Smiling, Riley knelt to the floor again and turned her to face me. “Jasmine, I’d like you to meet Emma. Emma, this is my baby sister, Jasmine.”
Jasmine craned her head toward his. “I’m not a baby.”
He raised his palms in a plea bargain.
She extended a hand toward me. “You can call me Jazz . . . you know, like the music.”
Could she have been any cuter? “It’s very nice to meet you, Jazz. You can call me Em.”
As much time as I’d spent with kids, you’d think I would’ve grown accustomed to how easily their faces lit up with the simplest of efforts. But the way Jasmine’s countenance sparkled over our introductions was enough to capture my heart single-handedly.
She whirled back to her big brother and tucked her head against his ear. “She’s pretty.”
A giggle trailed her intended whisper.
“Girls? What’s going on in here?” A woman’s voice soared around the corner right before she did. The dust on her scalloped apron matched the white smudges on her forehead where she’d probably brushed back the strands falling out of her ponytail.
She dropped a country blue dishtowel on the floor and pressed one hand against the wall. The other glided to her chest, then over top of her mouth, and finally resumed its spot over her heart.
“Riley?” The voice that’d resounded through the kitchen a moment ago now barely reached a whisper. “W . . . what are you doing here? When did you . . . ?”
Same as when he’d shown up at my door, the reason didn’t matter. She rushed the rest of the way and flung her arms around him.
Why hadn’t I thought to bring tissues? I backed against the wall, not wanting to intrude on their moment.
Mrs. Preston leaned back ever so slightly from a hug she’d obviously been waiting for some time to give and traced the outline of Riley’s face with both hands.
“Mom, I’m so sorry—”
“Shh. Never mind that. There’s no use fretting over water under the bridge. You’re home now. That’s what matters.”
No question where Riley’s compassion and tenderheartedness came from.
Melody stalked down the hallway, practically sideswiping the pair of them as she passed. Riley’s gaze followed her to the corner and dropped to the carpet runner.
“Don’t worry about her, sweetheart,” Mrs. Preston said. “She’s mad at everyone these days. I think it’s that music she listens to. Puts her in a right awful state of mind.” She held Riley’s shoulders and searched his face again. “My, what a handsome young man you are.”
“Mom,” he moaned.
A laugh spilled out before I could stop it. I wasn’t used to seeing him in this context.
“Oh.” Mrs. Preston turned toward me.
I couldn’t blame her for not noticing me any sooner. It was hard to notice much of anything when Riley was in the room. He had a way of unintentionally stealing the stoplight.
“And who’s this?”
The single light bulb in the hallway transformed into a heat lamp honed in on my cheeks.
Riley strode to my side. “Mom, I’d like you to meet Emma Matthews, my fiancée.”
I held my breath, waiting. Please don’t be mad.
An indecipherable expression flooded her face. Without hesitation, she engulfed me in a hug like I was one of her daughters. My throat squeezed. The contented smile on Riley’s face from behind his mom made it impossible to swallow the emotion.
Definitely should’ve brought tissues.
Mrs. Preston held on to my hand, took one of Riley’s, and looked back and forth between the two of us with watery eyes. “Thank you for coming home.”
Blinking her tears away, she ruffled her hands over her apron and spun toward the kitchen. “You’re just in time for dinner.”
I followed Riley past the foyer toward savory aromas that rivaled those from the Olive Garden. A tug on my shirt drew me to a stop beside a long dining room table.
“Em?” Jasmine asked. “Can I be the flower girl?”
I pinched my lips together and met Riley’s glance. “I think we’d both be honored.”
He winked in agreement and passed through the open doorway into the kitchen.
Jasmine danced over to a china cabinet against the back wall. “You can help me set the table.” She counted the number of necessary place settings and lugged out a tower of plates.
As we circled the table, folding napkins and laying out silverware, I listened to the conversation coming from the kitchen.
“Where’s Dad?” Riley asked.
“He’s out back in the shed, working on that motorcycle of his. He’ll be coming along in a minute.” She laughed. “He has an uncanny way of knowing when dinner’s ready.”
“Some things never change.” The edge in his tone seemed harsher than it needed to.
I jumped at the sound of Mrs. Preston’s knife hitting the cutting board. “You’re right. Some things never change. But when you stop trying to change them, you might realize they’re not that bad.” She left one hand over the knife handle and pressed the other flat on the counter. “Please, Riley. Please don’t start. You just got here, and I don’t want—”
He was at her side before she could finish. “I’m sorry.”
The screen door leading to the backyard swung open and shut. Complete silence swept throughout the house.
I turned to Jasmine for some clue as to what was going on. Her white knuckles stretched over the top of the chair with the answer. This was the moment we’d all been dreading.
chapter ten
Traces
Riley’s dad stopped just inside the door, shock flickering across his dark blue eyes. Every crease lining the leathery skin on his forehead pulled taut. A forced blink lasted so long, there was no telling how many thoughts passed with the single motion.
He looked straight at Riley, face devoid of emotion. “The prodigal son returns.”
Wind stirred up outside and shook the window screen against the glass.
Mr. Preston finished wiping his hands on a faded rag blotched with mechanical grease and dropped it on a stand beside the doorway. The weight of his work boots added to his heavy stride across the linoleum toward the refrigerator. He snapped off a bottle cap. “And what’s the occasion that graces us with your presence?” Glaring at the ceiling, he guzzled a quarter of his beer down without taking a breath.
Mrs. Preston’s flour-dusted hand covered Riley’s forearm in a grip that looked about as tight as the one wrenched around my insides.
Veins enlarged on the top of Riley’s hands as he seized the edge of the counter. “I came to apologize. To set things right.” His transparency tore at his words and my heart.
“I left in anger, and it took me a lot longer than it should’ve to realize some things aren’t worth sacrificing.” He loosened his grip and moved a tentative step forward.
Mrs. Preston clutched a dishtowel with both hands. Though her gaze had momentarily strayed toward her husband, she locked it on her son now.
Riley approached him, shoulders squared but eyes tenderized with humility. “I’m sorry, Dad. I came back because I’d like my family to be a part of my life.”
The glass beer bottle banged onto the countertop so hard, the echo shuddered over Jasmine and me in the dining room.
“Well, isn’t that nice. Rose, look, our son’s discovered it’s a good idea to be a part of our family.”
Mrs. Preston closed her eyes. “Jonathan, please.”
Ignoring his wife, he splayed his arms to his sides and lowered his head in a half bow. “Well, by all means, welcome home.”
On his way through the doorway, he jerked short at the sight of me. My knuckles matched Jasmine’s. If I were her size, I would’ve shrunk behind the chair.
It took less than ten seconds for Mr. Preston’s eyes to dismiss my presence before he charged down the hall toward the bedrooms.
A door slammed, and my shoulders almost hit my ears.
R
iley tore through the dining room, his mom on his heels.
“Let him cool off.” Mrs. Preston caught his hand. “He’ll come around.”
The look on Riley’s face said differently. If that encounter was any indication, he was probably right.
Mrs. Preston motioned behind her. “Riley, why don’t you get the drinks? Emma, would you mind helping me finish up the salad?”
How could she be so calm?
Though, to be honest, I would’ve taken any distraction right about then. I released the innocent chair and followed her warm smile into the kitchen.
Similar to Trey, she seemed to have a way of defusing the tension, no matter how fierce. Her hospitality ushered an unexplained peace over their home.
At least, until we all sat down at the dinner table less than a half hour later.
Or maybe it was just me. Everyone else seemed to avoid the obvious.
Riley raised a fork twirled with spaghetti. “Homemade pasta? Mom, you’ve outdone yourself.”
Jasmine slurped a noodle through her lips. “She’s taking a cooking class.”
“Not exactly,” Mrs. Preston said. “I’ve been watching a cooking show.”
“Yeah, like, every day.” Jasmine laughed.
Riley’s grin peeked from behind his cup. “Wonder if there’s a show on frozen dinners.”
Teasing me about my go-to meals never ceased to entertain him.
Mr. Preston dragged his fork across his plate. “So, Emma, why don’t you tell us about yourself and why you don’t mind being apart from your family over the holidays?”
Riley clanked his glass on the table. “Dad.”
I set down my own glass and confined my nervous fidgeting to the napkin in my lap. “It’s only my mom, my brother, and me. My dad died when I was sixteen.” I stared at my placemat. “Austin’s on a snowboarding trip with some friends, and Mom’s spending the week with my grandparents, so it worked out. I’m planning to make a trip home during the spring instead.”
Mrs. Preston hastened to swallow her sip of tea the second I finished speaking. “And what are you studying at Reed, dear?”
Nice conversation changer. So that was where Riley got his perceptiveness. I smiled at the intervention and picked through my salad with my fork. “Business.”
“She’s brilliant,” Riley said with enough animation to compensate for my lack of any.
My face had to have turned the same color as the spaghetti sauce.
Riley didn’t give me the chance to object. “Don’t let her modesty fool you. She breezes through all her coursework, which is impressive enough. Trust me. But it’s what she does in the field that’s really inspiring.”
Jasmine looked at me from above a piece of garlic bread bigger than her hand. “What do you do in the field?”
Even if she didn’t understand what that meant, her genuine curiosity was enough to drain the heat radiating off my skin. “I work with an organization in inner-city Portland. We offer kids educational help they most likely wouldn’t get otherwise.”
Jasmine’s sweet eyes blinked as she contemplated my response.
Mr. Preston sliced through a meatball. “Sounds like charity.”
I straightened in my chair. He didn’t have to like me, but he didn’t know a thing about the center. “Actually, it’s more of an investment. The kids have a lot to offer back to their community. They just need people who are willing to give them a chance.”
My initial rise of offense waned. I couldn’t mention the kids without it melting my heart. “I’m pretty sure my time there ends up blessing me more than them.”
Mr. Preston gnawed on a piece of bread and avoided my eye contact as if I hadn’t spoken at all.
The ceiling fan pushed another round of weighted silence over the table. Mrs. Preston cleared her throat while folding the ends of a towel over the bread bowl. “And what about you, Riley? What have you been spending your time on since you graduated?”
It was an innocent question—a simple conversation starter in any other scenario. She couldn’t have known she’d asked the one question Riley dreaded having to answer.
After gulping down half his water, he lowered the cup far enough to mumble, “I’ve been working on my music.”
Mrs. Preston leaned forward in a visible strain to decipher what he’d said. Once it must’ve registered, she froze, along with everyone else at the table.
Except for his dad.
He smeared his bread in the spaghetti sauce and left it standing upright in the middle of the plate. “Thought you gave that up.”
“I did . . . for a while.” Riley covered my hand with his. “But I guess, like the kids Emma works with, I just needed someone to have a little faith in me before I saw my potential.”
Though sincere, it felt like a jab. A reminder of his dad’s deficiency in that area.
Riley looked at me and gave my hand a squeeze.
I returned it, steeling myself before he disclosed the rest of his news. Knowing the bitterness his dad held on to about his own failed career as a musician, I wasn’t sure how he’d handle hearing Riley’s success at it.
“I actually just got back from Nashville. I’ve been recording an album with Momentum Records.”
Either the fan stopped working or someone vacuumed all the air from the room. Not even a single exhale slipped through.
Mrs. Preston’s fork dropped onto her plate. She scrambled to blot out the splattered sauce from the tablecloth. “Riley, that’s . . . that’s wonderful, honey. Congratulations. We always knew you were a talented musician.”
“So, that’s why you came home?” Mr. Preston’s chair scraped against the floor as he pushed backward. “To prove you did it without me?”
“What? No. I only wanted—”
Mr. Preston rose from the table. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and tossed it over his half-empty plate. “Excuse me. I’ve lost my appetite.”
Riley flew to his feet. “Damn it, Dad. You want to know why I haven’t come home in four years? This. This is why. Can’t you just, for once, be supportive of me?” He kicked his chair back, raked his hands through his hair, and faced the china cabinet.
The room stood still.
Riley’s arms drooped to his sides as he turned back around. Each step toward his dad deepened with earnestness. He stopped in front of him, every emotion laid before him. “I’m your son.”
A trace of something unspoken softened Mr. Preston’s eyes. He averted his gaze toward the floor, swallowed. When he lifted his head, cold detachment had resumed its hold. “I think you gave up that title a long time ago. Or don’t you remember that conversation the summer you left?”
I latched on to the seat on either side of my legs. How could he be so callous? Couldn’t he see his son’s longing for his dad’s affection?
A tendon on Riley’s neck throbbed. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m standing right in front of you.” His voice caved to a whisper. “I came back.”
I almost ran to his side.
Mr. Preston’s gaze flicked to me and back to Riley. “All I see is a boy chasing foolish dreams and dragging some starry-eyed girl along with him.”
Riley got up in his face. “You leave her out of this, or I swear I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” A harsh laugh grated through a humorless smile. Mr. Preston shook his head. “You have no business getting married. You’re still just a kid.”
“Enough!” Jasmine blasted to her feet. “Stop it. Both of you. Don’t you see what you’re doing?” An onslaught of tears paraded down her red cheeks. She wheeled around the table and fled straight for the back door.
Mr. Preston jutted his chin at Riley. “Don’t you think you’ve caused her enough pain?”
“Like father, like son.” He backed up but kept him locked in a glare. “I’ll make it easy on you. We’re out of here.”
chapter eleven
Guarded
Riley’s eyes met mine long enough to let me know he needed a mi
nute. I nodded, and he took off after Jasmine. Mr. Preston’s stare kept me frozen halfway out of my seat. As soon as he disappeared down the hall, I skirted around the table and through the kitchen.
Outside, I stumbled onto a deck perched above a long grassy slope leading to a riverbank. Riley’d already reached the edge of the water, where he called up to a small tree house hidden inside an old elm’s sturdy branches. Jasmine opened the bottom door, and he climbed the ladder toward a conversation they needed to have alone.
No chance I was going back inside without him. I sat on the deck with my legs hanging off the edge. Something moved in the corner. A chocolate Labrador, who could’ve passed for a much older Jake, hobbled toward me. His tired legs apparently moved far slower than his piqued curiosity. I rubbed his head when his journey finally ended in a collapse next to me. Sitting side by side, we both peered across the yard, waiting.
The quaint view from the front of the house had been misleading. The backyard extended at least a hundred feet downhill. A paddleboat rested upside down underneath a gazebo near two bare hammock stands. The peacefulness swept me in immediately. No guessing why Jasmine had chosen the backyard as a hideout.
“You should see it in the summertime.”
I flinched at Mrs. Preston’s voice.
“It’s really lovely that time of year. Everything comes to life then.” She sat down and folded her arms over her knees. “I’m sorry for my husband’s behavior. There’s no excuse.” She petted the old dog, and he rested his head on her lap. “He and Riley have trouble seeing eye to eye.”
There was an understatement if I’d ever heard one.
But now that I’d seen their broken relationship firsthand, my heart ached for restoration even more than before. “What do you think it’ll take for them to work it out?”
“I don’t know, dear. I don’t know.”
We both gazed at the river until a splash in the water interrupted the silence. Two seagulls circled around the ripples. Mrs. Preston rose to her feet and swiped off some crumpled leaves from the back of her pants. “Come on. I’ll help you with your bags.”
“But I thought Riley said we were leaving.”
Hope Unbroken (Unveiled Series Book 3) Page 6