Finding Home (Coming Home Series Book 2)

by J. M. Adele

  “You’re right. Thanks, hun. I’ll let Mama know.”

  She didn’t need an intervention. She was fine.

  Just peachy.

  _____

  Chelsea crept into the kitchen, switching on the light over the range instead of the fluorescent, so she didn’t blind herself. Pulling a glass from the kitchen cupboard, she paused when she spotted her mama’s chicken mug, swapping the glass for the apron-wearing fowl. The mug was as old as she was, privy to all those moments when she’d poured her heart onto the kitchen table for her mama to patch up and put back in its rightful place. Lips twitching, she rubbed a thumb over the chip on the bottom edge, a memento of her first attempt at drying the dishes, little hands not quite strong enough.

  “You know …”

  Chelsea jerked at the sudden intrusion. Her fingers tightened, barely managing to avert poultry annihilation.

  “… when I found out I was pregnant with you, I couldn’t have been more thrilled.”

  Her mama was wearing the bathrobe Chelsea had bought her for Mother’s Day three years back. Her blonde hair, pulled up in a clip, like it hadn’t touched a pillow for hours. It was bad enough that she couldn’t sleep, now she was keeping her mama awake too. She put the mug down and reached for two glasses, heading for the faucet to fix them some water.

  “I knew I was too young, but I felt ready. You and I had a connection right from the start. Maybe even sooner.” Mama took the glass with a polite nod and put it on the bench. “Maybe I was drawn to your father because you were meant to be, honey. I would go through all of it again because I learned a valuable lesson. That a person can survive through a hell of a lot if they believe in themselves enough. That good things can come from bad … And you were the absolute best thing that ever happened to me.”

  She wanted to beg her to stop, not ready for the patchwork to begin. Gazing at the kitsch mother hen, Chelsea crossed her arms, bunching her shoulders. Throat cramping, the withering organ in her chest hiccupped, in an effort to restart and get on with her new reality.

  Her mama ran a hand down the side of Chelsea’s face, hinting at a smile, her eyes watery. “I also learned that in order to let things go I had to get them out of my system. Holding it all in does a lot more damage than you think. I’m here if you want to tell me what happened. I’ll always be here.”

  Well, shit. Score one, Mama.

  The tenuous hold she had on her emotions evaporated, releasing as all the hurt, anger and betrayal in a deluge of sobs. Her mama cocooned her inside a warm hug she never wanted to leave. Chelsea burrowed into the spongy material of the robe, soaking its fibers with her tears. This is why they made robes so soft and comforting—and absorbent. Perfect for moments like this.

  She’d have to buy one … or five. One for each of the women in her inner circle, and one for her. She reckoned her mama might need a backup, if tonight was any indication. And … one day, she might have a child of her own, just not with him. He already had fatherhood covered.

  Keeping her face firmly planted in her mom’s shoulder, she croaked out her pain, “He’s engaged and about to become a daddy.”

  Her mama’s arms went taut around her, before pulling away so she could look at Chelsea’s face. “He what now?”

  “Pregnant fiancée, Mama. I saw them sitting at the table together after one in the morning, in their pajamas.”

  “What did he say when you saw them?”

  “He said my name, like he’d been caught red-handed.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Two timing. Now I know how it feels being the other woman. Awful.”

  “No, baby girl, what were they doing at the table?”

  “Having a hot drink, talking, I dunno. Maybe the baby was kicking and it woke her up, so he made her a hot drink to help her back to sleep.” Because that would be the kind of husband he would be.

  Ugh. Her throat shrank as she blinked away a fresh bout of tears.

  “Sounds innocent.”

  “What?” She focused on her mom, pricking her ears. “I didn’t see a spare bed anywhere. There’s only one bed, Mama.”

  Her mama’s brow skipped up. “Did you walk around and have a look?”

  “No. It’s a studio, with a bathroom in one corner. There’s nowhere to hide.”

  “So, he sleeps in his living room?”

  “No, the bedroom is partitioned by a curtain and a bookshelf.”

  “Sounds like somewhere to hide.”

  Chelsea frowned, the cramp in her throat traveling higher to lodge behind her eyes.

  “What else did he say?”

  “He told me I was way off track, and then he admitted that he’d bought the engagement ring.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  No, it didn’t. But she couldn’t believe anything that came out of his mouth when he was sitting in his damn pajamas with a woman who looked so much like her, and was pregnant with his child.

  “Was that all he said?”

  “Yeah. I told him to shut his pie hole before I smacked it shut.”

  Her mama bit her lip, eyes crinkling before she smoothed away her amusement. “Maybe you should’ve let him explain. Honey, you tend to do things in a fever. Maybe she was a neighbor locked out of her apartment.”

  “How do you explain the ring then?”

  “Right.” Her chin bounced and she dropped her hold, crossing her arms. “I can’t. But, baby girl, he can. And you should let him. When a person is being unfaithful, there are always signs. They work late, or go away for days. They act shifty, and you know in your gut that something isn’t right, even if you don’t want to admit it. None of that was happening, was it?”

  “Er. No.”

  “Then why didn’t you trust him enough to give him a chance to explain?”

  Fuck. Shit. Fuckity, fuck.

  “Because when it comes to men, I act first and think later.”

  “Maybe you should call him.”

  “And say what?”

  “Ask him to explain what was going on. You love him, Chelsea. Don’t throw it away because you let your pride get in the way. And don’t think ill of him because of the equipment he has dangling between his legs.” Her mama tutted, blushing. “Oh, goodness, you are a bad influence on me. Forget I mentioned his equipment. The point is, not all men are like your father. There are some genuinely good ones out there. You just have to find the right one. I think you have already.” She tweaked Chelsea on the cheek. “Call him. But get some sleep first, sugar. Love you lots.”

  “Love you too, Mama.”

  Slumping in a recliner, Chelsea propped her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. Her pulse pounded inside her skull, as her heart hiccupped along.

  What if she’d jumped to the wrong conclusion? Thrown away the love of her life in a rash, knee-jerk decision.

  Oh, Lord. What had she done?

  Country is in My Blood

  Grey wound down his window as the truck trundled along the bumpy road up to the ranch. A trip so familiar it was like slipping on his favorite pair of jeans. Watching the horizon stretch over the contours of the land, he took his first deep breath in months. He realized he wasn’t as citified as he thought.

  With the house in view, he narrowed his eyes, searching the front porch for any sign of life. The door swung open, and his mama rushed to greet him as he pulled around the front.

  “Greyson!”

  Lifting a hand in a wave, he stopped the car and jumped out.

  “Hi, Mama.”

  Hopping up on her toes, she twined her arms around him. “Ah, it’s so good to see you. Matteo called last night. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  Shocked at the defined ribs under his arms, he cursed himself for causing her so much grief. “I had my head full of troubles and my phone battery died about three states ago. I don’t know where my car charger is. Sorry, I should’ve phoned before leaving.”

  She let him go, taking his elbow to lead him u
p the steps. “It’s okay, you’re here now. Come inside and bring your bag.”

  “I’m not staying. I just wanted to visit, and talk to Papà if he’s around.”

  “But … Where are you going?”

  “I’m heading to Alabama. I managed to transfer my apprenticeship to a place owned by one of Matteo’s friends.”

  “He didn’t tell me that part.” She dropped her hold on him, her face stricken.

  Way to go, Grey. Asshole. Spinning his keys around his finger, he looked at the ground, waiting for it to cave in and swallow him up. He didn’t know if he should hug her again, or if that’d just make it worse.

  Slipping his keys in his back pocket, he scratched his chin, offering up a consolation. “It’s only about a 6-hour drive. We’ll be able to visit all the time.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah. We. Didn’t Antonio fill you in?”

  “He told me what happened. So, you’re going after her?”

  “Yeah. I can’t be without her.” Jamming his hands in his jeans, he rocked on his heels. “I can cook anywhere. Uncle Matteo didn’t get it.”

  “Teo will never understand.” Grey’s papà came up behind them, placing a hand on his wife’s waist and dropping a kiss on her cheek. “Come inside. We’ll talk.”

  Grey couldn’t stop the reflexive clench of his fists. The last time he’d seen his father, he told Grey he was no longer welcome in his home. Now he’d been invited in to talk.

  Stretching out his fingers, he sighed and followed his parents onto the porch. Scanning back and forth between them, he couldn’t believe it’d only been ten months. His papà’s proud posture was now stooped. The rifts in the family, pushing him over. Time had sped forward by years, not months. Both of them had lost weight.

  Despite the evidence of stress, Greyson smiled. Papà’s arm wrapped tightly around Mama as she leaned into him. Grey hadn’t seen them so united since Nonno died, just before he met Matteo. Maybe now that they knew the truth, they could finally move on.

  He took a seat at the dining table, seeing the experience through a surreal haze. He’d grown up eating every meal at this table, surrounded by family. But the memory of his last meal threw up an eclipse, darkening the good times. He struggled to let it go in the awkward silence, in a room intended for eating, laughing, and recounting their day. With only the three of them present, Grey fidgeted in his chair, waiting for one of them to start speaking.

  Papà cleared his throat. “It’s good to see you, son.” Dark brows descended over weary eyes as his father picked invisible crumbs off the cloth. “I’m sorry about how we parted ways. I may have been too hasty in my decision, forbidding you to come home.” His metallic gaze locked onto Grey, pummeling his point at the target. “You understand, it was hurtful to me, you turning your back on us. All a father wants, is for his children to be happy. To help set them on their way, give them a leg up. I thought I was building something for all of you to share, like my papà did for us. A legacy. I wanted you to choose my legacy, not Matteo’s. You were always my son in my eyes. And now we know it’s true.”

  A crease formed on Grey’s brow. Didn’t the brothers realize how their grudge had affected the rest of the family? Selfish Agrioli men, bred for generations. He appreciated his brother all the more, knowing Toni wasn’t like that. Grey had to step up and break the mold.

  “Why didn’t you do the test when I was born?”

  “I didn’t need a test. You were mine. End of story.”

  Grey relaxed back in his chair, the certainty in his papà’s words blowing away decades of hurt in one breath.

  “No doubts?”

  “I was meant to raise you as my son, whether you had my DNA or not. I was always your father. Do you understand?” He jammed a finger on the table.

  “Yeah, I think I’m getting it now.”

  “Bene.”

  “I was born to cook.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “Sì.” Nodding his head, he leaned forward on his elbows. “But you were also born to be a part of this family. Boston is too far. Your mother can’t cope with her bambino so far away. And your nephew needs an uncle.”

  “Nephew? Did Lory have the baby?”

  “Early this morning. Congratulations, Uncle Grey.” His mama clasped a hand with papà, beaming at the proud Nonno.

  “Looks like I’ll be stopping by the hospital on my way through. What did they name him?”

  “Jack Lucca Clay Agrioli.” His father’s chest puffed up as he spilled the mouthful.

  Mouthful.

  Good Lord, I guess I’m going to have to practice that mouthful. For the future. Way down the track.

  Well, looky here, it’s down the track. The future has arrived. He hoped she’d practiced.

  “Papà, Mama … I’m sorry. Sorry for everything. I love you, but I have to go. I promise to visit as soon as I can.”

  He kissed them and jogged back to the door where his Nonna was waiting with a bag of food, the home cooked aroma hitting him square in the chest.

  “Molte grazie, Nonna.” Dropping a kiss on each weathered cheek, he grinned. “I’ll be back. Often.”

  _____

  Chelsea grunted as she scraped up another filthy carpet tile, soaked in God knows what, and dumped it on the mountain of rubbish. Slicking the sweat off her forehead, she sat back on her haunches, cranking her neck to watch her mama scrub out the oven. They’d drawn straws. Her mama got the short one. Although, looking at how much more Chelsea had to do, and with the stench coating the inside of her nose, she reckoned hers hadn’t been much longer.

  “How’s it lookin’, Mama? Is it salvageable?”

  “This one, yes. The other one, no. It’s dead and gone.”

  “Okay. That’s okay, we’ll deal with it. I’ve got an equipment place lined up. How about the cold storage?”

  “Pete’s going to look at it for us tomorrow.”

  It was amazing how quickly things moved when you worked for the mayor. Luckily, the man had a sweet tooth, and a soft spot for Mama’s cakes. His wife also happened to run a book club and had been instrumental in putting a firecracker under the necessary people to get things rolling.

  Yep, everything was hunky dory. All her plans were falling into place like dominoes. Except for one huge missing piece in the middle that screwed up the pattern. A miserable, gaping, Greyson-shaped hole. Chelsea stretched forward, attacking the next tile with the scraper, her mind thousands of miles away. He’d turned his phone off. Touché. Why the hell would he take her calls when she’d so successfully smacked him where it hurt?

  Heaving her frustration behind the tool, the glue underneath gave way too easily, tumbling her forward. Her other hand snapped out to break her fall, slicing along the sharp edge of the scraper. A nasty sting shot up her arm.

  “Fuck …!” Hissing in a breath, she cradled her injured limb, watching the red blood well up and spill down her wrist. “Sorry for cussin’, Mama. Would you throw me a dish towel, please?”

  “Ooh, dear. Blood … I …”

  Her mama’s face looked like it had been whitewashed, before her eyes rolled up and she slumped sideways on the floor. Good thing her mama didn’t have far to fall.

  Chelsea snorted. As she got to her feet, the air thinned out the higher she got. Apparently, a preclusion to fainting was hereditary. The room swayed as her vision flickered with a bokeh effect. She could barely register the sounds from the street as her hearing faded out. Bending forward, she tried to get the blood flowing north before she completely disgraced the Gilbert name.

  Cool cotton enclosed her hand as she was tugged down to sit on the most uncomfortable chair she’d ever sat on. She shuffled her butt as her vision cleared, the drop in altitude working its magic.

  “You’d better stop doing that, or meeting your mama is gonna be real embarrassing.”

  That voice.

  Jolting, she twisted and found Greyson’s hooded eyes fixed on her.
Instantly, her heart thumped steady and strong, hiccups cured. Her vision sharpened on his lips, not so far away. She could just tip up her chin and …

  Purposely, she wriggled her bottom again, watching as those lips curled and revealed his smile.

  Grey lowered his head, and his mouth connected with the shell of her ear as he whispered, “I know what you’re thinking, dirty girl. Save it for later. I think you’re going to need stitches.” He pressed harder on the cut, making her whimper with the pain.

  “Ow, you’re hurting me.”

  “Hold still, I’m trying to stop the bleeding. What were you doing on your hands and knees with a sharp object?”

  “I was doing my job … What are you doing here?”

  “I’m finding my home.”

  The moisture evaporated from her mouth, but she tried to swallow, anyways. Scared to ask the question trapped in her throat, she forced it out on a whisper.

  “Did you find it?”

  “I sure did.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m looking at her.”

  Heat rushed her face, as her whole body hummed in recognition. She knew exactly what he meant. Home wasn’t a place. It was flesh and blood, and soul. Souls meeting and connecting, acknowledging that they were meant for each other.

  She wriggled out of his lap and turned to face him. Grey didn’t let go of the pressure on her hand, raising it higher. But Chelsea didn’t care about the cut anymore. She needed to make things right between them.

  “I’m sorry. So damn sorry for not trusting you. I should’ve let you explain. It’s hard for me, I’ve never done this before—”

  He cut her off, pressing a finger to her lips. “Chelsea, honey? I know you’re sorry. I got all your messages when I finally charged my phone. I’m guessing you got my messages too, or you wouldn’t be apologizing. But I need to get you some medical attention, and your mama has been awake for a few minutes now, waiting politely for you to remember she exists. So how ‘bout you shut up and jump in the truck?”