Eye of the Storms (Eye of the Storms #1) (23 page)

“I can’t find my shirt!”

Reluctantly, I pulled my focus from Mariss, but my heart immediately lifted upon seeing my son’s face. “What’s up buddy?”

“I can’t find my shirt.” Annoyance steeped the little guy’s words. I was quickly learning that Tristan didn’t like repeating or explaining his dialogue, and I controlled a smile. My mother would freak when she discovered this trait. In that way, Tristan took after my sister, Meg.

“Which shirt?” I prompted.

“The red guitar. It was on my dresser, and now it’s not.”

“Tristan, sweetheart, I washed it,” Mariss interjected.

“Can you get it for me?”

“It hasn’t been dried yet,” Mariss again. Wariness tinged her words.

“Why did you do that? I wanted to wear it,” Tristan whined, and the sound was extremely uncharacteristic of what I knew of my son’s personality so far. Mariss, however, did not seem surprised, and this odd mood swing possibly explained her cautionary tone. I wondered if our son had ever thrown down in a full-blown tantrum like Meg’s kids.

“Sweetheart,” Mariss gently addressed him. “You can’t keep taking it from the dirty laundry. It has to be washed sometimes.”

“Please get it, Momma.” A shimmer of tears now accompanied the whimper, but Mariss’ visual attention was back on the hangers in her hand.

“Tristan, it’s wet!” Her tone was a shade different, slipping into a no-nonsense zone.

Straightening from the couch, I hastily intercepted, swinging our son into my arms before he could reply with another whine. Tristan was definitely looking disappointed enough to cry. “Let’s go check out the situation.”

“Jack, it’s wet in the washer…”

Curving a reassuring smile, I sent Mariss a significant ‘I got this’ lift of my eyebrows, and headed into the laundry room. Setting Tristan on top of the washer, I pulled it open and began digging around in the mass of damp clothing. Spotting the bright red shirt, I handed it off to our little boy. Next, I emptied the dryer of all except one of the shirts in the dry load, tossed the red shirt in, and set the timer.

“Okay, let’s go pick something else out to wear while it dries.”

Stopping to scoop his crutch from the floor, I carried Tristan into his room and began the unnerving task of finding something he would actually wear for this dinner tonight.

Maybe in Tristan’s mind, somehow, he knew how momentous the night was. As well as the grandparents he knew and loved, he would also be meeting my parents– grandparents he had never known existed until the previous day.

Over the last day and a half, the plans had come about.

Mariss and Tristan were flying with me back to LA for a few weeks, then on tour with me, and we would all come back, pack the necessities from the house, and close it up enough to leave it for several months.

Since Mariss’ parents were driving her crazy to meet me, and my parents were having a conniption to meet her and Tristan, we had decided to do both at once.

Not only did one family get-together solve the time factor, but also, I was in a better comfort zone with my parents around, and the same applied to Mariss when it came to meeting our respective future in-laws.

My mother wanted to fly everyone to Dallas, to our family home. I knew her ulterior motive was that my sister, Meg, might join if everyone gathered in Dallas. However, Mariss explained that her parents would be uncomfortable with that arrangement and proposed everyone come here.

HERE. Here, to this house.

Then, on top of that, Mariss nixed the plans to eat out, deciding to do the cooking herself. Once I thought about it, I was sure this plan was for Tristan’s sake.

The doorbell rang as soon as Tristan poked his head through the compromise car tee shirt. I promised to let him change into the guitar shirt as soon as it dried.

“Jack!” Mariss’ voice came from her bedroom and drifted down the hallway. “Can you? Please?”

With an affirmative reply, I stopped before the front entrance. Through the peephole, I beheld the couple who had been at the hospital that first fateful morning. Stealthily jumping away from the door, I sprinted to her bedroom and was brought up short by her appearance.

Hot.

She had chosen the dress. Somehow, in the quarter of an hour since I last saw her, she had applied light makeup, and her hair had dried to a just-damp state.

Shit, I loved her hair. However, there was no time to dwell on her different degrees of hotness.

“It’s your parents,” I informed her.

“Did you let them in?” Obviously, she knew I hadn’t.

“It’s your parents. You let them in…”

The bell bonged again, and when Mariss went on tiptoes, her palms reaching to rest on my shoulder, my body automatically bent to her. The fortifying kiss was quick and sweet (I didn’t straighten until she was done with me). Then, side-stepping around me, she went to answer the door.

Greetings carried down the hall, getting closer. Suddenly, I realized I was standing in their daughter’s bedroom. As if I belonged. As if I had been in her bed every night. As if every night I had fucked her into a coma–

New thoughts…

Hurrying to her bathroom, I closed the door. A twist of the faucet sent the hiss of water swirling about the sink, and I cupped its coolness to my face, then picked up her brush, redoing the hairband that held my hair back.

They seemed to be in the kitchen, Tristan too, and I exited her bedroom just as the doorbell sounded again. Putting as much distance as possible between her room and myself, I checked through the peephole again and was reassured to see my pop with an arm lightly resting on my mom’s shoulder.

Mariss sprinted into the hall toward the door, but seeing I was already there, she smiled and then beat it back to the main room. When it came down to it, she was as big a wimp as I was about this night.

“Mom!” Automatically, my arms closed around the woman who bore me, catching her when she threw herself against me. My pop, used to this, simply reached around her to clasp my arms in each of his hands.

“Jacks,” my pop joked, “Takes a long lost grandchild to get an audition with you these days?”

Curving a grin, I replied, “Been busy. But things should slow down in a few months.”

“Right…” Sardonically, my pop drew the word out, clearly not convinced, as he also firsthand knew the hectic pace of the music profession.

“So Jacks…” My mom pulled slowly away but kept contact, patting at my jacket with a smile. No doubt, she knew why I was wearing a hoodie when it was eighty degrees outside. Although my mother had been horrified at the first tattoo, by the time my sleeves were complete, she seemed fine with it. “Let’s meet the eldest grandchild. I wish I could have seen Meg’s face when she found she wasn’t first at something.” My sister had begun popping kids out a few years ago, making her oldest one a year younger than Tristan.

As a parade, we eased down the hall, and Mariss intercepted just as we spilled into the den, instinctively seeking reassurance on my arm with a touch of her fingers. However, during the introductions when she noticed my mother’s hand resting on my other arm, she let her own fall away.

Mariss put out her hand. To my surprise, my mother didn’t pull her into a friendly hug, and her voice was carefully cool. My pop reached around for the handshake, and his voice sounded several degrees warmer.

When I noticed Tristan hanging back behind Mariss, I knelt and scooped him up while trying to ignore the acute examination of the future in-laws I had yet to meet. Mariss’ parents were politely waiting just beyond this little perimeter. In my peripheral vision, I could see them watching me with as much interest as that day at the hospital.

“And this guy is Tristan!” Proudly, I introduced my son.

My parents went nuts over Tristan. My mom put her hands out, but Tristan quickly retreated closer to me. My heart experienced a physical squeeze when the tiny arms circled and squeezed my neck.

Meeting Mariss’ parents was as daunting as meeting parents on prom night, and after shaking her dad’s hand, I then suffered the man’s glowers. Mrs. Duplei was distant in a different way. Mariss’ father’s hostility felt protective while her mother’s seemed demeaning.

Twenty minutes later, my mother won Tristan over. Our little guy lingered close to where his new grandmother sat on the sofa. They spoke softly among themselves as he showed off his favorite Hot Wheels and exclaimed happily over the new ones she brought as a gift.

My pop settled back, watching his grandchild with an enigmatic look, which I totally understood. Tristan was the first grandson. If my pop was seeing the same resemblance to me and therefore him that I had seen that first day, then it was an amazing feeling.

Our fathers quickly hit it off, and since my mom remained enthralled with Tristan, that left me and Mariss to deal with her mom. The woman was a character, to say the least.

Maybe she had no idea who I was publicly. Maybe she only cared who I was privately. I found myself treated like a gangster. This, without the woman knowing of my ink, and I wore no jewelry.

“What is it that you do in California, Jack?” The inquiry came as Mrs. Duplei lit another one of the cigarettes she chain-smoked. Mariss had extracted ashtrays from a drawer in the kitchen prior to their arrival.

My look swung to Mariss, seeing her apologetic expression, and I realized she had not yet related my ‘career.’ Unsure why this was, I hesitated, and in my peripheral vision saw my parents were just as dumbfounded by the questions. My mother’s face was soft with sympathy as she beheld the interrogation, and my dad sported an amused expression after getting over the first shock.

“I, uh, music. Music production.”

An exaggerated gasp pushed through Mariss’ lips, and she jumped up, exclaiming, “I need to check on supper. Make sure it’s not burning. Mom, can you come make sure I spiced it right?”

“Marissa. You cannot add flavoring last minute and expect flavor. It needs to simmer.” her mother reproved and leaped up ready to save the meal. “Did you even start with a roux?”

I wanted to jump in, admit having already stolen a serving, and assure that the meal was epic, but I restrained. Another time. Remembering how the woman had disparaged Mariss on the phone that day at the hospital, and just from the slight snarky snips tonight, I knew I would never be able to stand silently by while she dissed her daughter.

Since the dividing bar constituting the kitchen table had only four stools, we scattered into groups as they ate.

My mom and dad both sat at the bar on either side of Tristan, and I stood, torn between the other stool and sitting with Marissa amidst her parents in the den. My dad, recognizing the dilemma, simply raised his brows and moved his arm to nonchalantly rest on the back of the remaining barstool. It was a silent statement of sorts, and following his unspoken advice, I crossed to sit by Marissa on the couch.

A conversation about Tristan’s physical progress was ongoing, and without directly looking my way, Mariss’ free hand possessively fell to my knee.

When the discussion dwindled, she twisted her chin and flashed a wicked smile. “How is the gumbo?”

“I may need a second bowl to decide,” I blithely returned, and my heart pounded when she paused with her spoon in her mouth.

Quickly finishing the bite, she asked, “A second bowl? Are you sure it won’t take a third?”

Word games with her were one of my favorite pastimes. Possibly, the word game in the tour bus was when I first fell for her.

Playing hostess, Mariss refilled glasses and dished up second helpings. Playing mother, she tended to Tristan. To make sure she didn’t play maid, I hastened to help with the cleanup, making sure to beam a smile at both of her parents as I collected their empty dishes. The smile earned me no brownie points with her mother, but her father was thawing.

Setting them into the sink, I discovered my own mother was now on friendlier terms with Mariss.

“Your file’ is to die for,” my mom gushed. My mother was not a gusher and I studied her face in astonishment.
File’
?

“Thank you.”

“Haven’t had any this good since I was a child.”

At this, I remembered relatives I had only met once or twice in southern Louisiana. The part of my childhood not spent on the road, or in Dallas, was spent at our second home in Destin, on the beach. This is where cousins came together and where occasionally, surf and turf supplemented shrimp jambalaya if my grandfather’s family was around.

“I just cannot believe you have Jacks eating Cajun food!”

Mariss tipped one of those sweet but deadly smiles to me. “I don’t think he liked it. Only two bowls…” meaningfully trailing off, she tossed me a damp paper towel. “Can you make sure Tristan is not in your dad’s lap with file’ face?”

Whipping around, I saw, sure enough, Tristan was sitting on my dad’s knee as if he had been doing so since the day he was born.

“Already did,” I promised, having cleaned my son’s face before letting him get away from the bar. Buoyant with the magic of the moment, I pulled her waist to mine in passing,

Mariss’ parents were the first to leave, and mine stuck around another hour. Even though it was well past Tristan’s bedtime, he showed no fatigue as he chattered with his new grandparents. Leading his new grandmother down the hall with the hand he was not using for balance on his crutch, Tristan was intent on showing off his car room.

Mariss was conversing with my father, and I headed with my mother into Tristan’s room.

“Jacks, this is just beyond amazing.” My mom was not speaking entirely of the room, and I nodded my agreement.

Mariss and Tristan in my life changed my outlook. I felt needed. I welcomed the responsibility. I embraced the love and companionship.

“Daddy likes my room,” Tristan informed his grandmother. “He can sleep in here when we get another bed. But now he sleeps on the couch.”

My mother smiled at Tristan’s enthusiasm, but she turned questioning eyes to me, possibly afraid she had read the situation wrong. I sought to put her mind to rest that all was well without it being too embarrassing.