Weekends in Carolina

by Jennifer Lohmann

  He had one more letter left to write. On the blank screen, Trey typed the date and his boss’s name. Only a few sentences were required.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  MAX TOOK A slow breath in and paused, then pushed all the air out of her body. She’d read about this precise manner of breathing against stress in some magazine at a dentist’s office. It helped with the stress, she supposed, but it also helped with her aim. Up until the moment she squeezed the trigger, her body was still. The breathing even helped with the recoil of the rifle against her shoulder.

  Another slow breath in and she shifted—a smidge, not more—to the left for the next can. As she breathed out, the skin on the back of her neck tingled. She took her shot anyway and missed. Not only didn’t the can fall over, but it didn’t seem to have been dinged. The next breath that huffed in and out of her body was not at all relaxing. She turned to see the trunk of a familiar sedan in view from behind the farmhouse. Walking toward her, upright and stick straight, but with a relaxed slope to his shoulders she didn’t remember, was Trey. His loosened manner wasn’t the only thing different about him. Instead of a neat wool sweater and shiny loafers, Trey had on a drab, army-green zippered sweatshirt and work boots. By the weight of the clothing on his body, she could tell that his sweatshirt was thermal lined. His boots weren’t scuffed, but they looked sturdy enough that he probably wouldn’t begrudge them a scratch or two. If she didn’t know better, and his haircut and jeans didn’t look so expensive, she’d almost say he looked like a farmer. Almost.

  His mouth was moving. She popped the earplugs out of her ears, letting them bounce against her own sweatshirt. “What are you doing here?”

  He gave her a half smile, then gestured to the cans in the field. “Would you like help cleaning up?” His tone was polite, but his eyes were watchful. Cautious. He was on her land now. This was her farm.

  She considered pointing out that fact, but instead asked, “Are you staying?”

  “Long enough to answer your first question. After that—” he shrugged “—I suppose after that depends on you.”

  She didn’t try to parse what that meant because she might only get her hopes up. From the barking leaking out from the farmhouse, Ashes didn’t have the same worry, though her dog probably had the same hopes. “Yes. I’d like some help.”

  They picked up the cans in silence. She didn’t know what to say. He, apparently, was waiting until they were inside to explain what he was doing here. It didn’t matter if they weren’t talking or looking at each other; she knew he was here on her land because she could feel him next to her. Her entire body buzzed with awareness. She picked up the box this time, all too aware of the déjà vu from the first time she’d met him.

  Passing his sedan on her way to her truck, she noticed suitcases piled in the backseat. “Visiting Kelly?” She nodded toward the suitcases.

  “No. Why? Does he live here now?”

  “No, but...” Her heart crawled and clawed its way up her throat, threatening to burst out into something resembling joy at the sight of Trey here on her farm. And wearing work boots. But she also remembered the stillness of waking up in a house where she had expected another person and found only Ashes. That memory kept her heart restrained, if not actually under control. Trey opened the tailgate of the truck and Max set the box of cans in the bed, closing the top of the box before pushing it closer to the cab. No matter what Trey had to say, she would be likely to forget about the cans the next time she drove the truck. Then she’d have whatever baggage Trey left her with and cans strewn over the road to clean up after.

  But he had on that sweatshirt. And work boots.

  Ashes’s barks were sharp and insistent. He was an old dog now and expected to have his whims catered to more than he desired to prove his worth. At least that was her understanding of why he kept moving his bed to sit in front of the heating vent—and in the middle of a walkway—no matter where she put it. She sighed and opened the door so her dog could greet Trey.

  Ashes eased and stretched his way out of the house before he limbered up enough to bound up to Trey. Still a good dog, even if a good old dog, Ashes didn’t even try to jump on Trey’s jeans, but sat and waited for his ears to be scratched. When Trey sat on the steps, Ashes leaned up against him, a big doggy smile on his face.

  For several seconds, the birds singing and Ashes panting were the only sounds she could hear. Trey had always played his cards close to his chest. She couldn’t even hear him thinking.

  “I quit my job.”

  “Oh?” She kept her tone light, still afraid of anything that felt like hope. She had to raise her hand to block the glare of the sun off the shine of his car, but she couldn’t stop looking at the suitcases she saw through the window.

  “I’m not unemployed—or at least I don’t think I will be. I’ve got a pretty good hook into another job. It’s similar to what I was doing, but I think I’ll like it better.”

  “Oh?” Why was he here? She wanted to ask, but having asked the big question once, the smaller questions seemed out of her reach.

  Still, the winter sky seemed a bit bluer today.

  He smiled at her, a soft smile, full of promise and warmth that matched the relaxed set of his shoulders. “I think you’d approve of the job. I’d be working for the Carolina Farmers Association, running their grassroots campaigns.” He shrugged. “Lobbying when they need it.”

  “So you’re moving to North Carolina?” She nodded again to the suitcases, the movement keeping a check on her rising hopes. He left without even a note. Somehow that didn’t seem as important right now, with him sitting on the porch steps. He was here now.

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t yet have the job?”

  This new smile was sheepish. Like he’d overstepped some boundary, or was unsure of his footing. “I’ve got enough money to keep me fed for a while. And keep a roof over my head, even if I don’t get the job. I’m pretty employable, though I’d like to be able to pick my job, rather than be forced to take one.”

  “And why are you here? On my farm?” Listening to him dance around his point was getting irritating. He had a point somewhere. A point that involved the farm.

  His sigh was deep enough for even the dog to look up at him. “I originally started working for government because I believed I could do some good. It didn’t have to be big, just good. Provide one returning vet with better mental health services so alcohol doesn’t become a way to self-medicate. Or give one young mother the ability to finish college so she can work forty hours for the same amount of money it was taking her eighty hours to earn without an education.”

  She didn’t interrupt him. So many words were bubbling up inside her, but she felt that his needed to come out more.

  “Somewhere along the way I stopped caring—in any sense of the positives of the word. Someone paid me money and I convinced someone with a vote where it counts to care. I was just the go-between.”

  He rested his elbows on his knees and chin in his hands, looking out over her land. “Maybe that wouldn’t have been so bad, but I was still angry and it wasn’t going anywhere good. I wasn’t helping anyone with my anger. And anger is great. I’ve motivated a lot of people by making them really, really angry. So angry they couldn’t see straight. When you’re angry, you’re convinced you’re right and the rest of the world is wrong. About everything. It’s satisfying not to ever be wrong. God, it’s like a drug.” He rubbed at his cheeks and the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

  “But anger is a hard beast to maintain. You have to feed it. Take it out every hour or so and examine it. If you leave it alone, it dies. And if it’s all that’s sustaining you, having your anger die is frightening because you don’t have anything else. But it’s also exhausting. Anger leaves no room in your life for any other emotions. It takes everything you’ve got and leaves you wit
h nothing. Just ashes—” her dog raised his head and wagged his tail at his name “—that a puff of wind could blow away. Not even any warmth.”

  Trey clicked his tongue. Ashes lowered his head back to Trey’s knee. The dog looked blissful as his ears were scratched. Max could sympathize. Trey had great fingers.

  Ashes’s eyes nearly rolled back into his head when Trey hit a good spot. Trey’s smile was soft as he looked down at the dog. “There’s warmth here. My anger kept me from fully understanding it, but I felt it. It’s why I couldn’t stay away. It’s why I didn’t counter your invitation for me to move here with an invitation for you to move to D.C.” He shrugged. “I don’t want to be in D.C. any longer. I want to be with you, here. I’m so stupid. I didn’t realize it earlier, but I love you. And I want to be a part of the warmth and life of this farm.”

  Max opened her mouth to argue with him. To tell him that if he really loved her, he’d be happy with her in D.C.—he’d be happy with her anywhere. The words wouldn’t come. She couldn’t separate herself from this farm. He knew that as well as she did and he’d quit his job, packed his bags and come down here anyway.

  “Can you be happy here?”

  “I don’t want to be happy anywhere else.” Her face must have given away dissatisfaction with his answer, because he continued, “I left Durham and this farm originally because I was running away. Away from Dad, away from a future I didn’t want, away from being trapped. I had all sorts of negative reasons for action. This farm is now a positive reason for action. You are a positive reason for action. Working for an organization struggling to make their voice heard is a positive reason for action.”

  He sighed and went back to scratching Ashes’s ears.

  Trey looked tired. Normally he stepped out of his car after his five-hour drive as crisp as a freshly picked cucumber. Today his jeans were rumpled. He had lines at the corners of his eyes that puffiness couldn’t quite get rid of. She closed her eyes. When she reopened them, Trey looked different. Still tired, but the lines at the corners of his eyes could be laugh lines. The wrinkles in his jeans could be the sign of a man who was finally ready to relax. Between helping her with the cans and sitting on the front steps, he’d acquired a smear of red clay on his boots.

  “What’s with the sweatshirt?”

  When he looked down at his sweatshirt and then back up at her with a smile in his eyes, his laugh lines had deepened. “Do you like it? I wasn’t sure how to arrive and communicate ‘I’m serious,’ so I drove west from D.C. until I found a hunting-and-fishing store. They also helped with the boots.” He held out a booted foot for her to admire. “But my regular clothes are packed in those suitcases.”

  Suddenly, his vulnerability made her angry. “Am I supposed to open the door and let you in? Just like that?”

  “Supposed to?” His eyes were serious again, but the laugh lines were still present. “No. I’ve got a reservation at a hotel in town. I’m hoping to cancel it, but I’m moving down here whether or not you let me in today.” When she sat on the steps next to him, he looked sideways at her, full of mischief and hope. “Though if you send me packing, I’ll call you up and ask you out on a date.”

  A date. Imagining him showing up at her house in his nice clothes with a bouquet of flowers in hand was a nice thought. Being taken out to dinner was better. Maybe a movie or to Chapel Hill for a play.

  “You wouldn’t take me out for a date anyway?” Just because she was the farmer didn’t mean Trey didn’t have to work for the cows, or the milk.

  “I’m a new man. Maybe I’d expect you to take me.”

  He’d finally made her laugh and she gave him a shove. When his body returned to upright, she rested her head on his shoulder. “We can trade dates.”

  “Does this mean you’re letting me in the house?”

  A brief flurry of panic rose in Max’s breast as she considered all the ways taking a chance on Trey and love could go wrong. Before the panic could rise any higher, she stopped herself by thinking of all the ways this could go right.

  Max stood and offered Trey her hand. She had to brace herself to help him up off the porch steps, and Ashes gave her a dirty look for interrupting his petting session, but once the man she loved was standing, Max turned to her house, opened the door and walked in. When she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and then the door shut, she smiled.

  Trey was home.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from ONCE A FAMILY by Tara Quinn.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  “HOW OLD ARE YOU, Talia?”

  The tanned teenager, straight from the mold of California-model gorgeousness, looked Sedona Campbell in the eye. “Fifteen.”

  Sedona believed her. “You told Lila McDaniels that you’re nineteen.”

  The five-foot-five-inch blonde, with a perfect figure, perfect makeup and skin, wearing all black, looked about twenty-five.

  And, at fifteen, on a Tuesday in the second week of April, she should have been in school.

  “I didn’t want her to call the police. I’m not pressing charges.”

  “You’re a juvenile. You claim you’ve been hit. The staff here have to notify the police. It’s the law.”

  “Not if they think I’m nineteen and I say I don’t want the cops called. I checked. They don’t have to call for adults who don’t want the police notified, especially if they’re not getting medical attention.”

  The law didn’t read quite like that. But the girl wasn’t wrong, either.

  “They’d have to prove they had no way of knowing that you’re underage.”

  The girl said nothing.

  “They know you lied about your identity.”

  Talia Malone, aka the juvenile sitting in front of her, slid down into the plastic chair on one side of the table in the small but private card room Sedona used as a makeshift office during her volunteer hours at The Lemonade Stand. Her gaze darted from the floor toward the edge of the table, and back again.

  Sedona was not a psychiatrist, but as an attorney specializing in family law, specifically in representing women going through divorce or in need of protection orders, she was well versed in reading people.

  “I’m here to help, Talia. You can trust me.” And here in the middle of a workday because Lila McDaniels, managing director of The Lemonade Stand—a one-of-a-kind, privately funded women’s shelter on the California coast—had phoned asking that she drop everything to tend to this situation.

  Talia curled a strand of hair around her little finger. With a covert glance, she met Sedona’s gaze, but only for a second.

  Sitting next to the troubled girl at the table, Sedona touched her hand. “I believe you were hurt,” she said, her tone compassionate, but professional, too. By the time she got to the victims, they needed help, not drama. “But I can’t do anything for you, no one here can, if you aren’t honest with us.”

  Talia’s eyes were blue. Intensely gray-blue. They were trained on Sedona now.

  And that emotional crack that opened sometimes, the one she’d never quite managed to close within her professional armor—an armor that hid a natural instinct to nurture—made itself felt.

  “Why wouldn’t
you agree to see the nurse?” Sedona tried another way in.

  Talia shrugged.

  “Do you have any injuries that need to be tended to?” Lila had already told her that Talia had refused to be examined by Lynn Duncan, the on-site nurse practitioner, saying she didn’t have anything wrong with her.

  If Talia saw the health professional, and Lynn determined that there were injuries due to domestic abuse, California law would require them to report to the police or risk a fine at the very least. Lynn could risk her license.

  And still, only about ten percent of California’s health professionals actually reported. For various reasons. Talia’s lower lip pouted. “There’s nothing right now.”

  “Have you had injuries in the recent past?”

  She nodded but didn’t elaborate.

  And Sedona’s mind riffled through possibilities like cards on the old Rolodex her father used to keep on his desk when she was a kid.

  Was this young woman on the run?

  From one or both of her parents?

  Another family member?

  Or a nonrelative? A teacher at school?

  Was the abuse sexual in nature?

  Hiding information was classic behavior for someone being abused. With her near-perfect features, Talia didn’t look as if she’d taken any blows to the face. But that was more typical than not, too. A lot of abusers kept their blows to parts of the body that could be covered. Hidden.

  “Has anyone touched you...sexually?” An officer would ask more bluntly. And with Talia’s age, if they didn’t find her family, the police were going to be called in. That was a given.

  “No.” Talia met her gaze fully on that one.

  Satisfied that the teenager was telling the truth, Sedona asked, “How long ago was the abuse?”

  Another shrug was her only response.