Just Look Up

by Courtney Walsh

  Was she really willing to put her name on these new designs? Did she believe in them that much?

  She glanced at Chloe, who stared at her in shock.

  “Why the hostility, Lane?” Marshall leaned back in his seat.

  “No hostility,” Lane said. “I just know the team is now under Miles’s direction and they’ll be presenting a separate design, so I’d like to go on record with this one as my own. You can put your name on his.”

  Marshall shook his head and stood, peering down at her. “We’ll talk about this later.” He left her on the sofa with a racing pulse and sweaty palms.

  Once he was out of earshot, Chloe let out what sounded like a laugh. “That was awesome.” She jumped to her feet. “Did you see the look on his face?”

  Lane’s nerves turned into an involuntary laugh of her own. “What did I just do?”

  “You stood up for yourself.” Chloe grinned. “It was epic.”

  Lane glanced at the oversize, sleek silver clock on the wall. It was already nine. “I should’ve listened to you all along, Chlo.”

  Her assistant sat again. “What do you mean?”

  “I want to go back to the original design.”

  Chloe’s face brightened. “You do?”

  “They’re going to call us in any second, and I didn’t bring all the visuals for the original design.”

  “You sure about that?” Chloe glanced at Lane’s portfolio with a raised brow.

  Lane unzipped the sides and opened the black leather case. Much of her presentation would be done digitally, but Lane still loved a tangible visual aid or two. On the top of the pile were the new designs—the mood board for a sleek, mature business space that resembled any other.

  Chloe picked them up to reveal the original boards, the ones that had been on display last Monday, the ones Ashton apparently told Marshall they liked. Why had Marshall gotten her so far off track if the Solar team liked the original direction? Did he want her to fail?

  If the Solar execs didn’t prefer her designs after all, then she wouldn’t land the account. And while that idea made her a little sick to her stomach, Chloe was right—she’d rather lose an account with a design she believed in than win it with a design she didn’t even want to execute.

  “Did you put these in here?” Lane asked, moving the original designs to the front of her portfolio.

  Chloe smiled.

  “Thank you.” Lane made sure her smile was genuine to match her gratitude.

  “Lane?” Marshall appeared from around the corner. “You can go on in. We’ll be there in a minute.”

  Lane glanced at Chloe. “I hope this isn’t the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

  CHAPTER

  21

  RYAN WOKE UP EARLY MONDAY MORNING. If things went according to plan, this would be the week Esther was completed and Cedar Grove was ready for finishing touches. He’d already hired a crew of painters, but he was still hoping Lane would tell him what color paint to use.

  It kept him up last night, wondering how he was going to pull any of this off. Maybe it was too lofty a dream. He didn’t want to guilt Lane into helping, but he sure could use her artistic eye right about now.

  His phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number on the screen of his flip phone, but when he answered, he heard Lydia Beckett’s voice on the other end.

  “Ryan, how are you?”

  “I’m doing well. How are you? How’s DJ?”

  “Fine. We’re all fine. Just had a couple of questions for you about Harbor Pointe. I was trying to come up with activities for DJ, and I had a few ideas I wanted to run by you.”

  Ryan had already thought of that. Drum’s son was a rambunctious six-year-old who deserved to have the week of his life. He’d arranged water sports rentals with Noah, a fishing excursion with Tucker Delancey, and if his mom said it was okay, a hot-air balloon ride on their last night in Harbor Pointe.

  He relayed his plans to Lydia, who naturally told him it was all “too much.”

  “At least let me pay you, Ryan. You’re giving us this whole week in your cottage for free—don’t think we believe for one second someone isn’t footing the bill.”

  It was the least he could do for the family of the man who’d saved his life.

  Lydia’s voice shook as she said a quiet thank-you, and at the sound of her tears, a lump got stuck in his throat.

  This was his dream for Cedar Grove—to rent it out, run a good business, and boost the town’s economy, of course, but along with that, to offer vacations for the families of the men he’d served with, many of whose wives were now widows and single mothers.

  It seemed fitting that his very first week, Cedar Grove would be filled with these families.

  Maybe if he did it long enough and for enough veterans and their families, he’d stop feeling guilty that he hadn’t come home in a body bag.

  “Sounds like everything is just going to be perfect, Ryan,” Lydia said. “You have no idea how much good you’re doing. Drum would be so thankful to you.”

  He couldn’t respond for fear of his voice breaking. It was Ryan who was thankful to Drum. The man’s bravery had kept Ryan safe—one more reason he was determined to use his life well and not turn out like his dad. After several seconds of silence, Lydia said good-bye and Ryan ended the call, more anxious than ever to make sure everything was perfect for their stay in Harbor Pointe.

  If he could do for these families what the Kelleys had done for him—what this town had done for him—it would all be worth it.

  He helped Jerry unload boxes of tile for Esther’s bathroom, his mind wandering back to the day he’d returned from Afghanistan after two tours that had lasted a total of five years. The bus dropped him off at the Newman station, and from there, he planned to find a ride to anywhere else.

  There weren’t many from Newman who went off to fight in the war. Ryan and one other kid, Tommy Kemper. He and Tommy had a lot in common, thinking back on it now. Neither had many prospects—no money for college, no great job waiting for them—and both wanted out of their parents’ houses more than anything in the world.

  Tommy’s mom had done her best for him, but the string of losers she’d brought home to play house with over the years had turned Tommy into a withdrawn, brooding kid with a chip on his shoulder. Ryan was one of the few people the guy had ever even talked to. They’d enlisted the same day, after hearing an ROTC recruiter at an assembly at Newman High.

  That’s my ticket out of this dump, Ryan had thought.

  Tommy must’ve thought the same thing because after the speech, they both found themselves waiting to sign whatever paperwork the recruiter had that promised them freedom from life as they knew it.

  Tommy didn’t make it back to Newman. He was killed in action.

  When Ryan returned, he wore his guilt like an invisible cloak, wrestling with the whole idea that he’d been spared when a man as good as Drum, a man with a wife and a son, had died just months before.

  Much to Ryan’s surprise, the mayor of Newman, Gerald Jeffries, met him at the bus station.

  “If you don’t mind, we’ve put together a little welcome home for you,” Mayor Jeffries said.

  “Oh, that’s not necessary, sir.”

  “We heard about what you did over there, Brooks,” the mayor said. “Mighty proud of you. And we’re thankful for your service.”

  “Just doing my job, sir.”

  The mayor picked up his duffel bag. “Follow me.”

  Ryan didn’t argue. He didn’t much feel like going to a welcome home party, but it was thoughtful, and he’d never been Newman’s pride and joy before.

  He’d been wounded only a few days after he found out the truth about Hailey’s boyfriend—took it as a sign it was time to go home and protect the family he should’ve been protecting all along.

  As he entered the Post House—an old post office that had been converted into a reception hall—Ryan used a cane and walked at a much slower pace than he used to
. The doctors said he would heal, but in that moment, he wasn’t so sure.

  The mayor led him into the reception hall, and the crowd that had gathered erupted into applause and cheering. Ryan stood just inside the room, facing a large, handwritten banner that read, Welcome Home, Ryan Brooks, and shook his head at the scene in front of him.

  Never in a million years did he expect to make his hometown proud.

  “Mr. Dobbins’s fifth-grade class made the banner and the cheerleaders made the cupcakes. Hundreds and hundreds of cupcakes.” The mayor clapped a hand on his back. “Can’t promise they’re edible, but it’s the thought that counts.” Mayor Jeffries led him through the crowd and Ryan recognized a number of familiar faces—former teachers who’d probably expected him to turn out like his dad, former classmates who’d aged ever so slightly, and at last his eyes fell on Hailey.

  She bounded out of the throng of people and into his arms. “You’re finally home.” Her smile stretched the entire width of her face—it was the best view he’d had in years. Hailey had always been so cheerful and easy to please, even in the midst of their circumstances. He was relieved at the thought that maybe she was the same old Hailey. He’d been afraid that the way her life had turned out could’ve stolen that from her.

  “Would you say a few words, Ryan?” Mayor Jeffries asked.

  “Wow. I’m not really prepared.”

  The mayor hopped onto the small stage at one end of the room. “Come on up here.” Then, into the microphone: “Would you all like to hear from our hometown hero?”

  “I’m not a hero,” he said, though he was pretty sure no one heard him.

  “Go on, Ryan.” Hailey gave him a shove. “Don’t be modest. We’re so proud of you.”

  Seconds later, he found himself on the stage, staring into a sea of faces, his mind full of nothing.

  He inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly, careful not to exhale into the microphone. “This is all pretty unbelievable.” He glanced at Hailey, who was still beaming, hands clasped in front of her face. “But really, I’m not a hero. I’m just a guy who had a job to do.”

  The mayor leaned forward. “Anyone who risks his life to serve our country is a hero in our book. Am I right?”

  The crowd cheered.

  Ryan looked across the modest crowd. Newman was hardly even a village, but they’d managed to assemble a respectable number of people. For him.

  One face was unmistakably absent, though.

  His father’s.

  “The truth is, I feel kind of strange standing up here when so many of my buddies will never have the chance to stand again. Those men and women are the real heroes. Those are the ones we should be . . .”

  A loud noise from the back of the room drew Ryan’s—and everyone else’s—attention. The door was flung open and a drunk Martin Brooks stumbled in. Ryan’s eyes darted to Hailey, whose face quickly crumpled.

  “Where’s . . . my . . . son?” If Kenny Fowler hadn’t caught him and set him upright, Martin would’ve fallen down.

  There he was. The reason Ryan had left Newman in the first place. A reminder of everything Ryan hoped he wouldn’t become, on display for everyone in town to see. A reminder that the town had made a mistake. Ryan Brooks was no hero—he was just a kid who grew up in a trailer park with a dad who was a mean drunk and a mom who took off when he was too young to remember her.

  He’d left the stage then, probably to the pitying stares of every well-meaning person in town.

  The next day, he drove to Harbor Pointe for a weekend away, and he’d been there ever since, working for a local construction company, going to school, and only venturing into Newman when he had to.

  Today was one of those times.

  And he was dreading it.

  After his morning breakfast at Hazel’s, Ryan set his crew to work. He knew they could handle the day’s tasks, but he wanted to be there while they did.

  Unfortunately, he had something more important to tend to.

  He hopped on his bike and headed out on the highway toward Newman, the same route he and Nate had ridden the day of the accident. Flashes of what he’d seen that night spun through his mind like an old-time movie reel edited to show only a few details at a time. Everything had happened so quickly, and he didn’t have all the pieces.

  He’d been putting off thinking about it, choosing instead to fantasize about winning over the girl who got away. But with Lane back in Chicago, he had nothing to focus on but facing the truth.

  Walker and another deputy had come by his work site on Friday to probe him one more time, apparently not buying his story that he didn’t know anything.

  Noah was especially concerned with figuring out who was responsible for the accident, and with every day that passed, every day Nate didn’t wake up, the urgency to pin the blame on someone only increased.

  A week had passed. Ryan couldn’t avoid his fears for another day. He had to find out the truth about what he remembered.

  First he stopped at Scooter’s and checked the parking lot, almost relieved when he didn’t see any sign of his father. Drinking this early in the morning would be a new low, even for good old Martin.

  Ryan didn’t even know if his dad was still working. Had he been able to hold down a job? Every month when Ryan left an envelope of cash in his mailbox, he said a prayer that more of it went to food than to booze.

  He drove into Newman and then to the outskirts, on the other side of a set of railroad tracks that ran through the small town. That cliché had never escaped him. He and Hailey really did come from the wrong side of the tracks. It was only when he was with the Kelley family that he let himself forget that for a while.

  He crossed the tracks and entered the trailer park where he and Hailey had grown up.

  He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to confirm his worst fears. Didn’t want to be faced with the ethical dilemma that was sure to follow. But he had to. He had to know the truth.

  Last night, his mind replayed the accident so many times he finally got up and watched SportsCenter to try to fill his brain with something other than the sound of metal meeting with asphalt. But once he lay down, it all came back again.

  He’d been so close to finally falling asleep when the image of the blue truck jumped into his mind. He was lying on the road, staring at the taillights, and then the image narrowed and his eyes fell to the spot just above the right of the license plate. A red-and-white bumper sticker. He couldn’t read the words, but the colors were unmistakable.

  Now, as he turned in to the trailer park, he asked God to guide him, whether what he feared was true or not.

  He rode through the rows of trailers toward the back of the park, to the lot where he’d lived for too long. Their trailer jutted up next to a large stretch of woods, which he and Hailey had often run to on the nights their dad turned mean. How many times had they run off and hidden in the cover of darkness?

  How many times had Martin stood in the doorway yelling for them to come home? When they were young, they’d done as he said, out of fear mostly. But as Ryan got older, he realized they could stay hidden for hours, and in the morning, their dad wouldn’t remember yelling after them at all.

  By middle school, he’d met the Kelley family, and Ryan and Hailey never slept outside again. He’d call and Frank would pick them up at the bus station in Newman. Sometimes they’d stay in Harbor Pointe for several days at a time, especially during the summer.

  Martin never once came looking for them.

  How could he have left Hailey in this place without him? She was barely twelve when he left for the Army. All those nights he’d stood watch over her while she slept, oftentimes outside . . . No wonder she’d gotten herself out of there as fast as she could.

  But her escape had only led to more pain. And Ryan vowed not to let that happen to her again.

  Off to one side, he spotted the blue Ford F-150. The truck faced him, but a dark shadow of suspicion hovered overhead as if he already knew what h
e would find when he checked the back of the vehicle.

  A part of him had known all along.

  He told himself to check the back of the truck and go. No need to hang around. Get his proof and turn the man in.

  As he parked his bike and killed the engine, though, the front door opened. The sound of that flimsy metal door unlatching set off something inside him—all his memories of those terrible nights rolled into one. The image of his father standing in the doorway, backlit by the dim lights inside, shouting into the darkness for Ryan and Hailey to get inside.

  But he wasn’t that scared kid anymore. He wasn’t afraid of this man. He’d learned the truth since leaving Newman—that his worth wasn’t wrapped up in Martin Brooks’s words.

  Still, sometimes the fear of turning out just like his father was so great it crippled him.

  Martin stood at the door, glaring into the sun. “This is private property.”

  Ryan could hear the slur of his words.

  “You can’t be back here.” He stumbled off the steps and into the yard until finally a splash of recognition washed across his face. “Ryan?” The word came out thin, barely a whisper, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  Ryan looked away. He hated this. He didn’t want to stand in front of this man. He wanted to forget they were related and move past every vicious memory that still tortured him in the quiet nights. He’d done such a good job of shoving it all to the back of his mind and not thinking about it.

  “I just need to check something on your truck,” Ryan said.

  “What’s wrong with my truck?” Martin wore baggy jeans and an old gray T-shirt with a stain on the front. Did he ever do laundry? Shower? Or was drinking the only thing that mattered to this man?

  “Nothing’s wrong with it.”