by Melissa Blue
SEE MEGAN RUN Published by Melissa Blue
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Melissa Blue
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Dedication
This title was initially published in 2008 and I find at the heart of the story, the dedication the same:
To the men in my life-listen up, this might be the last time I do this in public:
For the man who taught me the meaning of close. Oh, and you can now brag that I am multi-published.
For the one who wakes me up at 3 a.m. for yogurt and water.
Lastly, for the boy who stole my heart and the man who still has it… my heart breaks and at the thought of you.
Chapter 1
Megan Hazley frowned at the dirt driveway leading to the home she had sworn never to step foot in again and then said into her cell phone, "Think wire hangers and you’ll get a sense of the woman who birthed me."
"She cannot be that bad. Not once have I ever suspected you to be a Unabomber, so you didn’t turn out too bad," Lynne replied.
With one hand holding the phone to her ear and the other on the steering wheel, Megan maneuvered up the last slope. She still couldn’t see the house, but that was okay—she still didn’t want to be there. "I’m a workaholic who has called her general manager ten times in one day."
"The Boutique is very much like your child. You’re just having separation anxiety."
"I hear a ‘but’ coming."
"You’re right. You are a workaholic. I can handle everything and every customer that comes in. If I think there is something I can’t handle, I’ll give you a call. What you need to focus on is seeing your mother again."
Megan slowed the car considerably. "You’re right, I know."
"I’m starting to think you don’t trust me."
The guilt started. This was coming from her general manager of six years. Lynne was the only person in her employ who knew the ins and outs of the day-to-day business, who knew what retail she liked to stock and the fact she used only fine-point pens. Megan loosened her grip on the steering wheel.
When had she become a control freak? She glanced at the house coming into view. Oh, yeah, somewhere between the night her mother kicked her out of the house and the first day she opened the doors of The Boutique. "I’m sorry. I just want—"
"Everything to run smoothly." Lynne paused. "You really sound guilty. I’m sorry. I was pulling your leg. Have you made it to the house yet?"
"Yes." Megan had followed the circular drive and now looked up and out of the windshield to see the high antebellum pillars, the long wide porch, and the black shutters clashing with the white paint. It was still beautiful and immaculate. It was her father’s house. She ignored the instant pang, inevitable whenever she thought of him, and shook her head.
I can’t believe I’m here. She looked ahead, where miles of green stretched out before her. All those hours of work must have fractured her usual resolve, because she was actually in Riverbed, a city so deep in the country that any population over 1500 was considered "city living."
She turned back to her father’s home, noticing the lack of wear on the paint and how the welcome sign above the door jamb still held each letter and the royal blue curtains in the front window still looked new. Had nothing changed? That’s what worried her the most. Without stepping out of the car Megan knew what she was walking into. She must have lost her mind.
"It looks the same." She killed the engine. "I should be back before ten tonight."
Megan paused, knowing she could use a day off and sure she was going to need one after meeting her mother. She took in a deep breath before saying words she hadn’t spoken in six years. "And I’ll see you tomorrow."
"As in, you’re considering this a day off? As in, you’re not stepping one high-heeled pump into The Boutique for twenty-four hours?"
Megan heard the phone cord rattle on the other end. Lynne had to be pulling the phone away from her ear to stare at it, probably wondering whether she’d heard Megan right.
"Who are you and what have you done to my boss?"
"I’m not that bad." Her eyes strayed to the house. She should get off the phone, but she wasn’t ready to. Megan didn’t think she ever would be. Her hand started to cramp—she was gripping the phone like it was her only lifeline. Okay, to be honest, she was that bad.
"You’ve implied your mother is a crazy lunatic who, might I add, you haven’t seen in years, and this is the only reason you have ever taken a day off. You’re that bad." Lynne seemed to pull the admission from her thoughts. "I still love you, though, so, whatever she has to say, keep an open mind. People can change."
"Unless, hmm..." Nothing came to mind that would make Megan forgive her mother for what she had done. Much less forgive how her mother had treated her as a teenager. "I need to get this over with and done. I want to know why she plans to sell Dad’s house."
"I’m going to say this, and you might hate me or fire me later, but hasn’t your father been dead for a long time?"
Megan tore her gaze from the house. "Yes, and...?"
"Never mind."
"No, say it."
"Never mind. I want you to have a good day. Besides having to see your mother. Do something crazy like have a glass of wine before noon."
"It’s already 11:30."
"Then get plastered."
Megan laughed at Lynne’s frankness. It reminded her why she’d hired Lynne. They were complete opposites and their relationship kept her balanced. Lynne never had a problem telling her to relax. Out of the corner of her eye Megan saw the oak door open.
"I’ve been caught, got to go."
Lynne murmured a goodbye and Megan snapped the phone shut and got out of the car, ready to do battle until she saw the gray hair and starched white apron.
Megan let out the pent-up breath she’d been holding. "Jane."
"Girl, I thought you’d never get out of the car. What were you doing, planning to drive away?"
The years fell away and she felt like a teenager again. Megan let herself get enveloped in the warm hug, closing her eyes as the long-forgotten scent of flour and brown sugar assailed her senses. This was the closest to home she’d been in twelve years.
"Stand back, let me look at you." Jane’s face softened, deepening the laugh lines around her mouth and the crow’s feet shadowing her eyes. She stayed still as Jane took in every detail, even though Megan wanted to run her hands over the blunt-cut bangs.
"You look just like your father."
Megan hugged her again. I missed this, if only this. "You smell the same, which means you’ve been baking."
Jane looped her arm in Megan’s. "I have, but you’re not getting any until you’ve talked to your mother." Megan opened her mouth to protest. "Don’t give me any lip."
Megan took heed to the threat. "Why is she trying to sell the house, anyway?"
"That’s between you and your mother."
This had to be bad, if Jane wouldn’t give up the goods. Over the years Megan had received a million letters on the latest town gossip, of course always with a sidebar that she should call her mother. "Where is she?"
"In the living room, waiting for you." Jane dragged Megan inside the door and closed it behind them. "Now you go on. And listen."
Was she that obvious? Jane lifted her chin, tapped i
t and then headed toward the kitchen. Megan pulled down her suit jacket, squared her shoulders, and moved toward the living room. She heard a woman’s laugh, deep and sultry, and almost stopped. She passed the arched entrance. A woman with long ebony hair, blushed cheekbones and blood-red lipstick on her mouth sat on the couch. The woman hadn’t seen her. It took another moment for Megan to realize the woman in stiletto heels, peasant skirt and gypsy-style shirt was her mother.
The cell phone Nicole was laughing into might as well have been glued to her ear. Megan took the time to take in this imposter with her mother’s face. The woman she’d known wore Chanel suits more apt for the Sixties than the Nineties. She always wore her hair coiffed or in a roll and was the type to put on her pearl necklace and earrings before choosing her underwear. That woman thought it was ladylike to walk around like she was mightier than thou.
But this woman—this woman would forego underwear altogether. Her legs were crossed at the knee, not the ankle. Megan fought the urge to walk out slowly while she still could, and then it was too late. Her mother met her eyes from across the room. Nicole rose off the Victorian couch, saying into her phone, "Sorry, got to go."
The emerald skirt stopped at Nicole’s ankles. Polish in the same shade as the red lipstick graced her toenails. Oh, and this imposter was also color-coordinated just like the real Nicole? Is my mouth hanging open? Megan stepped back as her mother came toward her with arms outstretched.
"Hello," Megan said, keeping all emotion from her voice. Her mother’s arms dropped back to her sides.
"I’m so glad you came." Nicole sounded like she meant it.
"Why are you selling the house?" Megan stayed by the arched opening, not willing to move until she recognized the woman in front of her, because for the first time in her life Megan was considering the existence of aliens. Those abduction and probing stories didn’t sound so farfetched now.
"Why don’t you sit down, dear?" Nicole, her mother, said warmly. Warmly.
Megan inched her way into the living room and sat down on the loveseat across from the couch. "Why are you selling the house?" Megan asked again, her tone more brisk than it had been before.
Nicole moved back to the couch. "I’ve heard your business is doing well."
After twelve years this woman wanted to do small talk. Megan wanted to get in, then out, and be done with her mother again. She had no intention of starting a mother-daughter duo at this time in her life… or ever. But apparently this wasn’t what her mother had in mind. Megan kept her back straight as she answered. "Yes, it is."
The light dimmed in Nicole’s eyes, but Megan refused to feel responsible for that. What had Nicole expected? An Oprah family reunion?
"You want me to get to the point, don’t you?"
"I came here because you told me you were going to sell Daddy’s house."
To be honest, Megan hadn’t answered any of the other pleas sent in letter form. She’d have gone on ignoring the letters if not for the last one. She’d opened the letter and been surprised at its shortness, but it had been effective. The words I’m selling the house could have piqued anyone’s interest.
Nicole pushed a stray hair behind her ear. The fist around Megan’s heart loosened its hold. The old Nicole still existed in this gypsy with her mother’s face. The old Nicole she could deal with. The old one was what Megan had prepared herself to face, during the five-hour drive to Riverbed. She sighed inwardly and waited for Nicole’s answer.
"I felt it wouldn’t be right for me to sell the house without you knowing or having a say about it."
Megan bit back the bitter words wanting to fall out of her mouth and said only, "It matters what I think?"
Okay, that wasn’t exactly non-bitter, but it was the best she could do. To Megan’s surprise her mother lifted her chin in the air.
"Yes, it does."
The silence stretched between them. Megan had no way to reply without sounding angry, without lashing out. It still felt surreal to be sitting in the same room with her mother.
"I’m selling the house because I’m getting married," Nicole finally said, breaking the silence.
Those words made the moment too real. Megan’s fingers dug into the loveseat’s arm. Her eyes betrayed her, glancing down at Nicole’s ring finger, where a diamond big enough to be a paperweight glinted.
"Let me guess. Since you actually have an engagement ring this time, things between you and Taylor didn’t work out."
"No, they didn’t." Nicole said and her voice didn’t waver. "We, uh, I broke it off with him a year after you left."
"After I left?" Megan recognized the challenge in her own voice, and that wasn’t why she’d come. "Forget it." She rolled her shoulders. "Who is the guy this time?"
Her mother didn’t meet her gaze. "I have a proposition for you."
"And that is?"
"You have to understand that this will be the only time you’ll have the upper hand."
Two rosy spots marred her mother’s caramel-colored skin. Megan tilted her head. "You’re talking in circles. I don’t understand what you are trying to say, so get to your point."
"I want to deed the house to you."
Megan blew out a breath. Nicole wanted to hand over her father’s house. Yeah, right. Nothing was that easy. Nicole was working her way up to something, but Megan didn’t know what. "At what cost?"
"The house wouldn’t cost you anything."
Jane chose that moment to come into the room, and Megan bit back a sarcastic reply. Nicole took the glass filled with ice and amber-colored liquid Jane handed to her. From the relief on Nicole’s face it had to be alcohol. Lynne would have pointed out that if her mother could drink before noon, why shouldn’t Megan. She shivered at the thought of ever being like her mother, or at least like the woman who had raised her. Nicole had been cold and unforgiving. She had treated Megan more like an inconvenience than a child she loved. If there was a God, the only thing Megan would find similar between herself and her mother would be the color of their eyes, a chocolate shade of brown. She met those eyes so much like her own and asked, "What’s the catch, then, since it’s not money you want from me?"
Megan caught Jane’s censorious eye, but she was long past the point of caring. She wanted to know what her mother planned to hold over her head for her father’s house. Despite the years since he’d died, the house was still his. It held the same furniture, the same paintings, the same color of paint. She glanced beyond her mother and had to bite her lip. His pictures no long adorned the space on the mantel above the fireplace. Their wedding picture Megan could understand Nicole taking down. There wasn’t an excuse for removing the ones of Megan and her father.
Once Nicole had drained half her glass, she answered. "I want you here for my wedding, which means you’d have to promise to stay for a month."
Megan waved away Jane’s offer of coffee. From their conversation at the door she’d gotten the feeling Jane wanted her to stay, and if her mother hadn’t been sitting there Megan would have asked why. What was the purpose of closing the gap her mother had created? But they weren’t alone, and Nicole was waiting for her to reply.
"I own a business, a very successful one, that I can’t abandon on a whim."
"Is there no one who can take over for you while you are gone?"
No was the knee-jerk answer. But she had Lynne. She had employees who could do just as well without her hovering over their shoulders. "That’s the only consideration?"
"I want you to give me another chance." Nicole glanced at her drink. "I may have screwed up with raising you."
Megan laughed at her mother’s choice of words. "May have?"
She shook her head, already wishing the words back. She didn’t want to get into an argument. Instead she thought of her father and how she still missed him. Her hand went to the locket under her blouse. At the moment, that locket was the only thing she had left of her father. Would it be so bad to make arrangements to stay? She looked at her mother and co
uld see the beginning of tears, as if Nicole were waiting for judgment. Yes, it could be that bad.
"I’ll have to think about it. I have responsibilities I can’t ignore just because you want me to."
Nicole blinked hard. "When will you know?"
When I call you would be low, even for Megan. "I can’t give you an exact time, but it’ll be by the end of the week."
Her mother slumped. "That’s all I can really ask for."
*****
Megan watched the house disappear in her rearview mirror. The anger began to simmer beneath the surface. Several deep breaths later it had only gotten worse. Her hand tightened over the gear shift. Her mother was the same. The sultry, humble act was wasted on Megan. Blackmail was the name of the game now, using Megan’s loyalty to her father, just like the old Nicole.
Megan hit the open road and threw her car into high gear. She lowered the windows, hoping to cool the anger now rising to the surface. "A month." The rush of air from the window snatched her words out and up.
Megan already knew she couldn’t afford to buy the house from her mother. She’d recently sunk most of the profits back into the business—and into the new Camaro vibrating under her as she hit seventy-five miles per hour. She knew she was going well over the speed limit for the outskirts of Riverbed. Hell, most people here didn’t go over forty miles per hour. Still, she pressed her black leather pump harder on the gas.
What else should Megan have expected? The woman she called her mother had thrown her out of the house over a man. Now Nicole was unloading the burden of her dead husband’s house to marry another one. It hadn’t escaped Megan’s notice that Nicole hadn’t said who, only when.
"A damn month," she said again. Dead Man’s Lake whipped by as the car roared down the road. The speed wasn’t going to make her decision any easier. To be honest, once the words left her mother’s mouth Megan had already decided she’d stay.
She didn’t have to like it.
She saw the curve in the road and took her foot off the gas to let the car coast through the turn. She knew these roads, had learned to drive on them, had hitchhiked her way to freedom on them. No amount of years could extract that memory. How she wished for a moment they could, and wished she didn’t remember her father so vividly. Maybe, if she could forget, this would be the last time she’d ever drive on these roads. It would be the last time she’d ever feel this choking anger after dealing with her mother. Wishes never came true no matter how hard you hoped they would.