by Lyla Payne
Frank. I can see him through the window now, younger and more imposing, wearing a wife-beater and ratty jeans. My mother is wearing the outfit I saw her in outside Daria’s. Based on their argument, I know she’s pregnant with me, but she’s not showing. She’s got her hands on her hips, chin jutted out the way it was before we ended up here.
True Felicia defiance on display.
Then Frank pulls out a knife. It’s big and rusted, and for some reason, I get the feeling he’s used it before, and not to make dinner.
Fear shoots through me. Clete watches, too, his breath coming quick. He quietly sets his bag and his wood on the ground and picks up a rock. It’s clear enough to me that he stashed Felicia here, maybe to hide her from Frank.
It’s also clear that Clete Raynard is about to save my mother’s life. And by extension, mine.
“Frank, be reasonable. You don’t…I don’t need your help. I’ll raise her myself. We’ll go away. I’ll never tell her about you, not even your name. She’ll be a Harper.”
“Not good enough, Fe. You don’t get it. I’m trying to protect her, not me. If you knew half of what it’s like to be a Fournier, you would want the same thing.”
Felicia shakes her head, tears shining in her eyes. I’ve never seen her cry.
“No. It’s not like I planned this. We were careful. But now that I know she’s in there, I have to give her a chance. Even with a crazy father and a wildling mother, out here she’ll have fair chance to make something of herself. For herself.”
My mother never seemed to take much interest in me, growing up. She was always more interested in herself, her own ambitions and happiness. Such as it was.
It’s not until this moment that I understand. She knew, from the get-go, that she wasn’t cut out to be a mother. But she wanted to give me the chance to make my own way. That’s all she could give me, all she was capable of giving.
At least she didn’t want me dead. Like my father, whose eyes are glittering as he advances on her, knife raised.
“They’ll kill her, and that’s if she doesn’t want to kill herself first. Doesn’t grow up thinking she’s crazy. Doesn’t realize that her own family thinks she’s worthless.”
“What are you talking about, Frank? You sound insane, do you know that?”
Even though I know how things turn out, my heart is in my throat as he slashes at her. She yelps and leaps out of the way, stumbling over some furniture. The racket continues as she flees from him as best she can in the tight space, knocking over a lamp here, a table there, in an attempt to put an obstacle course between them.
I’m so intent on what’s going on inside that I don’t notice that Clete’s left my side and is on his way through the front door. My father, intent on his murderous rage, doesn’t notice, either.
Never sees him coming, not even when Clete brings the rock down on the back of his head with a sickening crunch.
My mom collapses on the floor in a heap of sobs, bleeding from a cut Frank managed to inflict on her arm. Clete rushes over, tearing off his shirt to stop the bleeding and telling her, over and over, that she’s safe and things will be okay. She looks up at him with an expression that’s hard to read, but there’s definitely some kind of love in there somewhere.
“You should have let him kill us both,” she says, then bursts into fresh tears.
The scene dissipates as fast as it drew me in, leaving me shaking and stumbling toward the sofa next to Daria.
She eyes me, more wary than concerned. “You gonna yack?”
“No. You didn’t see that?”
“See what?”
“My mother showed me something.” I can’t stop shaking. I don’t know what it means, and even though, on the surface, it doesn’t seem as if she told me anything new—I know the Fourniers have a habit of killing each other; I know Frank was nuttier than a fruitcake—I feel like there must be something there. Something she wants me to know.
She wouldn’t have come back from the dead to make me feel even shittier about our relationship. Maybe she wants me out in the woods. Maybe she wants me to hide there and stay away from Heron Creek, the way she did. Maybe she’s saying Clete can keep me safe. Maybe she’s reminding me that Frank and his family are dangerous and that they’re the ones who’re still trying to kill me.
If nothing else, the vision confirms again that she was the one leaving the garnets, and the one who left me that article. Part of me thinks she wanted me to know about her past—our past—so that I would remember to stay away from Frank. From the Fourniers.
Part of me still wonders whether Clete could be in trouble, but she really didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything about Clete at all. So at least her showing me this vision means I can backburner the idea of going to Nantahala.
Heron Creek is my place in the world, and I’ll be damned if someone is going to drag me on a wild goose chase until I’m damn good and ready to face whatever ghosts—real or figurative—are waiting for me out in the woods.
“What was it?” Daria glances around. “She’s gone, now. Maybe she won’t come back.”
It doesn’t escape me that Felicia didn’t let Daria in on our little trip. If she doesn’t trust her, maybe there’s a reason for that, too. I definitely don’t. Not anymore.
We sit in silence for a while, no sound but Daria tapping her manicured nails on the coffee table, probably in an attempt to make me lose what’s left of my sanity. Felicia doesn’t return. Daria doesn’t offer any pearls of wisdom. After a while, I find myself in my car and on my way home, without any memory of how I got there.
It’s not until much, much later that I realize I never asked about the damn candy.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Back on the White Whale that evening, everything feels different. After the triple whammy of my day—the bombshell chat with Leo, the revelation from Glory Jean about those damn lemon drops, and the weird message from my mother’s ghost—I should need the simple, mindless escape more than ever.
But things have changed, and I knew before I set foot on the dock that I came here to end it.
My perception of the present, the past, and the potential held by the future. I have true friends in Heron Creek, the kind who love me for who I am and will never leave. My mother, too, may have loved me in her own strangled way.
And the questions that play on a loop in my head burst with both excitement and fear: am I really in love with Leo Boone? What could we be together?
It all rolls around inside me, loose pool balls banging into my heart and stomach and lungs in quick succession. It’s hard to think, hard to breathe, and even hard to eat the fluffy, perfect waffles and crispy bacon Knox had ready for breakfast-for-dinner when I stepped down into the galley an hour ago.
After watching me pick at them for a good twenty minutes, he cleared the plates and replaced them with two glasses and a bottle of scotch. We’ve gone through four fingers each, and the spreading warmth finally, finally relaxes my shoulders and disengages my brain.
“You want to tell me what happened?” Knox says, taking another drink and getting one ahead of me. He’s a good drinking partner, though now that I’m looking closer, he seems to be a bit out of sorts himself tonight.
I start to shake my head, because we have a deal. Had a deal. Because even if I haven’t told him, our carefree sex is a thing of the past.
Because even if I’m not ready to start something with Leo tomorrow, I have to stop this thing between Knox and me for long enough to evaluate my feelings on the subject. I owe Leo that much, even if he is being understanding about my needs and everything else under the sun.
So, I decide to break our pact.
“You really want to hear it?”
He nods, face relaxed but eyes watchful. “If you want to tell me, I’m all ears. I said no strings, but I’m not an asshole.”
“I know that.” I pause, slamming my drink and wondering where on earth to start. “Here goes. My dead mother showed up with some
kind of indecipherable warning, someone is sabotaging my car on purpose. Oh. And one of my best friends told me he’s in love with me.”
Getting it all off my chest and out into the ether feels cathartic, if not helpful in the long run. Knox pours us both another drink, then leans back in his chair with a low whistle.
“At least you figured out the Boone ghost situation.”
“You heard?”
He nods, lips tipped up in a half-smile that still, even in my current mental state, instills a few dirty thoughts. “Trent came by last night and wanted to talk.”
“I guess you should be getting paid by the hour these days, huh?”
“What can I say? I’ve got an honest face.”
We sit in silence for a bit, both nursing this round. My thoughts escape and run rampant again, banging into my emotions. I’m tempted to chuck it all and drag Knox into the bedroom just to make it stop, but I have actually learned something over the past several months.
Running away doesn’t solve anything. Not when your troubles live in your heart.
“Your mother…you two didn’t get along?”
“Not exactly. She wasn’t abusive or anything; she never really seemed that interested in parenting me. She had her own shit, I guess.” That’s clearer now than ever after the vision I just had.
“But she’s back.”
I frown, staring hard at my drink like it’s going to give me answers. “Yeah.”
“That’s a bitch. There are a couple of people I definitely wouldn’t want to meet again, dead or alive.” Knox sips his drink. His sympathy seems real, and his melancholy attitude flows harder the longer we talk.
Or maybe the more we drink.
He doesn’t ask about the other shit I threw out there. He probably figures any romantic propositions are none of his business—rightly so—and I don’t want to talk about Daria or who else might be playing on an opposing team.
Instead, I keep the focus on him.
“Knox MacArthur has enemies? I never would have guessed.”
He swirls the scotch around in his glass, a thoughtful look on his face. “When it comes to uninvited guests, there are worse things than enemies.”
I let that sit for a moment. Ruminate. The answer reveals itself soon enough, because my recent misunderstanding with Leo simmers so close to the surface.
What’s worse than someone you hate showing up? Someone you love showing up…someone who’s left you.
Knox MacArthur is nursing a broken heart.
That’s why he made the no-strings offer. He’s not over her, whoever she may be, and based on the storm of regret and sadness taking over his face, he’s not interested in moving on, either. Not yet.
“You want to tell me what happened?” I ask, mimicking his question from earlier.
Like me, he seems to consider, still staring at his drink. I’m feeling the effects of the booze, enough so that I won’t be leaving for home anytime soon.
I really need to go car shopping. Brick’s staying over tonight, but Millie needs her own transportation.
Knox’s eyes look a bit hazy, too.
“It’s not all that interesting of a story, to be honest. We met when we were young. I fell hard, she wasn’t interested in a relationship, so when she fell in love with me, too, she spooked and ran.” His words are dismissive, but his tone is thick with pain.
“And now?” He said it had happened when he was young. I’m guessing this happened years ago, even though he can’t be older than me.
“I guess I’m waiting for her to come back. Or to get enough guts to go find her.”
Waiting. After years.
I think about Leo and tears prick my eyes. I didn’t know guys did this in real life—waited for the one woman they wanted to come around, to come back, and refused to engage in even the pretense of a serious relationship in the meantime.
Leo and all of those women, like Victoria…none of them lasting for long. All of them getting the boot if they dared to think they might have enough leverage to become a fixture in his life. Could it really be because of me?
“I hope she comes back,” I tell him, my throat tight and painful. “But what if she doesn’t?”
His cheeks turn slightly pink, but when his gaze meets mine, his eyes are steady and sure. “I’ll wait. Even if it’s forever, because she’s what I want in a partner. If it’s not her, alone suits me fine, too.”
I can see that he means it. He’s not one of those men who wants or needs to be coddled or taken care of by a surrogate mother. He’s got a job he likes, a boat where he can live, and a face that can get his needs taken care of whenever he feels a spark, the way I guess he did with me. We definitely didn’t have any trouble connecting in the bedroom.
Knox is happy alone. I think Leo is, too, though it makes me sad to think that he would stay that way forever if I didn’t—if I don’t—feel the same.
How do you feel about him, Graciela?
I don’t know. But I guess it’s time to figure it out.
THANK YOU!
Thank you for reading Not Quite Fixed, and for being excited to continue Gracie’s story in Heron Creek! If you enjoyed this installment, please take a moment to review it - things like that are such a big help and I so appreciate your time!
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Thank you for all of your patience and support while I figure out (sort of) this great adventure called motherhood. I am planning two more full-length novels and two more novellas in this series, and I hope you’ll continue with Gracie and me until the end.
Also by LYLA PAYNE
WHITMAN UNIVERSITY
Broken at Love
By Referral Only
Be My Downfall
Staying On Top
Living the Dream
Going for Broke (published in Fifty First Times: A New Adult Anthology)
LOWCOUNTRY MYSTERIES
Not Quite Dead
Not Quite Cold
Not Quite True
Quite Curious
Not Quite Gone
Not Quite Clear
Quite Precarious
Not Quite Right
Not Quite Mine
Not Quite Alive
Not Quite Free
Quite Dubious
Not Quite Fixed
THE PIACERE PRINCES
The Playboy Prince
A Royal Wedding
The Dutiful Prince
The Crooked Prince
Mistletoe & Mr. Right
Sleigh Bells & Second Chances
SECRETS DON’T MAKE FRIENDS
Secrets Don’t Make Friends
Secrets Don’t Make Survivors
Secrets Don’t Make Lovers
Young Adult Novels Written as TRISHA LEIGH
THE LAST YEAR
Whispers in Autumn
Winter Omens
Betrayals in Spring
Summer Ruins
THE CAVY FILES
Gypsy
Alliance
Buried
THE HISTORIANS
Return Once More
Exist Once More
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lyla Payne lives in the Midwest with her husband, young son, two dogs, and a cat. She explores her "southern soul" and the memories of young, breathless love through her novels. She has been writing and publishing novels since 2013, and is represented by Kathleen Rushall at Andrea Brown Literary Agency. You can learn more about her work at http://lylapayne.com.
If you are a fan of Young Adult literature or science fiction novels, please check out her work published as Trisha Leigh at www.trishaleigh.com.