“What I see,” he said slowly, “is what I saw with your mama’s family. And it only gets worse. And it ends badly. You know that, baby. Why would you want to willingly walk into it?”
“Are you saying because he’s white? Because Link’s white? Are you seriously saying that? Because the dad I remember, the father I trust, raised me to believe that the color of our skin didn’t matter. That it was who we were inside that counted.” She gripped a fist to her chest.
He looked at the floor. “That was your mama’s influence, God rest her. And it sounded good in theory. But your mama, she had a Pollyanna streak a mile wide. That had its advantages. I’m not saying it didn’t. But your mama didn’t always see the truth. Even when it was staring her ugly-like in the face.”
“Well, I wish some of the Pollyanna had rubbed off on you! Mama would be so ashamed of you. That you’re—”
“Shayla.” He clenched his fists at his sides as if he wanted to throttle her.
She actually flinched. What had they come to, standing off against each other? She hated this. Hated it.
Looking stricken, her father unclenched his hands, rubbing them as though they ached.
She’d already pushed him too far. But she was desperate to make him understand. “Daddy, please.” She worked to keep her voice low and steady. “I’m begging you. I need a friend, and I’ve never met anyone like Link. Who understands about Portia. Who—”
A scraping of chairs came from the dining room and he held up a hand. “I need to check the front. I’ll be right back.”
He left, and she heard him asking the men if they needed refills. She felt completely dismissed.
But he was back in a few seconds and picked up where they’d left off. No. Where he’d left off. “You say you need a friend. If you think Link Whitman is just a friend, you’re blind. I see how he looks at you. That’s not friendship, baby. It’s just not.”
How could she argue with that? There was definitely more than mere friendship between Link and her. But they were friends. Were becoming dear friends. Wasn’t that what her parents had modeled for her and Jerry growing up? She tried that tack now. “When I was little I used to watch you and Mama together. And even back then, I saw how you were friends. That’s what I always wanted, and I’ve found it in Link. Why can’t you see that?”
She took a deep breath but rushed right back in, needing to get it all said before he could argue. “All I’m asking is for you to let me make my own decisions. And my own mistakes. I promise you, I’ll go in with my eyes wide open. And if Link proves you right, you can say ‘I told you so,’ and I won’t make you listen to me whine or cry. But give him a chance. Please.” Her father had never been persuaded by tears, but she couldn’t help that they came now.
He clamped his lips into a tight line and stared at her for an uncomfortable minute. Finally, he shook his head slowly.
Hope welled up inside of her. Why hadn’t she spoken her mind to him long ago?
“You’re a grown woman, Shayla. You’re right about that.” He gave a little moan, as if he were in pain. “But I can’t give this my blessing. I can’t—and I won’t.”
Her heart sank. “Daddy. Please. I’m begging you.”
“I love you, Shay. You got to know that. But there’s been too much hurt. Too much pain. I just want it to stop. I don’t think either of us can take any more.”
She opened her mouth to tell him that Link had never hurt anybody. But she knew before a word left her mouth that her father would point to the newly replaced window and say otherwise. Prove otherwise.
The bells on the front door jingled.
“I’ve got it.” Daddy grabbed a fresh apron and swept past her, obviously relieved to end their conversation. “You go on and take the day-olds in to Cape. Keep your phone on too. I may need you to pick up a part for the car on your way home. If you don’t mind,” he added quickly. His concession to their discussion about her being a grown woman, no doubt.
Before she could think of another argument or better words to persuade him, he left the kitchen, letting the door swing behind him.
With a growl of frustration, she washed up the dishes in the deep sink, then went to load the boxes of day-old pastries in the car to deliver to the homeless shelter.
***
Sitting behind the wheel of his truck in the parking lot at Carson Tech, Link tried Shayla’s cell again. Straight to voice mail like it had been doing all afternoon. He’d tried calling her on his lunch break too. And left three text messages. She was hiding. He knew she’d been headed to the homeless shelter in Cape when he left the bakery, but she should have been home by now.
He Googled the bakery’s phone number and called there.
“Coffee’s On. This is Mike. How may I help you?”
Link froze, then quickly pressed End. He’d said all he had to say to Mike Michaels. He started his truck. Only an hour before he had to be back on second shift, and he needed a burger—and a quick nap—before he faced another shift. Besides, he wasn’t going to fix things between him and Shayla with a twenty-minute phone call. He tossed his cell phone on the passenger seat. He’d try her again tomorrow. Her dad was usually gone to his prayer group on Tuesday nights so maybe she’d be able to talk.
He felt bad about walking out of the bakery on a sour note this morning. But Shayla’s dad hadn’t given him much choice. He wanted to invite her and Portia to Thanksgiving dinner at the inn Thursday, but if he couldn’t get her to take his calls, that’d be a challenge.
Maybe he could have his mom call with the invitation. Might make up for him not telling his family she was coming last time. He drove to Culver’s and ordered a burger and fries, then called his mom while he waited at the drive-through window.
“Hey, bud. How’s it going?”
“Good. I’m between shifts so I need to make this quick, but I wondered if you’d do me a big favor?”
“Depends. How much is this favor going to cost me?” There was a smile in her voice.
“It’s going to cost you about three minutes of your time.”
“Okay, then shoot.”
“Would you mind calling the bakery and inviting Shayla and Portia to Thanksgiving dinner—that is if you don’t mind having extra guests.”
“Of course we don’t mind. But what about Shayla’s dad?”
“What about him?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be very nice to invite Shayla and Portia and leave him home alone for the holiday.”
“Oh.” Sometimes he really wished life had a rewind button. “I hadn’t thought about that.” He shook his head. He was being selfish, but having Mike Michaels at his Thanksgiving dinner did not sound like something to be thankful for. It’s not always about you, Whitman. He blew out a breath. “Yeah, sure. Go ahead and invite him too, I guess. But I kind of doubt he’ll come.”
“Why do you say that?”
He hesitated. “Let’s just say I don’t think he’s a fan.”
“A fan? Of the inn? Or of you?”
The drive-through window slid open and a pretty teenage girl handed out a Coke and straw. He tucked his phone between his ear and his shoulder, speaking into it as he took the drink. “You know what? I—”
“What?” the girl said, her smile revealing that she thought he was flirting with her.
“Oh. No, sorry. Not you. I was talking to someone.” He held up his phone as if he owed her proof.
She blushed crimson, and he gave her the courtesy of looking away as he put his phone back to his ear. “Never mind, Mom. I need to go.”
“Well, let me know if you change your mind, honey. I don’t mind calling.”
“No. I’ll figure it out. Thanks anyway.” He hung up before she could argue.
He drove back to Carson Tech and sat in the parking lot wolfing down the burger with one eye on the clock. Thank goodness it was a short workweek because of Thanksgiving, but three straight days of back-to-back double shifts just might do him in. He had to get out o
f this place.
But for what? Some other dead-end job? He had a business degree. What did he want to do with it? What did he want to do with his whole stinking life?
And that was just the problem. As for the job, he didn’t have a clue. As for his life, it was starting to look like the one thing he did want—Shayla Michaels—he couldn’t have.
19
Hey, baby, you have everything you need for the Whitman wedding?” Her father took one last sweep with the broom and leaned it in the corner near the storage closet.
Shayla scrubbed an imaginary spot on the glass of the pastry case and came to a slow boil. Daddy had been pretending everything was back to normal ever since Link walked out of the bakery in a huff on Monday.
No, worse than normal. Her father had been extra sweet and attentive. Trying, she knew, to get back in her good graces. “I have the wedding under control. And all the other December events. I’ve got three kids from the college lined up to help. That okay?”
“Now, you know I leave that up to you, baby.”
If he called her baby one more time, she just might come unglued.
“You’ve never wasted my money,” he continued. “And you know better than I do what it takes to run an event that size.”
“Well, I could probably get by with two helpers, but this close to Christmas I don’t want to take any chances that somebody might decide to go home early for Christmas and cancel on me. We should still come out ahead, even paying three.” She found herself measuring her words carefully. And it took everything she had to speak back to him as kindly as he was treating her. Was that what they meant by killing someone with kindness?
“Like I said”—he sidestepped and patted her on the back—“I trust you.”
She knew what that meant: he trusted her not to get involved with that evil, evil Link Whitman.
“Listen, baby, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Yep, here it came.
“I’d like you to come with me to see Jerry tomorrow.”
She stilled. This wasn’t what she’d been expecting. “No, Daddy. Who would we get to babysit Portia on Thanksgiving Day?”
“I thought we’d take her with us. To Bowling Green.”
“What? I thought we agreed it wasn’t good for her to have to see him.”
“I know, but I’ve been rethinking that. She’s going to want to know about her father one of these days sooner than we know.”
“You really want her to see him in that jumpsuit with a guard eyeing him like he might make a run for it or something?” She’d tried to block those images from her last visit out of her mind, but they came back in living color now.
“I think she’s old enough to handle it. And I think it might do Jerry a world of good to see her, to take some responsibility for her. Have somebody counting on him.”
“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think. What, you think he’s going to help feed and clothe her?” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice. “You think he’ll pay for her college?” She turned away, knowing Daddy wouldn’t tolerate that kind of sass.
But his reply came quiet and steady. “You know he can’t do any of that, Shay. But that doesn’t mean he can’t still be a father to her in some ways.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to go, Daddy. Maybe at Christmas.” But she knew she’d come up with another excuse before then.
“I’m asking you, please, Shay. If you won’t do it for Jerry, for me, then do it for your mama. You know she’d be heartbroken about everything that’s gone down.”
“Maybe Jerry should have thought about Mama before he decided to get mixed up in that gang. Maybe he should have thought about her before he got Tara knocked up and brought a baby into the world that he couldn’t take care of. Maybe he—”
Her father held up a hand, and she knew he’d reached the end of his tolerance.
She worked to keep her voice steady. “Daddy, I’ve done what you wanted and let go of the best friend I ever had next to Mama.” She thought, too late, how that might make him feel. But she had to say her piece before she lost her nerve. She could apologize later.
She took a breath. “I’m resigned to raising Portia, to working here with you to keep the bakery running. I don’t have any other options because of Portia. And I’m resigned to never having a family of my own. But even though I live under your roof, I earn my keep here, Daddy. I’m a grown woman, and it’s my decision whether I go visit Jerry or not. And I’ve made my decision. Now I’ll ask you to honor it the same way I’m honoring yours.”
He took three long strides and grabbed the broom he’d been sweeping with earlier. “Suit yourself.” He yanked the dustpan and a whisk broom from inside the storage closet and attacked the pile of debris he’d collected earlier as if it were a vicious animal.
She stormed back to the kitchen, more furious than hurt. She’d made up her mind to break things off with Link. She would have to tell him eventually. Face to face. Or at least on the phone. Unless she took the chicken way out and sent him an e-mail. But for now, she was simply ignoring his phone calls and texts.
And worrying about why he’d quit calling. He’d bombarded her with messages on Monday and Tuesday morning, but she hadn’t heard a peep out of him since. Had he given up on her that easily? He’d said he wanted to talk to her about Thanksgiving. She hoped he didn’t plan to invite her to his family’s Thanksgiving dinner. Although that might beat going to Bowling Green.
Except she wasn’t going. And neither was Portia. She didn’t care what her dad said.
***
Locking the door to the bakery, Shayla watched her dad’s car disappear down the street. Some Thanksgiving. Daddy wasn’t happy she’d refused to go with him to see Jerry, but he hadn’t pushed it.
She went to check the back door locks, then slipped her phone out of her pocket and checked it again—for the third time in as many minutes.
Link’s last message had been sent Tuesday afternoon. If he hadn’t called again by now, he wasn’t going to. And she had nobody but herself to blame. But what did it say if he gave up trying to reach her after less than forty-eight hours?
“Portia!” She hollered up the stairs. “Portia Beth? Get down here.” She heard her niece clomping around on the wooden floors and a minute later, she appeared on the landing.
“I picked up my toys like you told me.”
“Okay, then, let’s load up. Get your heavy coat on. It’s cold outside.”
“I wanna wear my Frozen jacket.”
“No, if you wear your Frozen jacket, you’ll be frozen. Now get your big coat on. And hustle.”
Portia huffed and stomped, but she went for the coat.
She and Portia would do what they’d always done on Thanksgiving Day since Mama died. They would take boxes of bread and pastries and pies—fresh made for this occasion, not day-old—to the homeless shelter in Cape, where a big turkey dinner was always served.
It had been Daddy’s idea to do that the first Thanksgiving after Mama passed. And they’d kept it up. It made the holiday easier than setting the table in the kitchen alcove and staring at Mama’s empty chair.
Shayla wasn’t sure what had made Daddy decide to go spend Thanksgiving with Jerry. And what had made him suddenly think it would be a good idea for Portia to go along. But she was glad to have the day away from her father.
She loved the man. She had to keep reminding herself of that. But it seemed lately he’d made it his goal in life to keep her from anything that made her happy—like Link—and steer her toward the very things he knew upset her. Like Jerry.
Well, her father would be happy to know she’d already decided to honor his wishes and not see Link again. Daddy would make life miserable for her if she didn’t. He’d proven that.
The irony did not escape her that she felt miserable anyway. And maybe Daddy was right about Link. If he could give up so easily, maybe she’d made the right decision anyway. But even if Lin
k was still calling her every hour, she’d made up her mind. She simply couldn’t ask him to make all the adjustments he’d have to make to fit into her life. It was too much. To take on Portia, to deal with Daddy. To be tied to the bakery forever because Daddy couldn’t run the place alone, and he couldn’t afford to hire full-time help. They were doing good to make payroll for her and the few college kids they employed.
No, she was stuck here. This was the hand God had dealt her, and she was determined to make the best of it. If for no one else, for Portia. But her niece was all the more reason she couldn’t drag Link into the cage that was her life.
She sighed and looked at the clock, then toward the stairway. Where was that child? If they were going to have the bread there in time for Thanksgiving dinner they needed to get on the road. “Portia? Hurry up, girl. We need to go.”
“I’m comin’!”
Shayla heard clomping in the hallway above her. The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Portia came out, closing the door behind her as she’d been taught. She descended hanging on to the rail, and before she was halfway down Shayla could see that Portia had her heavy coat on—over her Frozen jacket.
She smiled to herself and said nothing. There were plenty of hills to die on. This wasn’t one of them. Portia was a sweet child—and creative—but she could be a handful.
Shayla sighed. Link Whitman had the right to a normal life, a normal family. His own babies. Keep talking, Shayla Jean. Talk enough and you might even convince yourself.
When Portia got to the bottom of the stairs, she folded her arms across her middle in a stubborn stance Shayla recognized all too well. “I don’t wanna go. Can’t we just stay home?”
“No, baby. We need to take this food to the homeless shelter. You want those people to have some good bread and pies for their Thanksgiving dinner, don’t you?”
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