To Have and to Harley

by Regina Cole

  What was the harm in pretending for just a moment? He’d go in, meet her, show her that he was the farthest thing from the perfect son she was imagining, and then beat feet for the door.

  He owed her that much, he supposed. Since she’d spent nearly thirty years looking for him.

  His footfalls were extra heavy on the brick front steps. His shoulders lifted with tension as he raised his finger to the doorbell.

  Before he could push the button, the heavy wooden door opened. There, on the threshold, stood an absolute angel. An angel with his own eyes, soft, curling brown hair with just a hint of gray at the temples, and a smile on her curved lips that belied the shine of tears in her eyes.

  “Trey, my son,” she whispered and opened her arms.

  And without even realizing it was happening, Trey stepped into her embrace.

  Her fingers dug into the muscles of his back; her face buried into the leather of his jacket as tears racked her.

  Steady, he told himself as adrenaline and emotion overtook him in a rush.

  He wasn’t sure what to do. She hadn’t gotten a good look at him before hugging him, he supposed. She’d probably be disappointed when she pulled back and really took him in, but for the moment, he let himself pretend that this was his first hug from his mother. The first of many. He closed his eyes and rubbed her back, relishing the feeling, foreign as it was, of being home.

  Much too soon, and far too late for comfort, she pulled back with a shuddering breath and smiled up at him.

  Her cheeks were blotchy and red, but her smiling green eyes, so like his own, were shining with happiness this time.

  “Trey, please come in.”

  She laced her fingers through his and led him into her home.

  She still hasn’t really looked at me, he thought as he followed her through a large living room and formal dining room into a modern, tastefully decorated kitchen. In just a minute, she’ll realize that I’m not what she expected.

  “Please sit down,” she said, pulling out the chair at the head of the small table in the breakfast nook. “I’ve made a fresh pot of coffee, if you’d like? Or some soda, or juice, or—”

  She stopped, and his chest filled with air, but the breath refused to release. She was looking at him. Really looking at him.

  He knew what she was seeing.

  A huge man with more tattoos than exposed skin, a bump on his nose from multiple breaks, and a pissed-off resting expression that he could no more change than he could his love of fighting.

  A walking, breathing disappointment.

  But her expression never wavered. In fact, she broke into a laugh, the sound shooting shocked adrenaline into his heart and making it jump.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her cheeks as she chuckled. “You just haven’t changed a bit.”

  “What?” His voice was gravel over concrete, as if he hadn’t spoken in years.

  “When you were a baby, you had that same expression. So serious, so studious, as if you were figuring out the mysteries of the universe and weren’t quite happy with the results. Oh God, I have missed you.”

  She pressed a quick kiss to his forehead and turned and hustled away before he could react.

  His knuckles went white on his knees as she busied herself with clinking mugs and the trickle of pouring coffee.

  This wasn’t how he’d pictured this meeting. He was… Well, he was completely befuddled. How the hell was he supposed to manage this?

  He couldn’t hit things. He couldn’t threaten. He couldn’t bluster. Navigating this emotional minefield was at more than his pay grade, and while part of him longed to relax into the welcoming, loving atmosphere this lady was offering, another part of him—the part that had been hardened by the worst foster homes and a childhood belief that he’d been abandoned—cautioned him to get out while he still had a chance.

  “I guess you’re wondering about me, about all this,” she said as she brought two mugs to the table. “Oh, I should have asked if you wanted milk and sugar.”

  “I take it black,” he said, accepting the rustic mug.

  She smiled, an expression he was realizing hadn’t really left her face in one form or another since she’d clapped eyes on him on her front stoop. “I do too.”

  They sipped in silence for a while. Trey tried to be surreptitious, but he couldn’t help staring at her.

  She was tall for a woman. Of course, it stood to reason, since he was close to six foot five himself. Her hair had the same sort of loose curl to it that his did. The way she moved was even similar.

  God. He was falling into this without even meaning to.

  “I want to ask you so many things,” she said. At her words, he tensed, but she continued. “I know it’s not fair though. I only wish your father could have been here to see this.”

  Her expression changed, sadness hiding behind her eyes.

  Trey cleared his throat. “I was sorry to hear… The PI told me…” He trailed off, unable to voice the words.

  She nodded. “Cancer. About three years ago.” Shaking her head, she wiped her cheeks. “I only wish he could have been here to meet you too. Is there anything that you’d like to know? About your father, your sister? Our family?”

  His teeth hurt, he’d clamped them together so hard. His knee bounced beneath the table, little rings spreading in his coffee cup from the movement.

  Sister. He had a whole family he didn’t know. A world was opening up in front of him, a world that felt more like a chasm that he was poised on the edge of.

  He clung to the only solid thing in front of him.

  “You. I want to hear about you.”

  Her stare was direct and warm as she nodded at him.

  “When you were born—”

  “No,” he interrupted. “I want to hear about you now.”

  She paused for a moment, her head tilting to the side a bit. He didn’t move, not a muscle betraying the turmoil inside him. His poker face was something he’d perfected long ago, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was somehow seeing through it.

  “Well,” she said, “I run a community help center downtown. We cater to the homeless, to runaways, provide counseling and job-readiness courses. We teach art classes, provide child care, and try to help people get back on their feet.” She looked down at her cup, her fingers curling around the ceramic body of the mug. “When I started it, I was trying to think of it as a place that you might be able to go to for help. That’s why I named it what I did.”

  “What’s it called?” The question came before he realized it.

  “Sam’s Place.”

  Chapter Three

  It always took a while for Bethany to get accustomed to the scent of her grandmother’s home. Well, scent wasn’t exactly the right word. Odor was too nice a term too. Stench might cover it, but her grandmother’s temper would never have accepted it if Bethany were to dare to utter that aloud.

  In any case, being surrounded by the clutter, junk, and general filth of her grandmother’s home was a chore that she avoided if at all possible. Sadly, today, it was unavoidable.

  Breathing as shallowly as she dared, Bethany nodded as Grandmother Trudy continued.

  “I was going through some things, and I just can’t sort all these pictures on my own. I got some scrapbooks from the craft store, and I want to put my Marine’s pictures in them, but I can’t figure out what order to put ’em in. And since you’ve finally come to help me, I thought maybe we could get it figured out at last.”

  My Marine. Bethany forced the curl out of her fingers. Grandmother Trudy never referred to her son, Bethany’s father, by his name. It was always “her Marine.” Never her son, never Bethany’s father. It was as if the only identity Hugh Jernigan had had was in uniform.

  There were many reasons Bethany despised being in her grandmother’s
company, but that one in particular was tough to deal with. The only reason she was there at all was the promise she’d made to her father when she was young, to look out for her grandmother.

  It was a promise she’d regretted a million times over since her father had passed away.

  “Okay. I’ll try to help, but I’ve got a lot to do today, so we need to get started.”

  Bethany gestured toward the pile of boxes in the corner of the room. Her grandmother’s hard life had manifested in several types of issues, hoarding chief among them. Any foray into the myriad bags and boxes that littered the space was a dodgy proposition at best, downright dangerous at worst. It wasn’t the first time, and Bethany was on high alert.

  Her grandmother’s mood could turn on a dime, especially if she caught someone mishandling her possessions.

  “Here, I’ll get the first box down.”

  Grandmother stood on a half-crushed Amazon box to reach a full plastic grocery sack. Once she’d grabbed it, she set it on the only empty corner of the table. Bethany took the bag as Grandmother went for the next one.

  “These aren’t pictures,” Bethany said, frowning as she started searching through the bag. The knot on the top had been tied so tightly that she’d had to tear the plastic handle slightly to get to the contents. “It’s Dad’s stuff though. Here’s some paperwork and some boxes—”

  “Give me that.” Grandmother’s voice cracked through the air like a whip as she reached out and snatched the bag away from Bethany.

  But Bethany had already retrieved a slim, black case from the bag. Her throat went curiously thick as she lifted the lid. “How…how did you get this?”

  Her father’s Purple Heart was nestled against the dark velvet.

  It shouldn’t be there. It was Bethany’s. Given to her by her father when his brain tumor had been diagnosed, Bethany had kept it close to her always. It hurt to look at it, actually. For that reason, she’d kept it hidden in her apartment, atop the mantel and behind a picture of her father in uniform. It was always there, always reminding her that even though he was gone, his heart would remain with her.

  She hadn’t looked for it lately. Hadn’t known that she needed to.

  The evidence in her hands couldn’t be denied. Her grandmother had stolen Hugh Jernigan’s Purple Heart. It must have happened a few months ago when she’d invited her grandmother over for dinner. It was a mistake that she wouldn’t be making again.

  “He’s my Marine,” Grandmother Trudy snarled, reaching for the case that Bethany still held in her trembling hands. “Mine. I deserve that!”

  “In what universe do you deserve it?” Bethany couldn’t stop the words once they’d started. “This belonged to my father. He gave it to me. What right do you have to take it from me? You took everything of his! Everything! Every last dime he had, our home, his clothes, even our freaking dog!”

  “I suffered so much. I had to take those things, because they belonged to my Marine.” Grandmother’s hands had curled into claws as she reached for the slender black box, her voice pitched shrill enough for the neighborhood’s dogs to hear.

  “You suffered?” Memories assaulted Bethany, and she could no more stop them than she could stop the words falling from her lips. “What about him? He supported you. He was in so much pain, but he still had to dance to your tune. He was on his deathbed, and you kept everyone away from him!” The pain lanced through her. “You put his nurses through hell, you ran up his credit card bills, and you even tried to keep me out of the hospital room!”

  “He needed his mother! I was the only one who could keep him safe, and I am the only one who can keep that medal safe now. So give it to me!”

  “Safe?” Bethany’s own voice was a shriek now, and tears were streaming down her face. “You call this firetrap safe?”

  The sharp crack of palm on cheek rent the air, and Bethany’s breath left her on a sharp gasp. Pain ricocheted from her face to her brain and back again, and her free hand covered the stinging place where her grandmother had struck her.

  The old woman’s face was puckered and purple with rage, and she snatched the medal from Bethany’s hand.

  Right then, it was as if she’d lost him all over again. Hands and heart empty and aching, she swayed on her feet, stunned.

  Dad, I’m sorry.

  “Get out of my house. You don’t deserve anything of his. You’re a shame to our name.”

  The evil words Grandmother Trudy spat out pierced through the pain and fog that had surrounded Bethany. Steel shot up her spine, filling her with a determination unlike any she’d felt before.

  “I’ll go,” Bethany said, proud that her voice was steady even though tears still trickled down her cheeks, “but I’m taking Daddy’s medal with me. I couldn’t save him from you then, but I can now.”

  For a moment, Bethany thought her grandmother would attack her as she grabbed the medal and wrestled it free of the older woman’s grip. A cry racked from Grandmother Trudy’s chest as she began to wail, throwing boxes and bags at Bethany as she gripped the medal’s case and made her way toward the door.

  Closing the portal on the angry yells behind her, Bethany got into her car and drove away as fast as she could.

  Away from the pain of her disintegrated family. Away from the betrayal of her closest living relative. Away from the fact that she was alone in missing her father the way she did.

  Toward the one place that had given her haven when Hugh Jernigan had left her.

  Toward the Yelvertons’, where she’d been assured she had a home for life.

  Her tears had stopped during the drive, and when she pulled around the curve toward the house, she was glad that her face wasn’t quite so splotchy.

  Of course, she fully expected Mama Yelverton to notice that she’d been crying. It was impossible to put anything past that woman.

  Bethany shouldered the strap of her purse and held her father’s medal tight to her chest as she walked to the garage, using her button to open the door and passing an unfamiliar motorcycle on the way in.

  That was weird. She didn’t think they knew anyone who rode a bike.

  Closing the garage door between her and the motorcycle, Bethany let herself into the house with her key. Kicking off her shoes, she wiggled her toes in her socks with a sigh of relief. Leaning against the washing machine, she closed her eyes and took in the fresh scent.

  Home.

  Then, she heard the voices coming from the kitchen.

  “You named it…” A deep, gravelly voice stopped to clear its throat. “You named it after me?”

  “I did.” Mama Yelverton’s tone was the one Bethany remembered from many times across the years. It was the one she used when someone was sick, or hurt, or scared. A soothing tone, the kind of voice Bethany had always imagined had special calming powers.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything, Trey. I’m just glad you’re home.”

  Silence fell between them, and Bethany eyed the door back to the garage nervously.

  She should go. This seemed like a private conversation, and she shouldn’t interrupt. She’d have to pass through the kitchen to get anywhere else in the house, so there was no way she could get in undetected.

  Her apartment wasn’t very appealing at the moment, since her grandmother had violated the space by stealing her most precious possession, but where else could she go?

  While she fretted, the conversation kept going.

  “—would love to hear about you,” Mama Yelverton was saying to the stranger. “What is it that you do?”

  “Well, it’s nothing as noble as what you do. I mean, it’s not… It’s really…”

  Bethany chewed her lip as she eyed the door. She couldn’t go home. Not now. She needed to be here. Maybe she should just scoot through the kitchen with a quick wave and an ap
ology and dash upstairs to the room that had been hers since she’d been welcomed there years ago.

  With a deep breath, Bethany reached for the handle of the kitchen door.

  * * *

  He was in way over his head.

  Mrs. Yelverton was a freaking saint. All his life he’d been imagining her as an evil, heartless, empty stranger who had abandoned him, and now? Now?

  How could he tell her what he’d turned into?

  “I, well, I’m in charge of a kind of group.” He paused to clear his throat, his hand rubbing the back of his neck to ease the tensing of the muscles there. “Yeah.”

  “A group? Like a business group?”

  He coughed, then took a sip of coffee. “Yeah, you could call it that.”

  “What kind of business are you in?”

  Damn it.

  Her stare was too clear, too honest, much too direct. He was struck by a feeling he hadn’t been expecting. Somehow, someway, he was afraid of disappointing her.

  Well, if that wasn’t a kick in the teeth.

  There wasn’t a way around it. Was there?

  Nerves pinging, he glanced around while he took another long sip of coffee.

  What to say? Because the truth—the shakedowns, the Robin Hood–style robberies, the bodyguarding—none of it was exactly on the up and up. There were definite legal and moral gray areas to what he did. And while he had no problem with it personally, he didn’t want to run the risk of disappointing her.

  Who was he turning into?

  Desperate, his gaze flew about the kitchen.

  “Well, we do a little…” Hell, she’d never believe he cooked. Something else. Quick, you dumbass. Keep it vague. Stall. “A little organizing, you might say.”

  She nodded, an interested look on her face inviting him to continue. Ah, dammit.

  Keep looking. A container of herbs sat on the windowsill above the sink. Gardening? Screw that. He scanned the rest of the kitchen. Nothing. No ideas whatsoever.

  “What kind of events do you organize?”