was it good to be home? The jury was still out on that.

  “Papa?” I called, voice echoing off the walls of the house. “Where are you?”

  A clang accompanied by a yell came from the rear of the garage. I zoned in on the noise before heading toward the sound. I should have checked there first. Now I’d lost the element of surprise.

  “Papa?” I said again.

  “Leda?”

  I grinned at the robust tone. “I’m out here. Are you decent?”

  The joyful sound of his chuckle reached me a second before I caught sight of two long, spindly legs clothed in ripped denim, sticking out from where he lay underneath a car. A pair of grungy work boots with zip ties for laces were hanging haphazardly on his feet. “If you mean to ask if I’m covered in grease, then yes, I am decent.”

  “You always know what I mean.” The tools dropped when he slid from beneath the vehicle. I fiddled with the ends of my shirt.

  At last Hudson appeared from beneath the car, separating himself from metal and plastic until a man stood in front of me. Blue jeans, the same ones he’d worn since before I was born, hung on his lanky frame. Lines decorated his face, although I couldn’t recall if they’d been there when I left. The sleeves of his long-sleeved t-shirt were rolled up to the elbows, and forest-green eyes the same color as mine searched the space before coming to rest on me. I recognized the strong, jutting chin as one I saw in the mirror each morning. How he insisted I looked like Mama, I would never understand. Standing in front of him, now I recognized pieces of myself there. Personality-wise, we could have been twins—aside from one key difference.

  He’d lost the ability to fall in love.

  “You should have given me a call so I could pack it up for the day. I didn’t know you were coming.” Hudson wiped his hands on a grease rag plucked from a rear pocket.

  “Neither did I,” I admitted. “I just...I wanted to see you.”

  He gestured toward his play clothes, large hands still covered in oil. “Here I am.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Hudson chuckled again. “Do you want to come over here and give your Papa a hug?”

  I couldn’t help the melancholy smile. His old joke. Pointing toward the house, I said, “I will when you change. Washing your hands would be a good first step, too.”

  “You never were one for a mess, I’ll tell you.” A wrench clattered toward the hood of the car and he stepped forward. “Couldn’t stand to get even a hair out of place. And God knew you despised the dust.”

  Hudson had a way about him, a friendly curve of the spine and an open, easy face designed to put people at ease. My shoulders relaxed staring at him now. Breathing in the familiar scents of the garage, I waited for him to place his tools just so before walking over to me.

  He bent down, his lips finding their way to my forehead. Even with small heels he managed a good four inches on me.

  “It’s good to see you, sweet girl,” he admitted.

  I wanted badly to hug him, would have done so had it not been for the oil slick the size of Texas across his torso. “I missed you, Papa.”

  “Come inside and we can have a little lunch. I skipped breakfast.”

  I tsked as we walked. “You shouldn’t miss meals. You’re already too thin. I know you won’t snack but at least keep an apple with you.”

  “I could say the same for you.”

  “You do remember I love to bake?” I asked. “I always sample my wares, don’t you worry. There’s no way I’ll lose weight. You, on the other hand—”

  “Don’t start,” Hudson warned. His vowels were liquid honey and brought back memories. Memories of childhood and those long days—hell, years—where it was just the two of us together.

  He’d tried his best with me, although he had no clue how to raise a child. There were nights when a can of baked beans became dinner and a garden trowel my babysitter. Some nights he was too tired from work to make sure I had a bath. We both ended up going to bed without a single word about it.

  “It took me a little less than four hours to get here,” I told him. “There wasn’t any traffic on the road. Which was good because I get road rage.”

  “You must have left before the crack of dawn.” He held the door open for me and I walked into the cramped mudroom where my salon chair used to sit. Facing the east so I could watch the sun rise over the palms in the morning. Deborah’s chair, I amended, left behind when she decided to skip out on us, a bag of clothes and her makeup making the cut. But not me.

  Hudson kicked his boots off, leaving a spiral of dirt glittering in the open air. “I hope you aren’t too hungry. I’m working with a man’s kitchen and I don’t keep any frou-frou snacks around. I haven’t had the time to go food shopping.”

  “Do I need to go to the grocery store for you again
? I remember the last time I was here. I opened the refrigerator and found a box of stale donuts and a bottle of pop.” I let my purse drop to the counter and made myself at home.

  “Sums it up.” Hudson nodded once. “I don’t need much.”

  “Which explains your twig arms. You need more meat on your bones.”

  Walking through the living room, I noted the same furniture I’d once picked out from a flea market. Orange and red paisley-print couch with accompanying tweed arm chair, set in front of the boxy television. I’d liked the patterns, how positive and cheery they looked, although none of the pieces matched. It had pleased me when Hudson offered to let me choose, and showed his trust in my judgment. Oh boy, he would not have the same trust in me now.

  “I thought you told me you were going to organize. There are still stacks of magazines everywhere.” And cobwebs, although I kept that observation to myself. I’d once suggested having a cleaning person come in once a week to help with the mess. Hudson wouldn’t hear of such a thing. He didn’t want to waste the money and assured me he would get to the clutter in due time.

  “I did organize.” Hudson pointed to the countertop. “I got rid of my collection of useless plastic containers.”

  “They were from the seventies, so I’m glad you did. You wanna talk about unsanitary.” I patted a cushion and coughed when dust rose.

  The place didn’t look any cleaner to me, but then again I’d blocked out the mess during my years of living there. I wouldn’t classify my father as a hoarder. There were walking lanes between furniture and ample space for more of his collections, but he was edging closer and closer to the category.

  “Have some saltines.” He drew a box from the cupboard and slid it in my direction.

  “Sure, Papa.” My stomach protested, although I doubted crackers would fill the empty spaces. Unlike him I’d remembered breakfast, but lunchtime approached and my oatmeal was long gone.

  Hudson popped two saltines in his mouth and chewed loudly. “What made you decide to come home? I wish you would have told me you planned on heading down. I would have dressed all fancy for you. We could go out tonight if you like and I’ll show you my best shirt then.”

  I quirked a brow. “Dressing up isn’t required. Although, dammit Papa, if you want a hug you are going to have to wash your hands.”

  He stared at me for a moment before crossing to the sink. “Always pushy. Like your mother.”

  A chill spread along my spine. For a long time after this, I would wonder why he continued to bring her up, why he compared me to her, what he saw in me that made him repeat it again and again. Was there a hungry look? Desperation?

  We stood and stared at each other for a moment. The hot, crackling wind, the hiss of static on his outdoor radio speakers, the swoosh of traffic down the road—it disappeared and left the two of us.

  “Will you stop comparing me to her? Let’s just have a nice afternoon together before I have to get back to Heartwood,” I said at last.

  “Get back?” He turned to stare at me over his shoulder, soap bubbling between his palms. “You just got here a few minutes ago. I thought you were going to stay for the day, at least. It’s an awful long drive for a couple of hours of companionship.”

  “I have appointments tomorrow morning I couldn’t cancel. Unless I want to leave at three a.m., I need to head out before dinner.” I hated the time crunch, but there were obligations I couldn’t reschedule despite the inconvenience. I’d needed to come home, if only for an afternoon.

  “It’s a waste of gas,” Hudson grumbled. In his mind, there was nothing worse than waste. Of any sort of resource. He considered all waste frivolous and unnecessary. “You should have carved out time if you planned on driving down.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Papa. Okay? I wanted to come see you and I did. Aren’t you happy?”

  “Sure, I’m happy.”

  I pushed a roll of paper towels off the worn vinyl stool and sat down. “Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  He wiped his hands on his pants to dry them. “Same shit since the last time we talked. Fixing vehicles and watching TV. I don’t get out much anymore.”

  “You never got out,” I corrected.

  “True.”

  “There has to be more to the story.”

  I knew he wouldn’t change his clothes for the hug. Hadn’t made a move toward the bedroom for a clean shirt. If I wanted the embrace I would have to brave the oil. Instead of focusing on my appearance I sighed, contented, opening my arms and then folding them around his neck.

  Inhaling the familiar scents, I squeezed him tight. He was sweaty and sticky but he was my single remaining relative. “Hi, Papa.”

  His posture softened as his hands came around my waist. “Hi, girl.”

  “Tell me the truth,” I requested when I stepped away. “There has to be more to it than you’re telling me. I haven’t seen you in close to a year.”

  A bottle of soda made its way from the refrigerator to the counter, where half of the contents were poured into a glass. “More to what?”

  “You can’t just tinker and sleep. It’s...unnatural.” I shook my head at his offer of a drink. “What else have you been doing? Do you have a lady friend?”

  He and I both knew there was nothing of the sort. I did him the courtesy of asking, and he gave me the courtesy of acting disgruntled.

  Hudson’s gaze curdled. “There hasn’t been time for a lady friend. And I would not want one in this house.” He glanced around at the contained clutter. “I should be asking you these questions. Isn’t it my fatherly duty to make sure you’re doing well, and stick my nose into your relationships?”

  I let out a breathy chuckle. “I don’t have a lady friend either.”

  His sour look took a nose dive into glower at my teasing. “You know what I’m saying, Leda.”

  My father had never been one for jokes. I’d always thought any sense of humor he’d once possessed wilted and died the moment Mama left. It had never returned. “I know what you’re saying. I’m trying to lighten the mood here.”

  “It’s light enough.” He chugged half the glass in a single swig. “I feel like we never talk about you anymore. I don’t know what you’re doing. You called the other day, something about a cake shop, and left me on the other line, confused.”

  “One of us is always too busy to talk to the other. It happens.” I rung my hands together. “I got denied a loan.”

  “You went to the bank?”

  “I’m trying to get my cupcakery out of my head and into reality,” I told him.

  “You know I don’t understand your fancy terms.”

  “Cupcakery? It’s a bake shop specializing in cupcakes, Papa. You know what I mean.” The trapped air inside the house was beginning to get to me. It carried with it the scents of mold and dying plants, which I assumed came from the desiccated ficus in a dusty pot near the window. “I experiment and try to find new flavors to delight the local palates.”

  “But you didn’t get the loan.” His tone was military matter-of-fact and grated on me.

  “No,” I answered. “I didn’t. They turned me down because I helped a friend and the town didn’t take kindly to that.”

  “You’re a good girl. I know if you keep working hard you’ll get where you need to go. Sometimes it takes a little longer than you want it to, but you’ll get there. Everything happens when it’s supposed to happen.”

  Hudson settled on the stool opposite my own, soda clenched tight in his fist. I tried not to notice the way his fingers quivered. Had they shaken so violently before? Maybe I needed to visit more often, to keep an eye on him. Lord knows he wouldn’t tell me much over the phone.

  “It’s not that simple, Papa. Let me ask you a question.” I scowled, nails tapping along my thigh. “If your friend, someone you’re close to, asked you to help them with a favor...would you?”

  “What friend and what favor?” he wanted to know.

  Instead of answering directly
, I stalled. “You told me family is important—”

  “You’re damn right. It’s the most important thing in life. You gotta stick together and take care of your own.” Passion emboldened his movements until his fingers no longer shook.

  “That’s what I’ve heard my whole life,” I responded. “But what happens when somebody else doesn’t quite understand? Then people talk, and all of a sudden you’re getting denied a loan and losing clients?”

  Hudson did not react, but I saw a muscle clenching beneath his jaw, nearly hidden by his shadow of stubble. “Did someone threaten you?”

  Each word held its own threat, and I knew if I answered yes, he would get in the car and fight for me. Somehow, the knowledge made me feel worse.

  “No, no one threatened me,” I said, twirling my hair and staring at the floor. Yet. “But in that case, Papa...do you still help your friend?”

  Hudson took a sip of his drink, lips smacking on the final drop. “This friend means a lot to you?”

  I uncrossed my legs in an attempt to get comfortable. “He’s been like a brother to me. I agreed to help him with something and now...well, things aren’t exactly going the way he planned.”

  “You better not be fooling around with this boy.”

  I scoffed at his worry. Trust my Papa to take my concern and run in a different direction. “No, it’s not like that. Besides, you and I both know it’s better to be alone. Right?”

  He must have caught the hint of bitterness in my tone and pressed further. “What aren’t you telling me? Spill the beans, kiddo.” Another can of soda fell to his thirst but did little to slake it. “It’s easier for you to tell me now than make me pry it out of you.”

  “It’s nothing I can’t handle. I hope.” To hide my true feelings, I rose and crossed to the sink and the mound of dishes waiting to be done. “But tell me, please. Where does the line end?”

  “What line?”

  “The line between helping your family and helping yourself. I’m struggling.”

  “Leda...” he began. A warning. “Is someone trying to hurt you? I need you to be honest. Why do you ask about a line?”