He shucked his clothes in exchange for baggy boxers and a T-shirt before heading to the bathroom.
How often had his biological mother dumped him with Mamacita when he was a baby? He remembered her handing him over without a backward glance or a second thought about the tears on his face. Mamacita would hug him against her ample bosom, so different from his mother’s skinny, bony frame. Mamacita dried his tears and rubbed his back.
His mother had been sick. He’d been told that many times, but he knew the truth. His mother was an addict who cared more about drugs than she did about him. One day she’d handed him over to Mamacita and she hadn’t come back. Matty didn’t remember missing his mother. He’d have happily stayed with Mamacita forever if he could. But it wasn’t to be.
A woman in a business suit and briefcase came and talked in officious tones while Mamacita held him close. Mamacita followed the woman to her car and buckled Matty into a child seat in the back. Matty had cried and fought the restraints, wanting to get back into Mamacita’s arms. She was crying too, even while she tried to soothe him.
He’d worn himself out and fallen asleep, and when he woke up he was somewhere else. He had blurry memories of that time and of the few foster families he’d been placed with before he’d arrived at the home of Dan and Diana Westring. They’d adopted him. They loved him, Matty thought. But Diana had died and Dan had crawled further into his bottles of booze. Somehow Matty had arrived back at the only place he’d ever felt loved.
He wasn’t even sure how he’d found it. He’d taken off on his bicycle one afternoon out of sheer, lonely desperation. Dan was quietly drinking in front of the television. Lisa was yelling at the twins about sneaking out of the house the previous night. Baylee wasn’t around. No one noticed when he slipped out the front door.
The bicycle was a yellow mountain bike he’d got for his twelfth birthday. He was too big for it now, but it was the only transportation he had. He’d started riding with no particular destination in mind. He’d ridden through one of the tonier sections of Hendersonville where the big houses, some of which had been converted into bed and breakfast inns, lined the street. He kept riding until he crossed the railroad tracks.
Like he’d turned a page from what had started out as a fairy tale and became a horror story, the landscape changed dramatically. Many of the houses were in disrepair. Porches sagged and boards covered windows. A few of the occupants stared at him with a lack of curiosity in their gazes as if nothing could surprise them anymore.
Hendersonville wasn’t such a big place that he hadn’t known this section of it existed, but he never had cause to come here. He passed yards filled with weeds, dirt and trash, abandoned houses and old cars that would never see road time again.
He turned down one of the streets at random and skidded to a halt before a house unlike all the others. Although it was old and in need of paint, the porch was swept and the front yard clean of debris. Instead of grass, there was a riot of flowers everywhere, including climbing up a trellis to one side of the porch. Two ancient metal lawn chairs covered with cushions sat on either side of the front door. A small picket fence, also in need of paint, surrounded the perimeter of the yard. An old Toyota pick-up was parked in a narrow drive next to the house.
A sense of déjà vu washed over Matty. He glanced down the street in each direction. The sense of familiarity became stronger. He leaned his bike against the fence and looked closer at the flowers and the porch. There were two windows facing the street. In the lower right corner of one of them was a faded decal. Matty stared at the graphic design of a turquoise hand depicted there. It was peeling up on the bottom, but he saw the few letters left. “SA” and “HAV.” Safe Haven.
A program the county had used at one time to give children a place to go if they felt they were in danger. He’d seen a few of the old stickers around town. Diana had explained to him what they were. But that was before she’d died. He hadn’t found a safe haven since.
While he stared, the screen door opened and a man several years older came out. He was of mixed race like Matty, of average height, with coal-black, curly hair and dark brown eyes. He was dressed in an army-green T-shirt and fatigues.
“Can I help you?”
Like everything else, something about the man seemed familiar to Matty, but he didn’t know why or how to explain his presence. They stared at each other while Matty tried to formulate a response, but the man asked him a second question before he could. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t know.”
The man stepped off the porch and came closer, never taking his gaze from Matty. ”What’s your name, son?”
“Matty. Mateo. Westring.”
“Matty?” The man’s face broke into a huge grin. He reached across the fence and squeezed Matty’s shoulder. “Oh, boy, will Mamacita ever be glad to see you. Come on in.”
He turned but Matty didn’t follow. “Mamacita?”
The man stopped and turned back. “She’s my grandmother. She took care of you whenever your mother couldn’t. Loved you like you were one of her own. Like to broke her heart when she had to give you up.” Matty stared at him as he went on. “You don’t remember me, either, I guess. Desmond.” He stuck out a hand and Matty automatically shook it. “She already had custody of me. State didn’t think she could handle a toddler. Come on, now. She’ll never forgive me if you don’t come let her have a look at you.”
Matty followed Desmond up the walk and through the front door into the tiny living room that, like everything else, felt familiar. He breathed in a combination of old furniture and home cooking.
“She’s back in the kitchen,” Desmond told Matty. “Mama? I got somebody here to see you.”
“Who’s that?”
A rotund woman with graying hair tucked up in a loose bun turned from the stove where she’d been stirring a fragrant pot. Oxygen lines trailed over her stout bosom from a tank on wheels next to her. She stared at Matty through the thick lenses of her glasses, her gaze going from him to Desmond and back.
“That’s not? It can’t be. Lord, Des, don’t you fool with an old woman. Matty?”
Matty nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
The woman toddled toward Matty, her arms outstretched until she enveloped him in a hug, murmuring words he couldn’t understand. He had to bend down to her because he was almost as tall as Desmond, but he didn’t mind. She smelled like flowers and whatever she’d used to season the pot on the stove, and underneath it all was something Matty must have recognized from long ago. Did caring have a scent all its own?
The hours melted away that first afternoon in Mamacita’s kitchen. She and Desmond reminisced, and with their memories, Matty retrieved missing pieces of himself. They’d pressed Matty to stay and eat. Desmond helped her dish up the food from the stove. After Mamacita’s recital of a blessing over the food, which included her thankfulness for having Matty once again under her roof, Matty ate like he’d been starving. The rich red sauce included beans and chunks of meat over rice jumbled with bits of colorful peppers and onions. Along with it was some sort of fat, floury, tortilla-like bread with a chewy yet tender texture.
They chatted during the meal, Matty carefully editing each mention of his adoptive family.
Mamacita’s expression clouded with sorrow when he told her about the loss of his adoptive mother. She covered his hand with hers. “I know she was a good woman. She raised a fine son.”
Matty blushed. He’d done some things neither Mamacita nor Diana would have been proud of.
After a simple dessert of fresh, sliced strawberries and peaches over angel food cake, Matty thanked Mamacita. She hugged him hard. “You come back and see me soon.”
Desmond walked him to the porch. “I’ve been home on leave the past couple of weeks. I’m headed back to Afghanistan tomorrow for the last six months of my second tour. I don’t know if I’ll re-up after that.” He glanced back to the house and motioned Matty to follow him down the steps.
“Mama thinks she doesn’t need any help, but I don’t like her being alone. She gets disoriented sometimes and she’s fallen twice. She still has a few friends and neighbors around, and the county sends out a nurse once a week to check on her, but that’s it.”
“What’s wrong with her? Why does she need oxygen?” Matty asked.
“Diabetes. Congestive heart failure.” Desmond raised a hand and let it drop. “Old age. I was hoping to keep her out of a nursing home until my tour’s up at the end of the year.”
“I can come by and make sure she’s okay, see if she needs anything,” Matty offered. “After school and on the weekends.”
“You’d do that?”
“Sure,” Matty said, already looking forward to spending more time in the small house where acceptance and approval greeted him as soon as he crossed the threshold.
“Wow, man. I’d appreciate it.” He gave Matty a man-hug and clapped him on the shoulder. “You ever need me, Mama’s got my contact information next to the calendar in the kitchen.”
“Okay.” Matty got on his bike, waved to Desmond and pedaled home.
It didn’t seem like anyone had missed him that first evening, so Matty kept coming back after school and on the weekends. He did whatever needed doing while he was there. Mama seemed happy to have his company and help, and he knew Des was glad his grandmother spent less time unsupervised.
Jack Frost would track him down sooner or later, Matty knew. The man never gave up. He took his job seriously, and, Matty had to admit, he acted like he cared. But Matty’d seen the looks his probation officer sent Baylee’s way a time or two. She was oblivious, but Matty wouldn’t put it past him to use Matty’s behavior as an excuse to hit on her.
Whatever, Matty thought as he fell asleep. What could Jack Frost do? Matty had mostly been behaving himself, except for breaking his curfew several nights a week and cutting his first class a couple of times when he’d overslept. He’d be thrilled if more community service was added to his sentence. Then he’d have somewhere to spend the rest of his free time. Anywhere but in this house where everyone ignored his existence.
Chapter Ten
Apple Jack’s had been a local watering hole for as long as Trey could remember. There were a few other, smaller hole-in-the-wall type drinking establishments dotted around Hendersonville, but Apple Jack’s was the most established, set in a rambling structure that had once housed a cider press at the south end of the main highway unevenly bisecting the town.
The menu featured standard bar-and-grill fare, and the jukebox blared when there wasn’t a local band playing on the makeshift stage behind the well-worn planks of the dance floor.
The clack of balls from the pool tables punctuated the clink of ice against glasses and, on a Friday night such as this, the high-pitched chatter of the locals ready to blow off steam for the weekend.
At Ryan’s invitation, Trey had joined him for a game or two of pool. They hadn’t been there long, Ryan nursing a beer and Trey a Coke, when he noticed Baylee seated at the crowded bar with Justin Spoley next to her. How could she? Even as he thought it, he realized he was way out of line. Baylee had lived in Hendersonville her whole life. She had a history with the locals much different from his. Plus, she had no loyalty whatsoever to him except that which extended between employer and employee.
Still, he couldn’t help resenting how chummy she seemed with a man he thought of as his archenemy, and he comforted himself with the thought that he wouldn’t be human if it didn’t rankle a little bit. Why had she said she wasn’t interested in Spoley?
“Trey. Your turn.”
It took a moment for Ryan’s words to penetrate. Trey’d been pretending nonchalance he didn’t feel, leaning against one of the supporting pillars, his arms crossed over his chest while he glowered at the pair with their heads together at the bar. Baylee hadn’t even noticed he was there.
“What’s with those two, anyway?” he muttered to Ryan, who’d come to stand next to him and followed his gaze.
“Baylee and Dusty?”
Trey turned to look at him. “Dusty? I thought his name was Justin.”
Ryan grinned and took a sip of his beer. “Identical twins. Dustin and Justin.” He inclined his head in their direction. “That’s the twin. He and Baylee have been friends since college.”
Trey turned his back on the bar, took a sip of his Coke and picked up his stick. He walked around the table, studying the damage Ryan had done on his last turn. He lined up a shot, sent the cue ball spiraling toward the solid blue ball and watched it drop into a corner pocket.
He didn’t like this possessive feeling he had toward Baylee Westring. She wasn’t his type. He wasn’t even interested. Why should he care who her friends were, who she spoke to or drank with? He glowered again as he looked in her direction to see her smiling at Dustin Spoley, who tugged on a lock of her hair. She wore it down, the bountiful curls and waves softly framing her face. If she lose the glasses she’d be even more attractive, Trey thought.
“Is she dating him?” Trey asked as Ryan moved forward to line up his shot.
Ryan glanced at them over his shoulder. “They’re just friends as far as I know.”
Once again Trey purposely turned his back on the bar area. Surprisingly, he didn’t have the urge to drink. He’d avoided establishments like Apple Jack’s for more than a year. Alcoholics were never cured of their addiction, but they could recover from it. For the rest of their lives. Once upon a time, Trey would have been the life of the party in a place like this, buying drinks for the entire crowd. He’d have been the one hitting on women like Baylee. After he drank until he couldn’t see straight, he’d either pass out or fall down. One way or another, he’d make a fool of himself and hope one of his drinking buddies would be kind enough to arrange transportation home. He had enough blurry memories of embarrassing moments like those to last a lifetime. Enough recriminations from women he’d stepped over the line with. He preferred his hard-won sobriety, thank you very much.
More locals crowded into the bar, and Trey found himself face-to-face with two of his cousins. Brandon and Cooper Rawlings were his aunt Cathy’s sons. Aunt Cathy being his dad’s eldest sister. The three of them had been lumped together during the summers of their childhood at one house or the other and often with Grandma J and Grandpa Mike.
His cousins clapped him on the back, and they fell into their old routine of conversation. Both his cousins worked in the family apple orchard business. They’d married local girls and each had a couple of kids. Trey’s comfort level increased knowing he had at least one friend and a few family members who didn’t hold his past against him.
Trey managed to snag the harried waitress and order beers for the two of them, one more for Ryan and a Coke for himself. They teamed up for another game of pool. Coop had taken his second shot when the waitress returned with their drinks. She handed Trey back his twenty along with his Coke. “Gentleman at the bar bought your drinks.”
“Oh, yeah? Who’s that?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s at the end. Blue shirt.”
Trey took a drink of the Coke and immediately spit it out. It spewed all over the worn wooden planks of the floor. Ryan and Brandon jumped back to avoid being splashed.
“Hell, cuz, what’s with you?” Brandon asked, carefully holding his mug of beer out of harm’s way.
Trey didn’t answer immediately. He set his Coke, which was liberally laced with spiced rum, on a nearby ledge while he scanned the crowd around the bar. The other three followed his gaze. Ryan had set his beer down as well and took up a position next to Trey. “Spoley,” he muttered at the exact moment Trey spied him.
Justin Spoley’s gaze bored into Trey. He lifted his glass in a mocking toast. Trey saw red. He took a step in Spoley’s direction, but Ryan’s grip on his elbow stopped him. “Don’t. It’s exactly what he wants.” Ryan’s authoritative tone surprised him.
Trey willed the rage he felt back in check. He looked at Rya
n. Brandon and Coop hovered close by.
“What’s going on? What happened?”
Trey nodded in Spoley’s direction. “You know that guy?”
“Spoley?” Coop asked.
“He’s an asshole,” Brandon supplied. “Pulled me over for doing forty in a thirty-five last year.”
“Jerk,” Coop agreed. “Ticketed Julie for a rolling stop. Probably would have let her off with a warning except she let loose on him for pulling her over in the first place and making her late to pick up Annie from dance class.” Trey took note of Coop’s pride in his wife’s ability to stand up for herself.
Brandon picked up Trey’s drink and sniffed it. “Asshole,” he confirmed. “He still got it in for you for winning that championship game in high school?”
Trey shrugged.
“He needs to get over it.”
Trey turned his back on Spoley. “Come on. Let’s finish this game.” He wanted to get the hell out of Apple Jack’s, but he’d be damned if he’d give Spoley the satisfaction. If he asked them to, he knew Brandon and Coop would join him in teaching Justin Spoley a lesson for the stunt he’d pulled, but he also knew he wouldn’t ask. He’d deal with Spoley in his own way and in his own time.
It occurred to him that he hadn’t noticed either Baylee or Dustin Spoley during his most recent scan of the bar area. He was glad Baylee hadn’t witnessed what had happened with his drink.
Ryan and Brandon had to head home once they finished their game. Coop clapped Trey on the back. “Come on over for supper. Julie’s got a big pot of chili on the stove, and I’m pretty sure there’s an apple pie in our future.”
Trey vaguely remembered attending Cooper and Julie’s wedding with Hayley a few years ago. What he couldn’t remember was the reception. But that was when he’d still been with Hayley, still been on top of his game. Chances were good his behavior hadn’t ruined the event for everyone else. “I’d like that.”
The First Time Again: The Braddock Brotherhood, Book 3 Page 8