Finding Home (2 page)

Mission accomplished.

Still...the image of the boy’s frightened face nipped at his conscience. Maybe he’d gone a little overboard with his intimidation tactics.

He stopped beside his SUV, transferred his keys to his left hand so he could open the door—and watched them slip to the ground before his fingers could close over them.

Expelling a frustrated breath, he bent to retrieve them. And as the dipping sun illuminated the shiny white spiderweb of lines on his hand, his lips settled into a resolute line.

He didn’t like scaring kids—but if fear kept the boy safe, Scott could live with the guilt.

* * *

“Did something unpleasant happen at school today?”

Cindy Peterson cut a bite of the Orchid Café’s famous pot roast and speared it with her fork, struggling to keep her tone conversational as she addressed her son. His reticence, his subdued manner, the way he was picking at his food—it was all a flashback to a year ago, reminding her of the weeks of grief counseling, her sleepless nights of worry, his slipping grades. But they were past that, weren’t they?
Please, God, let us be past that!

“No.”

She watched Jarrod poke at the mashed potatoes he usually inhaled. “You’re very quiet tonight.”

He shrugged.

Okay. Time to regroup. Think this through with her head instead of her heart.

Jarrod had had two big tests this week. It was possible he was just tired. She certainly was. The Humboldt County Historical Society worked with a lean staff at the best of times; losing one person had had a ripple effect on everyone. Cindy hadn’t liked staying late every night for the past three weeks or leaving Jarrod alone for an extra couple of hours after school, but what could she do? She needed this job—and right now, it needed her more than usual.

Perhaps she was overreacting. It may simply have been a long week for both of them.

“Would you like to watch a video tonight? I could make some chocolate chip cookies, too.” She forced herself to lift the fork to her mouth and chew the piece of pot roast that had grown cold.

“I guess.”

Bad sign. A video and cookies always elicited enthusiasm.

The wad of meat got stuck in her throat, and she reached for her glass of water to wash it down. Took a long swallow. Inhaled a calming breath.

“Jarrod.” She waited until he lifted his chin. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

He wrinkled his brow. Indecision clouded his eyes, but he remained silent.

“Did you have another run-in with Mark?” The class bully had chosen her son as a target a few months ago, further upsetting him for weeks. The little tyrant might be on the warpath again.

“No.” He gave his potatoes another listless poke. Let out a long sigh. Slanted a look at her. “It’s no big deal, really. I know I promised to stay inside after school, but I got tired of being cooped up.” His grip tightened on his fork, and he licked his lips. “So tonight and Wednesday I went out to...”

He stopped abruptly. Stared over her shoulder toward the café entrance. Paled.

Swiveling in her seat, Cindy checked out the small foyer. A tall man in dirt-smudged jeans and work boots stood inside the entrance, a snug T-shirt outlining his broad shoulders and impressive biceps as he surveyed the crowded café.

Behind her, a fork clattered to the floor. Her son dived for it as she turned.

When he lingered below the table, she furrowed her brow and leaned sideways to check on him. “Jarrod? What’s going...”

“Excuse me.”

As the male voice spoke, a pair of well-broken-in work boots appeared in her field of vision.

Cindy righted herself and found the man from the foyer standing beside their table. His glowering scowl suggested he had a temper to go with his dark auburn hair.

But why would a stranger be angry with her?

The man shot a quick look at her left hand, adorned only by a slender gold band. “I assume the boy hiding under the table is your son?”

His accusatory tone stiffened Cindy’s spine, and she straightened in her seat. “He’s not hiding. Jarrod, sit back in your chair. We’ll get you another fork.”

Her son slowly emerged from below the table, avoiding eye contact with her. That evasive maneuver, plus the telltale flush on his cheeks, set off warning bells in her head.

“What don’t I know here?” She focused on Jarrod, but the stranger spoke.

“I caught him trespassing on The Point twice this week. I warned him the first time. Today, I threatened to notify the sheriff. But a mother will do for now. Keep him away from the construction site. I don’t want any accidents on this job. Got it?”

Warmth crept over Cindy’s cheeks as her own anger spiked. “You don’t have to be rude about it.”

He flicked a glance toward the bulging briefcase on the seat beside her. “I do when parents don’t take responsibility for their kid’s safety.”

His jab at her parenting skills stung.

But it also produced a twinge of guilt. She hadn’t been as diligent as usual in the past couple of weeks, thanks to her job. And she didn’t want her son wandering around a dangerous construction site any more than this man did. Whoever he was.

“It won’t happen again.”

“Good.”

“Here you go, Jarrod. I saw you drop yours from across the room.” Genevieve Durham came bustling over, waving a clean fork. She set it beside Jarrod’s plate and beamed at the new arrival, patting a stray wisp of white hair back into place. “Hello, Scott. Having dinner?”

“I was, but I think I’ll head home instead. It’s been a long week. And not all of it pleasant.” He shot Cindy and Jarrod a narrow-eyed look.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I understand things are moving along on schedule at the inn, though. That’s a positive.”

Genevieve and her sister, Lillian, could charm a smile out of almost anyone with their perennial upbeat attitudes. Cindy wasn’t surprised they’d made a rousing success of the Orchid. But the charm didn’t work on this man.

“Yeah.” His lips remained flat.

If Genevieve was aware of his bad temper, her sunny demeanor gave no indication of it. “Well, you drive safe and have a nice weekend.”

“Thanks. I’ll try.”

Without even glancing again toward mother and son, the man departed.

Genevieve adjusted her glasses, propped her hands on her ample hips and inspected the plates on the table. “You two haven’t made much progress on my pot roast tonight. Did I forget to put in a spice? Are the potatoes undercooked?”

“No. It’s wonderful, as usual.” Cindy wadded her napkin in her lap. “But we both had a busy week. I think we’re just tired.”

“Busy, busy, busy. The story of modern life.” The older woman huffed out a breath. “That nice young man is forever on the run, too.” She gestured over her shoulder, toward the door where Scott had disappeared. “Eats so fast he hardly warms a chair—but I guess overseeing a job like Inn at The Point is a big responsibility.”

“Is he the foreman?” Cindy took a sip of water, keeping one eye on Jarrod. His guilty flush told her he was dreading their upcoming one-on-one conversation.

“Among other things. He’s eaten breakfast or dinner here a few times, but he doesn’t talk a lot about himself. I do know he owns Walsh Construction. A few of the guys on his crew stop in for breakfast on occasion, and from what I’ve overheard, he almost lives on the job site. And he’s very conscientious and safety-oriented.” Genevieve checked out their plates again. “Would you like some take-out cartons?”

“That would be great. Thanks.”

“Coming right up.”

As Genevieve moved away, Cindy pushed her plate aside, rested her forearms on the table and folded her hands as she regarded her son. “You want to tell me your side of this?”

“I was starting to tell you when he showed up.” He shot her a defensive look.

“Okay. Go ahead and finish.”

“I got done with my homework early on Wednesday and tonight. I know you told me to stay inside, but I’m tired of being alone in the house every night. It’s boring. I didn’t think anyone would care if I went down to The Point to look at the trucks and stuff. Nobody’s there after four, except the guard, and I didn’t hurt anything. I don’t know why he got so mad.”

The mere thought of her son wandering around among all that huge equipment sent a shiver through her. “He got mad because you were trespassing—and because a construction site can be dangerous.”

Jarrod broke off a piece of the roll and crumbled it on his plate. “It’s not dangerous if you’re careful. And I didn’t touch anything.”

“A place like that can be dangerous even if you’re careful. You’re lucky Mr. Walsh didn’t follow through on his threat and call the sheriff.”

Her son bowed his head. “Yeah. I guess. I won’t go back anymore.”

Cindy could tell he meant it. Now. But if he got bored again—or adventure beckoned—the temptation might be too strong to resist.

“Maybe I need to think about aftercare again until school is out.”

“Aw, Mom.” He shot her a stricken look. “I’m gonna be twelve in two months! I’m too old for a babysitter! I won’t go back. Honest. I don’t like that guy, anyway. He’s mean.”

Yes, he was. But Cindy kept that opinion to herself as she pinned her son with her strictest, cut-no-slack look. “Is that a promise, Jarrod?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I trust you to keep it. But you did break our rules by going in the first place. You know there are consequences for that. What do you think would be a fair punishment?”

“No TV for three days?” His expression was hopeful.

“Nice try. Let’s make it a week because you broke the rules twice.”

His face fell. “I guess that means no video or cookies tonight either.”

“No video, but I think the cookies would be okay.”

His demeanor brightened a few watts. “Awesome!”

“Here you go.” Genevieve rejoined them and set two lidded disposable containers on the table. “That pot roast will heat up real fine in the microwave tomorrow for lunch.”

“We’re gonna make cookies when we get home,” Jarrod offered.

“Now that sounds like a fine activity for a Friday night. You two have fun.” With a lift of her hand, she hurried over to seat some latecomers.

As Cindy transferred their food to the two boxes, Jarrod propped his elbow on the table and settled his chin in his palm, his face thoughtful. “I wonder if that guy has any kids.”

“Why?”

With one finger, Jarrod traced a ring of water left on the table by his glass. “I kind of feel sorry for them if he does. I bet he wouldn’t take them on hikes in the redwoods or help them bake cookies. He isn’t anything like Dad.”

Cindy swallowed past the sudden tightness in her throat as she scraped the last of the carrots into the second container and locked the lid in place. “No, honey, he isn’t. Ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

Her son slid out of his seat, and as they wove through the tables toward the exit, she, too, felt sorry for the man’s children—if he had any.

And for his wife.

Because living with a stern, bad-tempered construction company owner who she suspected rarely laughed would be no picnic.

* * *

Scott stopped outside the assisted-living facility to take one last, deep breath of the crisp salt air. Over the past eleven months that exercise had become a ritual, an attempt to psyche himself up for the distinctive and unappealing aroma that clung to Seaside Gardens—and every facility like it. An unsettling combination of death, age, excrement, disinfectant, mass-produced food and air freshener.

He’d checked out half a dozen of the finest such facilities in Eureka, and the obnoxious smell was omnipresent. It was even here, at the best of the best. It would be one thing if there was no choice; he could cope better with that. But Gram didn’t belong here.

Trouble was, she thought she did—and she was as stubborn as he was. Once she’d decided this was where she was going to die, nothing he or the doctors or the counselor she’d sent packing had tried had convinced her otherwise. Including prayer.

Nevertheless he persisted, closing his eyes to repeat the words he said before every visit.

Lord, give me strength. Show me how to reach her. To lift her spirits. To give her hope.

Straightening his shoulders, he stepped inside, nodded to the evening receptionist—and kept walking. Mandy would talk his arm off if he gave her half a chance. After almost a year of daily visits, he knew most of the employees—by design. As he’d discovered, even in an upscale facility like this, the staff was more attentive to the depressingly small number of residents who had regular visitors.

He paused at his grandmother’s door, hoping he’d find her sitting in the easy chair in her private room, dressed in the capris and soft knit sweaters she used to favor, reading one of those romance novels he’d always teased her about. He’d supplied her with plenty of them over the past few months—yet all of them remained untouched in a sack in the corner of her room.

Instead, the scene was the same as it had been last night. And the night before. And the night before that.