Barefoot Summer

by Denise Hunter

  “You’re still hung up on Madison McKinley,” she said, halfway through the pizza.

  He opened his mouth but closed it again. What could he say?

  “It’s okay. I mean, I’d hoped, but . . .” She shrugged.

  He hadn’t meant to lead her on. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.”

  She gave a soft sigh and dredged up a smile. “Let’s just be two friends eating a meal, all right?”

  The night had gotten better after that, less awkward. They’d parted as friends, but Beckett had no intention of repeating the experience.

  After drying off, he dressed and spent the rest of his morning doing research on the computer while his dad slept off last night’s overindulgence. By the time Dad slinked from his room, holding his head, Beckett had finished the research and made a dozen phone calls. He’d called Layla when he’d found a place.

  “I’m coming over,” she said.

  “No, let me handle this. He’s going to get upset, things might get physical. I’ll feel better if you’re not in the line of fire.”

  She’d put up a fight but had finally backed down.

  Now all he had to do was wait for his dad to down some ibuprofen and finish a cup of coffee. Beckett was determined, but he wasn’t stupid.

  He snapped open the newspaper, and the headline, big and bold, caught his eye: THEATER FIRE CAUSED BY FAULTY WIRING.

  Beckett read the article, his heart pounding. When he was finished he set the paper aside, let out a deep sigh. The investigation was complete, and the results were a reprieve.

  But that didn’t change his mind about what he was going to do.

  When Dad settled in the living room and snatched up the sports section, Beckett took a deep breath. “We need to talk, Dad.”

  “Later. My head’s splitting.”

  “Later you’ll be buzzed, then wasted. We need to talk now.”

  The paper rattled as his dad closed it and flung it onto the coffee table, muttering something about a man finding no rest in his own house. His eye caught the headline on the main section.

  “Ah, now lookie there. What’d I tell you? It wasn’t my fault after all, was it?”

  Dad looked older all of a sudden. Bags under his eyes, permanent lines etched by years of hard living.

  “Not this time.”

  His dad huffed.

  “Things are going to change around here, Dad. I’m not doing this anymore. I made a few phone calls this morning, and I found a place that can help you.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “Here’s the deal, Dad. You have a choice. Either I can take you to this facility where you can get help, or you can leave on your own. One way or another, you’re out of here today.”

  His dad laughed, no humor evident. “You can’t kick me out of my own home.”

  “It’s my home. And I’m done sitting by while you ruin your health, risk lives—”

  “It wasn’t me!”

  “Two choices, Dad. Which will it be?”

  “You’d kick your old man out? I don’t even have a job! How am I supposed to eat? Where am I supposed to sleep?”

  “You have a problem, and I’m trying to get you help.”

  “I don’t have a problem! When are you going to get that through your head? You were always the stubborn one!”

  Beckett got up, plucked a suitcase from the hall closet, and headed toward his dad’s room.

  He’d begun emptying the first drawer when Dad entered the room and grabbed his arm. “Put that back!”

  He shook his father off and faced him. Beckett had four inches and considerable mass on him. He didn’t want to use it, but he wasn’t doing this anymore.

  He shot Dad a look of warning, then continued packing until the suitcase was full, ignoring his father’s loud protests. When he was finished, he zipped the case.

  “What kind of son are you?” Dad’s voice shook. “I’ll go to Layla’s, stay with her. She won’t turn me away!”

  Over his dead body. “I have your car keys, and Layla won’t let you in her house. I’ll call the police if I have to and have you removed. Or you can get in my truck quietly and get yourself some help.”

  Dad’s hair was spiked in every direction as if he’d run his fingers through it a dozen times. Fear lit his onyx eyes.

  Beckett softened. “It’s a good facility, Dad. I was on the phone with the director for an hour. You’ll get good care, and it’s not very far away.”

  “How can you do this to me? I’m your dad . . . I raised you alone after your mom left.” His voice cracked as his eyes glassed over.

  Beckett ached inside, but he was going to speak the truth. “Grandpa raised us, Dad.”

  His dad walked from the room, hitting the door frame on the way out. Beckett followed him with the suitcase.

  Dad stopped in the living room, his hands on the back of the recliner, squeezing the cushioned back until his knuckles went white.

  Beckett gave him a moment. It was a big decision. Life altering.

  Please, God. Let him decide to get help. For his own sake. He has a lot of life ahead of him, but he’ll never find his way like this.

  He could hear his dad’s shallow breaths, see the rise and fall of shoulders that used to seem much broader. He was Beckett’s dad, but for too many years Beckett had been the caretaker. He was still taking care of him, doing the hard thing. Sometimes love meant letting go. He was learning all about that.

  “What’s it gonna be, Dad?” he said quietly.

  His dad lowered his head, pinched his nose. It was the same gesture Layla teased Beckett about. He prayed that’s where the genes stopped.

  “You don’t leave me a choice.” His words were coated in bitterness. Beckett didn’t care if they were coated in horse manure as long as Dad went to the treatment facility.

  “Let’s go then.”

  “I need a drink first.” Dad turned toward the kitchen.

  Beckett grabbed his arm. “No. We’re leaving.”

  “Just one more,” Dad said, his eyes frantic. “I need it.”

  “Now, Dad.” He turned the man toward the door and grabbed the suitcase. It was going to be a long ride.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  THE OTHER SHOWS HAD GONE AS WELL AS OPENING NIGHT, but Madison was relieved to have the production behind her. She’d heard from the Kneeling Nanas that Beckett’s dad had been admitted to a rehab somewhere in Kentucky. The women lifted him in prayer each morning, and Madison had added him to her own growing list. She was glad for Beckett’s family. It would be a long road, but it was a good start.

  The aroma of brewed coffee perked up Madison’s senses as she entered the Coachlight Coffeehouse. A jazz tune played quietly through the speakers. Only a few patrons were scattered throughout the room. She spotted her honorary brother hunched over a tablet at a nearby table. Sometimes Daniel used the shop as his office away from home, though she hadn’t seen him here lately.

  She headed toward him. “It’s not the same place without our girl, is it?”

  He looked up, smiling, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “Hi, Madison.” His eyes darted toward the corner stage where Jade had played her guitar for hours on end. “No, it’s not. Have you heard from her lately?”

  “No, but Mom did last week. She said she seemed okay. You want her number?”

  “Ah, sure, if you have it.”

  He scrawled it on his tablet, then pushed out the other chair with his foot. “Have a seat.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I’m meeting Cassidy.” She noticed he was writing in his journal and gestured to it. “I love mine, by the way. I’ve been using it a lot.”

  He laid his hand flat on the binding and tore the top sheet along the perforated edge. “Just finishing a note to my folks. They like letters—the old-fashioned kind.” He folded the paper in thirds, making sharp creases with his thumb.

  The neat folds flagged something in her memory. Or was it the perforated edges? She stared at the pa
per. The dimensions . . . the off-white coloring, gray lines. Just like her own journal, but there was something else . . .

  An image flashed in her mind. A typed poem centered on that same paper. She should’ve recognized the paper before—it was just like her own journal—but she’d had her mind on other things.

  She watched Daniel finish the folds and tuck the letter into the journal. Not an ordinary journal, the kind that could be snagged from the local shelves of the Book Nook, but a special-order item from Chicago.

  Could it have been Daniel all along? She could hardly fathom it.

  He was looking at her, his brow quirked, and she realized she’d been staring.

  “It was you . . . ?”

  She watched confusion flitter over his features, humor lighting his eyes. He shook his head. “What?”

  “The paper is the same. The lines, the folding, everything. It was you . . . the rose, the cards, the notes . . .”

  Gravity pulled at the corners of his lips, the humor fleeing. He grew somber. A thread of panic laced his eyes.

  He’d been like a brother for so long, it was hard to imagine him thinking of Jade that way. He called her “squirt” and mussed her hair. He’d taught Jade her first guitar chords and defended her at school. Like a brother. Or like . . .

  “Madison, I—”

  “Sorry I’m late!” Cassidy threw her arm around Madison’s shoulders. “Hello, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Ah, hi, Cassidy.” His eyes never left Madison’s.

  “Have you ordered?” Cassidy squinted at the menu. “I’m seriously considering that new Peppermint Pattie thing. Probably has a zillion calories, but you only live once, right?”

  She gave Madison’s shoulders a squeeze and headed toward the counter.

  Madison turned to follow. “Uh, I guess I’ll see you later, Daniel.”

  “Madison . . .”

  She turned at his worried tone and met his blue eyes. When had he grown from scrawny, awkward teenager to grown man with broad shoulders and a clean-shaven face? Into a man who was infatuated with her little sister? How long had he been fighting these feelings?

  “Please,” he said. “Don’t . . .”

  She felt a stab of pity. Jade had no clue how he felt. His name hadn’t once come up in all their speculations.

  She tried for an encouraging smile. “I won’t.”

  The worry lines stretching across his forehead remained, as did the fear lighting his eyes, the tension in his shoulders.

  “I promise,” she said.

  He swallowed and nodded once.

  Madison joined Cassidy in line, ordering when it was her turn, her mind still reeling. “Venti decaf, please.”

  “Decaf?” Cassidy said. “You feeling all right?”

  “I’m cutting back. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Have you heard anything yet?”

  Drew’s friend, the pathologist, reread the slides from Michael’s autopsy. Two years ago Michael’s metabolic disease had been identified. She’d made a doctor’s appointment the day she’d found out.

  “Haven’t gotten the results back yet,” Madison said.

  “PJ and Jade and Ryan are getting tested too?”

  “Yeah. We should know soon.”

  When she and Cassidy had their coffee, they settled into a booth in the back corner of the shop, Madison’s mind still on Daniel and his feelings for Jade. His table was empty now.

  Cassidy caught Madison up on the goings-on at work, chattering a mile a minute. “You look good,” she said when she came up for air. “Maybe you needed the break.”

  “That and a little interior work.” She’d already told Cassidy about her step of faith. “I’ve been journaling about Michael and meeting with the Kneeling Nanas twice a week for their prayer circle. I’m sleeping better, thinking more clearly, and focusing better.”

  Cassidy tilted her head, her eyebrows raised. “But . . .”

  “What makes you think there’s a but?”

  “We’ve been friends a long time. I know when my best bud’s nursing a broken heart.”

  Madison sipped her coffee. She didn’t want to think about Beckett. Every time she did, she remembered him leaving with Jessie Brooks and felt that terrible ache in her middle, the sting of tears behind her eyes.

  “What happened between you two anyway?” Cassidy asked, her voice uncharacteristically gentle.

  “I told you already.”

  “I know, but it doesn’t make sense. I know a lot’s happened the past couple weeks, but there’s no reason for him to lose interest just like that.” She snapped her fingers.

  “I’m telling you, I scared him off. You weren’t there the night of my birthday. I was a blubbering psychopath.”

  “You were hurting. And he was fine after that, if you’ll remember. He didn’t get all weird till after he told you about being with Michael the day he died.”

  “Yeah, but he was wrong about all that.” Madison finished her coffee and folded her arms over her stomach, trying to press the ache away. “The why doesn’t really matter, does it? He’s obviously done. He’s going out with Jessie now.”

  Cassidy shook her head. “Uh-uh.”

  Madison shot her a look.

  “Jessie brought Coco in today for her checkup. Something she said gave me the impression Beckett isn’t over you. She seemed kinda bitter about it, so I didn’t press for details.”

  Madison’s heart gave an extra kick, and she told it to settle down. No sense getting her hopes up. “What did she say?”

  “I told her I’d heard she was going out with Beckett—thought I’d do a little digging on your behalf—”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And she said, ‘We’re just friends. I guess he’s still hung up on Madison.’”

  She sucked in a breath. “He said that? That’s he’s still hung up on me? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you. Did you see today’s paper?”

  “Today’s—no, why?”

  “There’s an article—someone donated fifteen hundred to the sailing club for a scholarship in Michael’s name.” Cassidy raised her brows expectantly.

  “Who?”

  “It was anonymous. It wasn’t your family?”

  “No, I don’t think so. They would’ve told me.”

  “Fifteen hundred . . . wasn’t that—”

  “The amount of the prize money. But he’s using that to get his business off the ground.” It couldn’t be him, could it? That was a lot of money. He wouldn’t just give it up. Would he?

  Cassidy shrugged. “Who else could it be?”

  Madison’s head reeled. “Maybe he did it a couple weeks ago when he thought he was to blame for Michael’s death. A guilt thing.”

  Cassidy shook her head, then scanned the coffee shop. She popped up, retrieved a paper from an empty table, and handed the section to Madison. “Right there.”

  It was just a paragraph buried in the metro section. Madison read it. “Monday, it says. Someone donated the money yesterday.” She folded the paper and set it down. “I don’t understand.”

  “See what I mean? You should talk to him, Madison. You said you arrived at the party with Drew Friday. Do you think the whole Jessie thing was to make you jealous? He did have to sit through that play, which, I might add, had a pretty steamy scene between you and Dr. Delight. Maybe he was jealous, and he just went all stupid.”

  Madison shook her head. “He’s not like that. Besides, he was acting distant before.” But if Jessie said he still had feelings for her, why else . . . ?

  Cassidy gave a thoughtful frown. “Maybe . . .”

  “Maybe what?”

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t, but, honey, you have to straighten this out. You love him, and he apparently still has feelings for you.”

  She remembered the way he’d pulled his hand from hers. The lack of emotion in his eyes. “You’d never know it.”

  “He remem
bers what you wore at some little high school dance eons ago. He’s had a thing for you forever. Why do you think he waited so long to act on it?”

  “I don’t know. We never got around to discussing it.”

  “There’s got to be more here we don’t know.”

  Maybe Cassidy was right. She felt the stir of hope and squelched the desire to press it down.

  “The question is, are you going to sit around nursing your broken heart or do something about it?”

  Her heart was beating so fast, she wondered if she’d been given caffeinated coffee. But no, it was just nerves. She should confront Beckett. She’d taken the coward’s way out since the night she’d told him how Michael had really died. He’d pulled away from her, and she’d been too afraid of rejection to ask why.

  And then she’d felt discarded at the party . . .

  Her mom’s words from earlier in the summer came back. “You’ve always been afraid of feeling, Madison. Sometimes those negative feelings are so strong, they’re overwhelming, and it’s easier to just not deal with them.”

  That’s what she was doing now, had been doing since Beckett had pulled away. She was learning to face her feelings about Michael’s death; she supposed she could find the courage to face Beckett—even if it only meant more heartache.

  “I have to go.” Madison stood and gathered her purse.

  “Good luck,” Cassidy called.

  Madison’s legs trembled as she left the coffee shop. She squinted against the bright evening light, got in her car, and headed toward Beckett’s place.

  Help me, God. I don’t even know what I’m going to say. I just know I love him, and I have to know if he loves me too. She couldn’t formulate more than that. But God knew her heart. He would answer her prayer one way or another.

  A few minutes later she turned onto his street, her heart fluttering when she saw his truck.

  You can do this, Madison. Be brave.

  At the sound of her vehicle, Rigsby appeared in the window. Madison got out of her car, mounted the porch steps, and knocked. The dog gave an excited bark. She didn’t see any lights through the picture window, but it was still daylight out. She knocked again.

  Fear sucked the moisture from her mouth and made her hands shake. She stuffed them into her khaki pockets and told herself she’d live through this.