The Corner of Forever and Always
Page 27
“Sounds good.” Rhett broke into a grin. They jointly owned the Calypso, a bachelor pad in the form of a coastal cruiser moored at Buccaneers Marina. “I don’t have an appointment for an hour. I’ll swing by home for the marina key and pick you up after work.”
“You know where to find me.” Beau lived in Belle Mont Manor, the biggest house in the county, but he called city hall home. Worked around the clock.
Rhett hung up and drummed his fingers on the desktop, shedding the irritation from Kennedy’s appointment like an onionskin. An evening sail should screw his head on straight. Always did.
As his headache faded, the wall clock chimed ten o’clock. Outside the street-facing window, a silver-haired man in a seersucker suit led a Maltese whose lavender ribbons matched his bow tie. Doc passed the same time each day, a warm and cozy thirty seconds carefully orchestrated to make his only son feel like shit.
And the gambit worked.
Migraine roaring back, Rhett opened his top drawer, shook two ibuprofen from the bottle, and chased the pills with a swallow from the cold coffee in the mug next to his keyboard.
What masqueraded for an innocent pleasure stroll was, in point of fact, a one-man protest against Valentine Veterinary. Doc had made good on his long-ago vow never to darken the door to Rhett’s office—going so far as to drive to TLC Pet Hospital in Hogg Jaw for Marie Claire’s care—a dick move, but it proved the saying about Valentine men. They did stay true.
Even if it was to words spoken in anger.
Rhett was groomed to study family or internal medicine at Duke and join his dad’s practice, not bolt to UGA and become a doctor of veterinary medicine.
Mama’s death had sent them both to hell, but they dealt with different devils. Seemed his old man was bent on sailing into his final years on a bitter ship.
God-fucking-speed.
As for him, Rhett had his dogs, a growing practice, and low tolerance for bullshit. He was sick and tired of being the bad son for having a different vision of his future. He sank into his leather office chair, shoved his glasses up his forehead, and exhaled.
Next to his computer perched a brass-framed black-and-white photograph of a laughing woman surrounded by two Labs, a Siamese cat, lop-eared rabbits, lovebirds, and three guinea pigs.
He grabbed the picture and ran his thumb over the glass. To live with Ginny Valentine meant to love loudly, indiscriminately, and with gusto. Doc tolerated the chaos because it made his wife happy, and she was his sun, the light in all their lives. Rhett’s core constricted as if an invisible screwdriver tightened his solar plexus. Did Mama watch over them? He set the frame back down. There’d never been a single sign after her death. No visitation dreams. No soft shift to the air as he turned his shoulder muscles to jelly beating on the speed bag in his tool shed or sanded cedar planks for the fishing skiff he was building in his backyard.
Nothing. Not even during the whole bad business with Birdie.
With any luck, Mama was up there plenty distracted by drinking gin with Margaret Mitchell, her favorite author. Or flying. She always said that’s the one thing she wished she could do, fly wild and free like one of the storm petrels that haunted the coast.
His gut twisted knowing how much she’d hate the way her beloved family had grown apart in her absence. Lou Lou smothered everyone in her path, relentless as a weedy vine. Dad sheathed himself in a thick shell, gnarled and bitter as a walnut casing. And Rhett, well, he grew long “keep your fucking distance” spines like a prickly pear cactus.
He couldn’t fix any of that, but so help him, he’d give Mama a fitting legacy—a rescue shelter that bore her name. The Virginia Valentine Memorial Shelter would be her real monument, not that cold slab of ornate granite nestled beneath a dogwood in the Everland cemetery. Her love and compassion for any animal great or small deserved to be made permanent through bricks and mortar.
Or do you want to atone? He rubbed the lines between his brow as if the gesture would erase the gnawing question.
If Mama was a saint, he was another simple sinner who kept on trying.
Word from the Low Country Community Foundation was that the construction loan was as good as wrapped up. The last obstacle before being deemed “shovel ready” was persuading Doc to donate the land. The shelter deserved to be built on the spot where Mama used to take them to play as children, the small rise where live oaks rang with katydids and tree frogs, herons silently stalked the tidal marsh at the bottom, and in the distance the ocean unfurled across the horizon like one of those bright blue ribbons Mama wore in her hair.
He drained the rest of the coffee, grimacing at the final acidic swallow. Shit. He’d put off the request long enough, but for better or worse, Doc was his dad. The guy who’d walked him around the back patio on his feet, taught him how to trim a sail, and helped him win third in the state science fair with his stem cell research project.
The guy who’d championed him.
Rhett’s gaze tracked the ceiling fan in mute outrage. What the hell? Maybe Doc deserved a thank-you, because nothing ever made Rhett want to succeed at his clinic like the fact his father openly rooted for his failure.
“All right. Let’s get this over with,” he announced to the dogs. They scrambled to attention as he stood and grabbed the three leashes dangling off the hook by the door.
Doc was a creature of habit. Not only could Rhett set a clock by his dad’s morning walk, but the man had a sweet tooth. Right now he must be stopping into the What-a-Treat Candy Boutique for his daily Charleston Chew before joining the Scrabble game at the dog park. With a little hustle, Rhett could catch him by the courthouse.
He shoved on his glasses and adjusted the frames. This conversation was going to be as fun as a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.
But nothing good ever came easy.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lia Riley is a contemporary romance author. USA Today describes her as “refreshing,” and RT Book Reviews calls her books “sizzling and heartfelt.” She loves her husband, her three kids, wandering redwood forests, and a perfect pour-over coffee. She is 25 percent sarcastic, 54 percent optimistic, and 122 percent bad at math (good thing she writes happy endings for a living). She and her family live mostly in Northern California.
You can learn more at:
LiaRiley.com
Twitter @LiaRileyWrites
Facebook.com/AuthorLiaRiley
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