She didn't need to ever see him again. This whole crazy interaction was almost over. She'd write the article, turn it in and be done.
As she drove, her mind wandered. Why had life put the two of them together at this particular time? For years, she'd hated him, as had her father and her mother. Well, hated him without knowing him personally. She'd never met him back then. But his actions had sent her small family into a downward spiral that to this day, they'd never recovered from.
Her dad, never particularly ambitious, was now discouraged and beaten down. He'd lost his job at a time when jobs were hard to come by, and after a taste of unemployment benefits from the government and the accompanying abundance of free time … he'd accepted this new lifestyle as the best he could do. Hours to sit around, watch TV, putter around the yard and drink beer. Always the beer.
Mom's job as a customer service associate at a local insurance agency became the small family's primary income. Thank God Mom had a job when Dad got laid off. It kept the mortgage paid and food on the table. But no money for luxuries.
As she drove, her mind went back to Jeremy taking the heavy camera from her. He’d recognized her discomfort from holding it, shifting it to different angles to get the right shots. Her arm muscles had ached, but how had he known that? She hadn’t said a word, nor did she think her facial expression had given anything away.
She sighed. So, he was a southern gentleman. Thousands of boys in this region were raised that way. So what? There was nothing special about him or his politeness. And it certainly wasn’t a reflection of his character.
Her little car headed home, to her parents' house. Twenty minutes later, she pulled into the driveway of a small but homey little ranch house, red with white trim. Well, a color that used to be red, now sort of a sun bleached sienna. The house could use a new paint job, and if she were honest with herself and really opened her eyes, she could make a long list of improvements the house could tolerate, to pull it out of its shabby, worn condition. She wasn't thinking of that now. Someday, when she'd saved some money, maybe she could go shopping at the home improvement store and help her folks out with some much-needed supplies. But now she needed to talk to them both about her meeting with Jeremy and get their thoughts on his past sins and present challenges.
“Mom? Dad?” She walked in through the front door. The drone of the television floated up the stairs from the basement.
“Emma!” Her mom rushed into the living room from the hallway. Her bedroom was at the back of the house and if Emma had her guess, she'd say Mom was putting folded laundry away or something equally industrious. Emma closed the distance between them and pulled her mom into a hug.
“Wow, nice greeting!”
Emma smiled into her neck. If she ever had the chance to be half as good a mom as hers was, she'd consider herself a success. She pulled back. “How's it going?”
“Good, good. I was just straightening up a little bit. This house collects clutter, I swear.”
Emma looked around. There were, indeed, little stacks of things sitting in corners, along the walls. With a house as small as theirs, it was important to keep everything in its place. “Maybe you could ask Dad to do some clean up while you're working. Then you wouldn't have to work all day, only to come home and clean at night.”
Mom gave her a closed-mouthed smile, more like a grimace actually, and shrugged. “I don't know about that.”
“Mom, he needs to have some sense of accomplishment. Look around this place, inside and out. He could break all the chores down and you could come up with a schedule. Do the cheaper stuff first while we save up for the more expensive jobs. It might make him feel better. What do you think?”
“It's an idea …,” Mom said tentatively.
“And I want to help you buy some supplies. You know, paint, stain, whatever. It would make a big difference around here.”
Mom looked at her for a moment, silent, then reached out and squeezed her hands. “You're a sweetie.” She led her to the kitchen table. “Here, sit. Can I get you something? Are you hungry?”
Emma shook her head. “No, I …”
“I made fried chicken last night and have several pieces left over.” Mom bustled around the kitchen, reaching into the fridge, pulling things out, rustling through the cabinets, finding disposable dishware. “Some salad. Why don't you take it home and eat it tonight for dinner? Or stay tonight. I have stuffed peppers on the stove. You like those, don't you?”
Emma laughed. Cooking was one thing Mom loved to do and bestow on her only child. Who was she to refuse?
“I wanted to talk to you and Dad together, if that's okay.”
Mom stopped bustling and looked over. “Big news? Good news?”
Her mom had a transparent face, never could keep a secret, and she knew exactly what she was thinking. “Mom, nothing like that. Just want to talk, that's all.”
Mom went to the head of the basement steps and called for Dad. When he emerged, he was walking pretty steadily, leaning on the railing for support on the way up the stairs, but once he got to the kitchen he walked without stumbling. He gripped his beer can in his hand.
“Hey, sweetie pie,” he said, leaning in and placing a kiss on Emma's cheek. She was sure he meant it to be a light one but he misjudged the distance and ended up stabbing her cheekbone with his nose. Unexpected pain brought a stab of tears to her eyes and she guessed he'd hurt himself too, but he pulled away without a trace of discomfort.
“Hey, Dad.” She sighed, running her hand over the sore spot. “I can’t remember, did I tell you about the article I’m working on? It's about people who have broken the law, served their time in prison, and are now assimilating successfully back into society. I was given three subjects to interview.”
Dad rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Yeah, you mentioned this story the last time you h came by.”
Emma frowned. So she had, she'd almost forgotten her brief mention. The man had a steel trap for a mind, despite numbing it consistently with alcohol. It pained her that he was wasting his life in a beer fog every day, sitting in a recliner in his basement. He could accomplish something, it wasn't too late. But she'd pushed him before and it had only ended it an argument, and her mom, God bless her, hated conflict and would rather ignore it than address it.
“Oh, that's right, I forgot. So, I've done all three interviews and I just need to write the article now. But the last one, the one I just finished, was with Jeremy Harrison.” She glanced first at her mother, then her father. Their faces froze, eyes open wide, interested expressions seared on their faces, like a movie frame that lost connection and stayed past natural time and distance.
Then, both of them started talking at the same time — loudly, angrily. Their words interwove and rose, and she was unable to understand what either were saying. Slowly, the din subsided, leaving Mom with the beginning of tears in her eyes and Dad frowning and pacing the small room.
“Why did they give you that assignment? You shouldn't have to interview that ass. Conflict of interest, I'd say.” Dad now leaned on the counter, his back to her.
“They had no idea I was even connected with Jeremy Harrison.”
He spun around. “Why didn't you tell them? Or at least tell them you have a confidential reason you shouldn't do the article?”
“I thought briefly about it, but decided against it. I ran off to do the interview with him. Unfortunately, I was angry, and was very rude and unprofessional so I cut the interview short.”
Dad's lips turned up on the side. “Gave him hell, did you? That's my girl.”
“I did, Dad, but later I thought better of it. It was beneath me the way I talked to him. I'm a professional journalist. I want to work in a bigger market someday. I don't want this being a black mark on my record.”
Dad clenched his fist and pounded it into his other palm. But Mom saw the reason in her statement. “That's good, Emma. The man already ruined your father's career, leaving him with no options. You don't want him
to do the same thing to your career. I'm proud of you.”
Dad ran a hand through his thinning hair. “So what are you going to write about him?”
The way he asked it, Emma knew exactly what he had in mind. Write an explosive story to seek the family's revenge on the Harrisons.
“I'll just write about his furniture-building and some of the challenges he's facing getting his business started up.”
Dad stared at her, redness moving up his neck and into his face. He grabbed his beer can off the table, took a wet slurp and squeezed the can, slamming it in the general direction of the trash can. It bounced off the side and onto the linoleum. Emma jerked.
“No. Not a tame little 'ain't he swell' type story, Emma. What's wrong with you? Don't you have any family loyalty?”
Her mom reached over and rubbed her dad's arm but didn't speak.
“Dad, I'm going to do the story I was assigned to do. I'm going to try to go into it without any preconceived notions. He strikes me as being very sorry for his actions. He's not looking for any handouts and he wants to work hard to get back on his feet.”
Her dad froze, his eyes wide, his mouth dropped, staring at her. Emma calmly met his gaze, but inside she was churning. Then he broke his stare and turned to her mom. “I don't believe what I'm hearing, Edna. I really don't. Our little girl, showing loyalty to the Harrisons. The enemy. What is this family coming to?”
With that, he turned on his heel, no doubt to head back to the basement. Emma jumped to her feet and reached for his arm. “Dad! Daddy, come on. Stay and talk.” But he slithered from her grasp and clumped down the stairs. Emma turned to her mother, tears breaking through and rolling down her cheeks. “He doesn't understand. I didn't do anything wrong. Did I?”
Her mother reached around her neck and pulled her in close. “Shhh, shhh. Now's not the time, honey. You let him settle and stew. He'll be back. He can't listen to reason now.”
She whispered against her mom, “Do you think I'm wrong to do the story?”
Mom stayed silent long enough that Emma pulled back and looked at her face, reading her expression.
“We'll talk more about it, honey. I want to hear your reasons. The Harrisons did some horrible things to our family and your father's never really recovered from that. Things would be very different now, if Jeremy Harrison hadn't run the company into the ground.”
Thoughts swirled in Emma's head. She'd heard that her whole life, a family legend. But now, other thoughts intermingled, traitorous thoughts, that she wasn't ready to share with her mother yet.
Why? Why had Dad never recovered? The company he worked for laid him off ten years ago. How many others could claim the same thing all over the country? All over the world? Why hadn't he bounced back? Why did he just roll up and agree to fail?
Chapter Four
Jeremy pulled his truck into the sandy parking lot across from the Seaside Inn, the beach hotel owned by his sister Marianne and her husband Tom. It had served as his first home when he was released from prison in August and Marianne was extremely generous, letting him stay for several months and feeding him in their delicious dining room, to boot. Someday he would pay her and Tom back, somehow.
His family's over-the-top generosity and acceptance had been the most surprising element of his life after serving his time. He didn't deserve it. And it had been hard to accept at first. He didn't understand it. He was sure he wouldn't show the same forgiveness if the positions were reversed.
He'd done some horrible things. He'd destroyed the family business, he'd blown through his dad's life savings, he'd let the insurance lapse so that when his mom got sick, she was uninsured.
By the time she died, he was locked away facing a decade of imprisonment. How could his family possibly forgive him for all that? Serving his time to society was one thing. But actually being accepted back into the family with loving arms? It was unbelievable.
He opened the truck door and hopped to the ground. He tried not to think about it because of course, it upset him. It made his hands shake, his breath catch. They treated him much better than he deserved, but that didn't mean he wanted them to change anything. He was just at a loss as to where their generosity and forgiveness came from.
So, he stilled for a moment, closed his eyes and repeated a favorite phrase in his head, “Thank You, God. Thank You for Your mercy and Your grace.”
Feeling steadier, he trotted across the thin road, across the lawn of the Seaside Inn and up the front steps. A wide wooden building painted gray and white, it opened into a huge great room that guests were welcome to treat as their home away from home, with its couches and easy chairs and a fireplace. In one corner stood a counter where either Marianne or Tom, or sometimes their little daughter Stella, stood sentinel, ready to greet guests and respond to their needs. To the left of the big room was the doorway to a large dining room that served two meals a day to guests and fortunately for him, the occasional member of the family who hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in a while. Across the back of the building was a screened-in porch that covered the entire length of the inn, where Marianne served coffee, tea, juices and baked goods every morning. And outside of that, past the wooden exterior decks and about a football field length of clean white sand in low tide, was the Atlantic Ocean. Jeremy's most favorite spot in the world.
Nobody was in the great room so he walked into the dining area. It wasn't meal time but Marianne was setting tables in prep for later tonight. “Hey sis,” he said as he approached her, laying a kiss on her hair as he leaned in.
“Jeremy! Good to see you.” The big smile on her face proved that she meant it.
“Busy?”
She glanced around the dining room. “Not bad. We only have a half dozen rooms full and only four couples put dinner reservations in. Mel's making shrimp scampi tonight. Want to come by?”
He automatically shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“You got plans?”
“Well, I …” He refused to lie to her. Honesty was one of the big tenets that Neil preached. No reason to lie. A man's character is built on telling the truth. “No, not really, but I …”
She let her lips slip into a small smile. “But you what? Don't like Mel's scampi? I know that's not true.”
“No, that's not it.”
“Let me ask you this then. If you didn't come over for a steaming hot plate of shrimp scampi — with fresh shrimp, by the way, over white rice, homemade biscuits on the side with melted butter, a fresh vegetable salad with my very own ranch dressing, and oh did I mention, peach cobbler for dessert? Ala mode? If you weren't over here eating all that with us, what would you be having?”
Her description had rendered him motionless. His mind wandered back to his own tiny kitchen and he mentally opened the fridge … nothing there except half a carton of milk, some wrinkled apples and a half pound of coffee beans. How about the pantry? Some canned goods — tuna, several kinds of soup and a few cans of green beans. He was sure he would've put together a simple meal made of those ingredients. And been perfectly satisfied with it.
Until he'd heard in detail what was on the Seaside Inn menu tonight. “Dang it, Marianne.” He ducked his head at her laughter at his expense, but the final straw was when his traitorous stomach let loose a loud, long growl.
“It's a date then. Be here at six. And bring your appetite.”
It slipped out before he could stop it. “I will pay you back, you know. Every meal, every night in the room you gave up for me when you could've rented it to guests.”
She rumpled his hair. “I'm not worried about it, big bro. All in good time.”
He shook his head. He couldn't describe why her boundless generosity made him uncomfortable. Knowing Marianne, she knew exactly how he felt, but didn't care. She would continue to shower him with meals and help whenever she could. He pulled her into an embrace, patting her on the back. “I love you, sis.”
They broke apart and he turned just a moment to make sure his emotions w
ere under control. Turning back to her, he said, “I need to load up a few of my inventory pieces and take them over to the high school.”
“Oh yes! The holiday craft fair. You got a booth?”
He nodded. “So you've heard of it? That's good.”
“Definitely. It's a very popular event around here to kick off the pre-holiday season. Thousands of folks will go through.”
He let out a cheek full of air. “It was pricy to rent an artisan's booth, but if I just sell one piece I'll break even. Two pieces, I'll make a profit. It's a gamble but I figured I'd give it a try.”
Marianne tapped her chin with her index finger. “How big's your spot?”
Jeremy shrugged. “I've seen it. Not huge. I figure I could fit a few dressers, a few bookshelves, a media shelf. Nothing big like a table.”
“Unless you stack items. Put a shelf up on top of a table?”
Jeremy considered. “That's a possibility.”
“Here.” Marianne led him to the front counter and handed him a stack of the inn's business cards. “Tell people you have more inventory here and they can stop by anytime and see it.”
He accepted the cards and pocketed them.
“In fact…,” Marianne spun in a circle and went to her computer. She clicked on an icon on the desktop and before he knew it, she was showing him the rough draft of a flyer she'd created. She pulled a small digital camera from her desk drawer and handed it to him. “Go take some shots of the pieces. We'll include them in this flyer and print out a big stack. It'll have contact info, with the address and phone number of the inn. We don't want you to lose any potential customers just because your booth is too small to display all your pieces.”
Jeremy stood still, the camera in one hand, the other hand rubbing his forehead. There she went again. It was a brilliant idea — that just put him more in her debt.
Although … if he sold more pieces, he could begin to pay her back sooner. He smiled at her and went out back to the wooden storage shed where his sister generously allowed him to store his stock. He spent a half hour moving furniture around so he could get decent shots and came back with close to twenty digital photos.
Pawleys Island Paradise boxset, Books 1 - 3 Page 30