The First Time Again: The Braddock Brotherhood, Book 3

by Barbara Meyers

  Miriam had stayed on until he’d decided he couldn’t possibly remain in the big house outside Jacksonville. He couldn’t stay in Jacksonville period. Too many memories. Too many temptations. Too easy to slide back into the kind of life he’d worked hard to get himself out of.

  He’d given Miriam a glowing letter of recommendation and a year’s severance pay. She might be the one person from his past life who didn’t completely hate him.

  Trey began to unpack the big shopping bag he’d brought in and left on the counter last night. A few of the basics. He’d go into Hendersonville later and grocery shop. He also had to find an attorney. Another item for his list. Probably that should go at the top. Everything else could wait.

  He pulled out the bag of Arabian Mocha Sunani and held it to his nose, breathing in the faint scent through the white bag with the Starbucks logo front and center. He opened the bag and sniffed again at the beans. Intoxicating. He rummaged through the shopping bag for the grinder he’d packed. Or thought he’d packed. It wasn’t there.

  Great. How was he was supposed to start his morning without coffee? He thought of hurling the bag of beans across the room to vent his frustration. He wanted to punch something or beat the hell out of something. He couldn’t even get a decent cup of coffee in his own kitchen.

  He tried one of the meditation techniques they’d taught him in rehab. Bracing both hands on the counter, head bowed, he took a deep breath, held it, let it out for a count of five. Again. Then again. One more time for good measure. He lifted his head. He still wanted to hit something. Maybe he’d install a punching bag in every room for moments such as these.

  Okay. No Arabian Mocha Sunani for him this morning. It wasn’t the end of the world. Maybe Grandma J had left some Folgers or Maxwell House in one of the cupboards. He began opening cabinet doors. His mother had cleaned out the refrigerator and gotten rid of any perishables. But there were a few canned goods and boxes of things like rice and pasta in the cupboards. He saw a larger can at the back of one of the shelves.

  “Aha.” It was ground coffee all right. A discount chain store brand and decaf to boot. Karma, he decided. For all those cups of gourmet coffee he’d been served in the past and hadn’t fully appreciated.

  Cheap decaf was better than nothing. Maybe he could add some cinnamon from Grandma J’s spice rack to liven it up.

  While the coffee brewed, he wrapped an ice pack around his knee and strapped another one to his shoulder. He rummaged in the kitchen drawers until he found a small notepad and a hodgepodge of pens, paper clips and rubber bands.

  When the coffee finished he took a mug of it out to the back porch, not quite prepared for the nip in the air. He’d become so used to the heat and humidity in northern Florida, it hadn’t occurred to him he’d need a robe or a jacket. He opened the door to the mudroom off the porch. Hooks along the wall were lined with jackets and hats and scarves. Various boots and shoes were arranged along the baseboard underneath. Some were Grandma J’s and some were Grandpa Mike’s. In a bin nearby were gardening gloves mixed in with a few hand tools, old pots and packets of seeds.

  Trey spied Grandpa Mike’s plaid jacket and got it off the hook. It was a little snug across the shoulders, but it’d do. The shoes all looked too small for him.

  He settled himself in one of the chairs on the porch with his coffee and notepad on the table nearby. He took a sip of the coffee. It was drinkable. That’s about all he could say for it. Steam rose out of the cup, mimicking the swirls of gray that obscured the mountain view.

  Trey began to write.

  Find an attorney

  Buy a coffee grinder

  Grocery store

  Cleaning service

  Landscaper/gardener

  He sipped more coffee, knowing he had to add a few more things he’d prefer not to do. As part of his new self-discipline, he also knew he’d do them anyway.

  Physical therapist

  He needed someone good, and he sure as hell hoped he could find someone in Hendersonville. It was a decent-sized town, the county seat and only about ten miles from Edna Falls. There was a small hospital there, so it stood to figure there’d be most other medical services available as well.

  Therapist

  As much as he’d resisted therapy, he had to admit it had helped him get through that initial year of sobriety. Brad had never seemed to tire of throwing whatever Trey said back in his face and forcing him to figure out how to deal with his own problems and issues. Trey knew he needed someone like Brad to keep him accountable.

  Trey put the pen down and gazed out at what was now his property. The old barn needed some shoring up and a paint job. Probably a new roof as well. Some of the outbuildings were near collapse. He’d probably let them or tear them down himself.

  He hadn’t figured out what he was going to do now that he was here. He didn’t fancy himself much of a farmer. He doubted he’d want to be tied down to livestock around the place, although that’s what Grandpa Mike had done. Farmed. Raised cows and pigs and goats. Grandma J gardened and sold a lot of what she grew, vegetables and such. Apples from the orchard. Homemade jellies.

  He’d inherited his grandparents’ home and their land by virtue of being their only grandchild, his mother the only one of their three offspring to bear a child. His aunt Mamie was considerably older than his mom, who was the youngest. She’d married late in life, maybe too late. She and Uncle Orrie never had any kids. Uncle Kurt, well, what could one say about Uncle Kurt? That he was the forgotten middle child between the two sisters? That he was gay?

  It wasn’t something the family ever mentioned, but Uncle Kurt was the equivalent of the elephant in the living room everyone tiptoed around. He lived in Asheville and owned a couple of successful art galleries. If he was part of a committed relationship, he’d never admitted to it, at least not while his parents were alive. Vaguely, Trey wondered if things would be different now that Grandma J was gone.

  Trey went back into the kitchen, shrugged out of the jacket and poured more coffee. Taking it with him, he got the shower going and stood under the hot spray for a long time, musing about changes he could make to the house. A bathroom that would suit his needs with a big Jacuzzi tub and a shower stall with jets everywhere and a bench in the middle so he wouldn’t have to stand up the whole time. He groaned at the thought, even though the ice pack and now the warm water helped ease the stiffness in his knee.

  He wanted to preserve the architectural integrity of the old farmhouse. He’d have to find a good contractor to help him figure out how to do that and still get all the modern updates he had in mind.

  Two hours later he parked on Main Street in Hendersonville and got out of the car. His stomach growled, the lone granola bar he’d eaten after his shower a distant memory. There was a diner down on the corner of Main and Spring Street where he could get some breakfast.

  He stopped outside the plate-glass window to feed quarters into the newspaper machine for a copy of the Hendersonville Herald. Maybe there’d be ads for lawyers and therapists in it.

  Martha’s Home Cookin’ did a brisk business for a Thursday morning, but there were a few empty tables and one booth. Trey was not immune to the speculative glances sent his way when he walked through the door, nor to the brief lull in conversation before it surged again and ratcheted up a notch or two. He heard his name whispered once or twice—the curse of being a former local with a former claim to fame. There was no way he could hide in his hometown. He’d gone to junior high and high school in Hendersonville, as did every kid who resided in Edna Falls. He didn’t expect to reconnect with anyone he’d known in his formative years because he’d made no effort to keep in touch with them. He hadn’t attended his ten-year high school reunion, and since college, even his visits to his parents had been brief and none-too-plentiful.

  The best he supposed he could hope for was to be accepted or possibly ignored by the locals. After his encounter with Officer Spoley last night, he didn’t hold out too much hope
for that, but he was here for the time being, so the townspeople would have to make the best of it. And so, he supposed, would he.

  Since a sign near the entrance told him to seat himself, he chose the booth because he could angle his body in the corner near the front window and stretch his leg out beneath the table without it being too noticeable.

  Within seconds a waitress appeared, coffee pot in hand. “Coffee?” She reached for one of the mugs already on the table.

  Trey glanced up at her and nodded. “Thanks.”

  She set a plastic-coated menu next to him. “Specials are on the board over there.” She tilted her head in the direction of a dry erase board on the far wall. “Get you some juice or something?”

  “Sure. A large orange juice. And a glass of water if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” she assured him with a flirtatious smile.

  She wasn’t unattractive. Probably close to his own age. Blondish-brown hair pulled up in a ponytail. Hazel eyes. A few extra pounds here and there, but nothing off-putting. But he wasn’t going to encourage her.

  He opened the menu, the words blurring before his eyes for a minute before he focused on them.

  Truth was, Trey wasn’t sure of himself with women any more. Or with anyone for that matter. Without the crutch of alcohol to smooth the way, to make him the life of the party, to lower his inhibitions so he could relax and pretend to be himself, he had no idea how to proceed.

  He’d never had a problem giving up drinking during training or during the season. He’d been in control, never thought of himself as addicted. But after the first knee surgery, when he’d been afraid he’d never play again, he’d been all too ready to make himself oblivious of that frightening reality.

  The fact that he’d come back after the first surgery, had played decently for most of that season, was, in his mind at least, a minor miracle. But he’d gotten sacked in the last quarter of the last game. If they’d won, the Jacks would have been in the division play-offs. Instead, he’d been escorted off the field on a stretcher, forcing himself to hold back the howls of pain until he made it to the ambulance.

  The Jacks lost. He never played again. He had another surgery. Complications set in. Physical therapy had been excruciating. His patience and his temper wore thin. Doctors didn’t think twice about writing prescriptions for him, and there were enough of them who didn’t know what medications he’d already been prescribed by one of their colleagues.

  Before he knew it, he was hooked. He quickly discovered that washing painkillers down with Jack Daniels added to their effect. Pretty soon he wasn’t feeling anything. Not the depression over the fact that his pro football career was over. Not resentment of Hayley when she tried to intervene, to get him some help. Not any feeling at all for the parade of women he screwed and dumped.

  Until he got where he needed to be, he wasn’t about to start up with women again, not even one woman. Not when what he’d probably do is screw up again, hurt her without meaning to.

  The waitress set down glasses of juice and of ice water. “Anything look good?”

  Another come-on. Trey didn’t look up from the menu. “I’ll have the Mountain Man Special,” he told her. “Eggs over medium. Bacon.” He chanced a glance up at her. “Can I get biscuits and gravy instead of toast?”

  “Sure thing. You want grits too?”

  “That’d be great, thanks.” He closed the menu and set it at the edge of the table, aware of her lingering next to him longer than it took her to write down his order.

  He pulled the newspaper toward him and finally she took herself off.

  He doctored the coffee and took a sip. It wasn’t Arabian Mocha Sunani, but neither was it expired discount store decaf.

  He opened the paper and leafed through it quickly, checking the ads for local professionals. On page six he found two ads for attorneys. One of the names caught his attention. Ryan T. Reagle. As kids they’d called him Reagle Beagle. Trey smiled to see Ryan was still using that nickname. Ryan T. Reagle. Legal Beagle.

  That’s who I need, Trey decided. He remembered Ryan as a serious kid, a good student. He’d desperately wanted to play sports. He’d tried them all. Unfortunately poor eyesight coupled with a complete lack of coordination and limbs that grew so fast he couldn’t keep up with them prevented that.

  In high school, if Trey recalled correctly, Ryan had found the track team. His long legs and thin frame were built for jumping hurdles and running marathons. He bet if he looked in his yearbook he’d find Ryan had lettered in track all four years.

  Trey made note of the address near the courthouse a few blocks away. He’d stop in after breakfast and see if Ryan was available.

  Must be my lucky day, he thought as he pulled out a special health care section. He leafed through it and found the physical therapists as well as the other kinds of therapist listed by specialty. He didn’t recognize any of their names, and he’d much prefer to see someone who had no connection to him at all.

  “Here you go, sugar.” Trey set the paper aside as the waitress set plates before him. “Want me to warm that up for you?”

  Trey flickered a glance her way and said, “Sure.”

  She refilled his coffee cup. Again she hesitated, but when he picked up his utensils, she stepped away.

  He glanced around the restaurant in time to see one or two patrons sending speculative looks in his direction.

  He piled everything except the grits onto one plate and mixed it all together. He’d loved doing this as a kid and now there was no one to stop him. He’d been taught manners, but he couldn’t see what difference it could possibly make to anyone if he liked to chop up his bacon and shove it into the eggs until they ran all over the plate and into the hash browns. Who would care if he added biscuits and gravy to that mess?

  He read the rest of the paper while he ate. The waitress stopped by one more time, but he declined her offer of another refill.

  He threw a generous tip on the table and went to the counter to pay. She was there, too, and took his money. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  He looked at her full-on then, since it didn’t seem like he could avoid it. What could he say? “No, can’t say that I do.”

  “Terry Miller. We went to high school together. You were a year ahead of me. I sat behind you in World History my sophomore year.”

  “Did you?” Trey racked his brain for a memory, any memory of a younger version of this woman, and came up blank.

  “Yeah, well, you never noticed me back then, either.”

  Trey fought the urge to apologize. He didn’t owe this woman anything other than civility and the tip he’d left on the table.

  She handed him his change. He smiled at her. “Great to meet you, Terry. I’ll probably see you again.”

  He decided to walk to Ryan’s office. He needed to use his leg, keep the muscles moving, even if it pained him to do so.

  The law office of Ryan T. Reagle was a step above what Trey expected for a small-town lawyer, decorated in muted tones of gray with burgundy accents. An opaque window on a far wall slid open as soon as he closed the door. A chubby redhead smiled in his direction and asked if she could help him.

  “I don’t have an appointment, but I was wondering if Ryan’s available.”

  “Does he know what it’s regarding?”

  “No, but it’s a legal matter.”

  “What’s your name? I’ll see if he can see you.”

  When Trey gave her his name she showed no indication of recognizing it. He remained standing after she slid the frosted panel closed. A minute later she held the door to the inner sanctum open for him. “End of the hall, turn left,” she told him.

  The hallway wasn’t very long and was carpeted in dark gray with burgundy-and-cream-striped wallpaper covering the walls below a chair rail. The top half of the walls was painted the same cream as the stripe in the wallpaper.

  He tapped on the open door to Ryan’s office, but the other man was alrea
dy on his feet and coming around his desk. Ryan hadn’t changed much. He was still tall, thin and bookish. He offered his hand.

  “Trey Christopher, as I live and breathe. Back in town for less than twenty-four hours and in trouble with the law already.” He grinned when Trey’s mouth dropped open and then indicated the chairs in front of his desk. He went back to the other side and dropped into a burgundy leather swivel chair. The furnishings were cherry, the upholstered pieces carrying through the same color scheme as the outer office. “Come on, have you forgotten how small towns operate? Word of mouth. Gossip on the street. Better and more accurate information than that newspaper will give you.”

  Confounded, Trey could only stare at Ryan. “Are you saying—?”

  “That I know Justin Spoley pulled you over last night and threw a whole bunch of citations at you? Sure. As soon as he logged them in, they became public record. Clerks over at the courthouse are all abuzz with it.”

  “Damn. I hope that doesn’t mean my mom and dad already know he cited me for indecent exposure.”

  “They may not know the particulars, but I’d be willing to bet by now your dad knows you got pulled over for speeding inside the Edna Falls town limits.”

  “Great. That’s just great.” Trey let himself stew in that information for a minute.

  “So. Is this a social call? Or are you looking for a lawyer? Because I make it my business to stop assholes like Spoley from overstepping their legal boundaries.”

  “You know him?”

  “Hell, yes. You remember him. Or the name at least. He played defense for Forest City. Senior year? Last game of the season? A shot at the state championship on the line? Justin intercepted your pass—”

  “—and started running with it.” Trey could see it all, the field, the other players. For a moment he felt his own dismay, knowing it was his last shot at quarterbacking a high school championship. He could almost feel the way adrenaline shot through him. He had to do something.