End Scene

by Elise Faber

  Just. Live.

  That was the single thing he could have said to end my protest, which the punk probably knew, given the amount of time and soul-sharing we’d done with each other over the years. He dropped his arm, nudged me back toward Aaron. “I’ll be fine.” A beat paired with another nudge forward. “I promise.” Another pause, this one paired with an award-winning smile. “Plus, you’ll have Italy to look forward to afterward. Think of all the pasta and wine and hot Italian men.”

  Aaron growled.

  Literally growled.

  And while I was gaping at him, wondering where that had come from, he snagged my wrist and tugged my back against his chest, wrapped his arms around me. My body responded, heat trailing down my spine, seeping into my breasts, between my thighs.

  Talbot turned for the guest house, leaning in just far enough to grab his jacket from the hook on the wall, before closing the door, and heading down the walk.

  “You’re welcome, lovebirds,” he called, whistling as he strode away.

  Then he paused, glanced pack, eyes darkening.

  But he wasn’t looking at me.

  His narrow-eyed glare was directed over my head. “Hurt her, and I’ll rip off your arms and beat you to death with them.”

  A kiss blown in my direction, a smile that had made many a female heart skip a beat. However, mine was pulsing for a different reason. Because the man was wonderful, because he was a friend.

  Because he was my family.

  “Damn, he just Hank-ed me,” Aaron murmured.

  “What?” I asked.

  “His character from the Renegade films,” he said. “I’ve been catching up on all your clients’ movies that I haven’t seen. The Renegade series is my favorite. Great action, and Tal is a total badass.”

  “They are good,” I said, still not quite understanding what he was getting at.

  “Well, I just always thought actors are acting, you know. That there’s nothing real about it.”

  Ah. Now I got it. “Yeah, I mean a lot of it is just acting, but there’s always a sliver of their real self somewhere in the role.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “And there’s definitely a slice of Hank in Tal.”

  I chuckled. “His glare is that scary?” I teased, even though I knew the power of that glare, had been on its receiving end—and had given into it—far too many times.

  “I think my balls are currently shriveled up into my body.”

  Laughing and shifting so Aaron released me, I turned and faced him. “We don’t want that. I like your balls.”

  He raised innocent brows. “Do you like them enough to go to Utah with me?”

  I snorted, shook my head. “Do I have a choice?”

  “You always have a choice, Peaches.” His hand slid up and down my back. “I just hope in this case you’ll choose me.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “And not forget that Italy comes afterward.”

  God, I loved this man.

  The thought slid through me so effortlessly that I didn’t panic or startle. Instead, it just settled over my skin, my mind, my soul like a warm and comfortable blanket.

  I loved this man. Enough to want to go anywhere with him. To support him and see this out and . . . I loved myself. Enough that I wanted to close the door on the painful memories of my past, that I wanted to connect with the positive ones. I wanted to keep talking to Tammy, wanted to see his mom.

  And I needed to talk to my dad.

  But to that last one . . . did I though?

  Mentally, I stiffened my spine.

  Yes, I did.

  “What do you say, Peaches?” Aaron asked. “I don’t want to rush you, but I’ve got to get tickets on the next flight out. Am I buying one or two?”

  Fuck, I loved this man.

  Squeezing his hand, I brought my lips to his. “Two, baby.”

  Then I kissed him, a hot, fleeting caress, before pulling back.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need my go-bag,” I called, rushing into the house. “And a heavier jacket because Utah is going to be freezing.”

  His laughter chased me all the way to the bedroom.

  Fifteen

  Aaron

  I slipped into Carlos’s apartment at the winery, bone-weary after the day.

  We’d been able to borrow a press from a nearby winery, but it hadn’t arrived until a couple of hours ago on a rented big rig. Before that, Dale, the mechanic I knew from Darlington, the next town over, had managed to cobble the press together enough for it to work at a quarter speed.

  Which meant the rest of the crew and I had worked through the night, pressing the grapes the old-fashioned way before they thawed.

  Hard, exhausting work.

  But we’d salvaged the crop, and the rest of the grapes were currently being processed, the juice collected, the months-long fermentation process beginning.

  A process that didn’t involve me.

  I needed sleep. I needed to hold my woman. I needed sleep.

  In that order. Or maybe another, I couldn’t be sure, not with my mind so bleary. I rested one hand against the wall, started to toe off my shoes, but nearly stumbled.

  That was when I felt warm hands on my back.

  “Here, baby,” Mags said. “Come with me.” She tugged me down the short hall that led to the bedroom, and I nearly collapsed on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m filthy,” I managed.

  “I’ve got you.” Her fingers went to my boots, unlacing and removing them with rapid efficiency, then she tugged my shirt over my head and pulled back the covers on the bed, encouraging me down onto the mattress. Exhaustion swept over me like a black wave the moment my head hit the pillow, but I was alert enough to help lift my hips when she began peeling my sticky jeans from my legs.

  “Not how I want you to undress me,” I slurred.

  “Hush now,” she chided and disappeared, footsteps trailing off as she left the room.

  I wanted to go after her, to catch her hand and drag her into bed alongside me, but I couldn’t summon the strength. And she was back in a few moments, anyway. I didn’t open my eyes when she wiped my face free of juice, my hands and arms. “I’ll just go put this away,” she whispered, “and we can go to sleep—oh!”

  I’d managed to snag her hand that time, tugging her under the covers next to me.

  “I’ll put it away later,” she said, laughing as she snuggled close.

  “Sleep,” I grunted.

  “Okay, baby.”

  We didn’t talk after that, and I fell headlong into sleep.

  I was so exhausted that I didn’t recognize the persistent pounding for what it was.

  “Shit,” I distantly heard Mags mutter, moving out from beneath my arm, slipping out of the covers.

  “Mmm,” I groaned.

  “I’ll be right back, baby,” she murmured, pulling the covers up, pressing a kiss to my forehead. Her footsteps padded over the carpet, disappeared down the hall.

  Sleep pulled me back under, so deeply that I didn’t hear the voices at first, that I wasn’t aware of what was happening on the other side of that wall, that I didn’t know what battle Maggie was fighting, or how important it would be to her, to our future.

  I didn’t know.

  Didn’t wake.

  Until it was too late.

  For a long time after that morning, I wished I’d recognized the pounding for what it was. I wished I’d known it was a knock, wished I’d known who’d come to the door.

  But I didn’t recognize it.

  I didn’t hear it.

  And because of that, I failed in my promise to protect the woman I loved.

  Sixteen

  Maggie

  My breath froze in my lungs when I saw the man standing on the porch.

  “Where is she?” my dad snapped, shoving me back roughly, making me stagger and catch myself against the doorframe.

  “Who?” I asked, rubbing at the aching spot on my shoulder.

  “H
er! Marleen. She’s supposed to be here. She’s—” He spun around, lifted his hands like he was going to grab me.

  “Don’t,” I ordered, leaving the door open in case I needed an out.

  My father . . . wasn’t himself. His eyes were glazed, a crazed look on his face.

  “You.” He pointed a finger at me. “Marleen.”

  I watched, shock rippling through me as his expression crumpled, as tears began pouring down his face.

  “Why did you leave? Why did you go?”

  “I—” His words froze me in place as I tried to process what was happening. Clearly, this was some sort of psychotic break or—my gut sank when I remembered what Claudette had reported to me in our last call. Some forgetfulness, some anger. She’d been worried it was some early signs of dementia and had wanted to get him in to see his doctor.

  I’d agreed, of course, but I had silently rolled my eyes. Who wasn’t forgetful as they approached their seventies? And my dad had never had any shortage of anger.

  “You,” he said and moved so fast that he managed to get a hold on the T-shirt I’d worn to bed. He shook me roughly as I tried to loosen his grip. But he was surprisingly strong in this moment, or had super strength, or—

  His hand came to my throat.

  That was the moment I recognized just how serious of a situation I was in.

  His hand clasped tight and I jerked, trying to lurch out of his grip, and for . . . one . . . long . . . moment it didn’t seem like I was going to get free. But then I managed to bend back one of his fingers, managed to slip away.

  I gasped, coughing and sucking in air, running for the hall. For Aaron.

  Hands on my shoulders, weakening, struggling to find purchase. “Why did you leave, Marleen? Why?”

  “Aaron!” I shouted. “Aaron, I need you!”

  My father wrapped his arms around my waist, collapsing to the ground, starting to pull me down with him, his eyes furious again.

  But Aaron didn’t wake, didn’t come.

  Shit.

  “Aaron!” I yelled again, trying to push my dad off, but it was like trying to shift a sack of bricks. “Aaron!”

  For several terrifying seconds I heard nothing, but then voice raspy from sleep, “Mags?” reached my ears.

  “Help!” I screamed.

  Footsteps pounded on the floor as fingernails bit into my skin, a disjointed chant of “Marleen. Why?” filling the space between us. I knew my dad wasn’t in there. For as gruff and mean as he could be, he’d never hurt me physically. This was something else. Like he was lost in some prison in his mind . . . and it had turned him violent.

  “Mags?”

  Aaron’s voice was in the hall now, and I allowed myself to relax slightly. “Here,” I said. “Hurry. Please.”

  “Wh—”

  My father’s weight left me, crashing into the wall at my right before Aaron could finish the question. “What the fuck is going on?” he asked, grabbing my hand, pulling me up and behind him.

  “My dad,” I said, “h-he’s not right.”

  Aaron rotated to see my father claw himself to his feet, eyes scary and unseeing. “Marleen!”

  “Call 9-1-1,” Aaron ordered, blocking my father when he reached for me. “Go, Peaches. Hurry.”

  I nodded, raced to the bedroom for my cell phone, and made the call.

  Then, still on the line, I hurried back out, wanting to help, wanting to do something. But there wasn’t anything I could do. Aaron was at my dad’s side, arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders as my father sobbed into Aaron’s knees.

  “Marleen. Marleen. Marleen.”

  I heard the name chanted over and over and over again. I heard it as the sirens of the ambulance approached. I heard it in the hospital later that night.

  I heard it in my sleep.

  I heard it in my dreams for weeks and months to come.

  I heard it until I didn’t think I could stand to hear it again.

  I’d missed Italy.

  Or rather, Aaron had put it off until we managed to get the situation with my dad under control.

  Dementia.

  We’d missed the signs until it was too late.

  I stared at the man who’d raised me, the one who’d left so much to be desired, and wondered if he understood what was happening.

  The ranch was being sold.

  He was being moved into a care facility.

  The only positive about the last was that Claudette had applied for and accepted a job there. She was the only person he seemed to recognize anymore, and despite her feeling guilty that he’d managed to sneak out from the house while under her watch, I didn’t blame her. She was one person and had to sleep sometime. If either of us had thought it would have gone that bad that fast, we . . . well, we wouldn’t have waited until he could get into the doctor’s office.

  We would have demanded an appointment, intervention. Something.

  But real life was messy and unpredictable, and I was just happy she’d taken the job and would be spending a couple of mornings a week with my father.

  He was definitely the calmest when she was around.

  I checked my watch, saw it had been nearly thirty minutes since my dad had been officially discharged. We were currently sitting in his hospital room, waiting for our wheelchair escort out to the parking lot where the care facility would meet us and take him over to get settled.

  I hated the thought of doing that too him, but I knew that I didn’t have the skills necessary to take care of him.

  God, he looked so small sitting in the bed.

  But he was strong. Powerful. I still had bruises on my throat and scratches down my back. Even if I quit my job, I couldn’t safely take care of him if he had another violent outburst. As guilty as I felt for not recognizing there was a bigger issue at play with his increasingly dark moods, I was also scared.

  He’d hurt me.

  “I did that.”

  I blinked, glanced up from my phone. “What?”

  “I did that.” He pointed at me. “I bruised you.”

  My lungs froze. “It wasn’t really you, Dad,” I said carefully. He’d been on edge from the moment he’d been admitted, agitated and not fully present—as though something inside him had shifted, had been permanently broken by what had happened a few days before. “I know you didn’t mean to.”

  His chin wobbled and he turned away, eyes on the door. “I hurt you.”

  “Yes,” I said, when it seemed that he was waiting for me to answer.

  “But that’s not the only place, is it?” His head snapped back, tone sharp and familiar, and I nearly gasped at the first sign of lucidity in days.

  “Dad?” I asked.

  “I was a bastard,” he said. “I’m sorry. I—she left, and you were so much like her—” His chin wobbled again, gaze clouding, that moment of lucid gone in a blink. “Marleen. Marleen left me. She left me.”

  Slowly, I pushed out of the chair and crossed to him. “She did leave,” I said gently. “She didn’t want to go, though. She wanted to stay.”

  Wet eyes flashed to mine. “She wanted to stay?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Dad.”

  He released a breath, tears dripping down his face. “She wanted to stay,” he repeated quietly.

  “Yes.”

  Marleen was my mom. I missed having a mom every day. I just hadn’t realized my dad had missed her, too. He was always so angry if I mentioned her. Furious if I asked questions or if he even heard her name.

  I’d just figured he’d cauterized her out of his life, like he’d done me.

  But . . . I was starting to see it wasn’t that simple.

  I sighed, feeling both at peace and cheated out of a resolution. Much of the anger wasn’t my fault. Instead, it was wrapped up in the past, in loss, in a mind that was slowly losing itself. But part of me, the portion that couldn’t pinpoint when this sickness had begun (my childhood, ten years ago, a month before) was struggling. If it was recent, I wanted to confront my
dad with the things he’d done, make him see and understand how wrong he’d been in how he had raised me, how he had treated me. Hell, I’d spent the flight over to Utah two nights ago, planning every word.

  Instead, I got this.

  A cloudy gaze. A mind clawed to pieces by the past.

  A father I didn’t recognize.

  Confronting him in this state would be like kicking a puppy.

  No one could tell me exactly when his brain had begun malfunctioning. No one knew if my whole childhood had been molded by the creeping onset of the disease. So no, I couldn’t confront him. There would be no pleasure, no relief, no absolution. Just more guilt.

  A knock on the door had us both looking up, both watching as it swung open and a nurse pushed a wheelchair in. “Your chariot awaits,” she announced chipperly and proceeded to load my father up with efficient speed. “Got everything?”

  I nodded, moved to hold the door open.

  We rode the elevator down, the nurse the only one talking as she chattered about the snow outside, the storm coming in, the roads, the stars . . . she talked more than I reasonably wanted to hear, but I was almost thankful for the chatter to distract me from the fact that I was trapped in a metal death box, the sides pressing in on me.

  Almost because . . . it was a lot of chatter.

  It wasn’t until we’d met the van for the care center in the garage, gotten my dad loaded up and buckled in, that I realized he’d felt the same about the nurse’s babbling.

  His fingers snagged my wrist, mischief in his eyes as they met mine. “Blabbermouth,” he muttered.

  I chuckled, mostly in surprise, then nodded in agreement. “Yes.”

  He smiled, leaned forward, and his cool lips brushed a kiss on my forehead. “Love you, Maggie girl.”

  Every muscle in my body went ramrod stiff. I don’t think—I couldn’t ever remember a time he’d kissed me, when he’d said he loved me. Ever. But before I could pull myself out of my stupor, he said one more thing that didn’t give me complete resolution, didn’t make me forget and forgive everything that happened. Instead, it simply . . . repaired one broken piece inside my heart.