Let It Breathe (23 page)

Clay shook his head and met Eric’s eyes again. “Thanks, Freud.”

“I’m serious. I don’t know what happened with Reese or how you’re going to fix it, but I do know you’ve got to get over this pansy-ass thing you’ve been doing.”

“Pansy-ass?”

“That’s the most important part of the guy code,” Eric said, his tone softer now. “The need to tell your friend when he’s being a pansy-ass.”

“I appreciate it.”

The weird thing was, he did.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Clay knew he should stick close to the vineyard. Eric had already told him the fire marshal had questions and wanted to talk to him as soon as possible.

But here he was parked on a barstool at Finnigan’s nursing a Coke and picking at a plate of French fries as he replayed the conversation with Eric.

He wasn’t sure which was more upsetting—the fact that he was a suspect in an arson investigation or the fact that his best friend knew he’d slept with his ex.

He took another sip of his Coke and then picked up the ketchup, pouring a healthy dollop of it on the side of his plate. He traced a French fry through it and was just about to shove it in his mouth when he heard a familiar voice.

“Clay!”

He turned to see Patrick ambling in, his shirtsleeves rolled to display the misspelled tattoos.

“Hey, Patrick, good to see you.”

“Whatcha doing?”

“Getting wasted on Coca-Cola and French fries, how about you?”

Patrick glanced at Clay’s glass, looking visibly relieved. “That’s just Coke?”

“Want a taste?”

“No, no—I trust you.”

“That’s good. I was starting to think you implanted a tracking device in my forearm so you know when I come within ten feet of a bar. Have a seat.”

Patrick eased himself onto the stool and folded his hands on the bar. Clay tried not to stare at the tattoos.

Your stronger than you think you are.

Strength threw sobriety.

“So how have things been going, Clay?”

“Okay,” Clay said. “I’ve been better.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Try me.”

“Okay. Turns out I slept with the girl of my dreams fifteen years ago and didn’t remember it because I was a drunk idiot, but I do remember sleeping with her cousin, which I also did because I was a drunk idiot. Now I’m about to lose the dream girl to a veterinarian who’s such a nice guy I’d probably date him if I swung that way. On top of that, I’m being accused of arson for a fire I helped extinguish, and the construction project I moved out here for is about to go belly up.”

Clay picked up a fry and shoved it in his mouth, hardly noticing it was cold.

“Wow,” Patrick said. “Not your best week, huh?”

“No.”

“Is it your worst?”

Clay thought about that as he grabbed another fry. “Probably not. The week my dad died was pretty rough.”

“When did your dad die?”

“When I was a junior in college.”

“How did you handle that?”

Clay looked down at the plate. “I dropped out of college, got wasted for a week on Jack and Coke, and ended up in jail on a DUI charge.”

Patrick reached over and grabbed a fry. “And look at you now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re sitting here at a bar on what is arguably the second-worst day of your life, and if you’re telling me the truth, there’s nothing in that glass but Coke.”

Clay shoved the glass in front of him. “Taste it.”

Patrick shoved the glass back. “I believe you. My point is that you’re dealing with it. Your life is going to hell right now, and you’re handling it like a mature, sober adult.”

Clay picked up the Coke glass and took a slow sip. Then he shook his head. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to get it right this time. I’ve been working the steps, trying to be a good guy, trying to make it up to all the people I screwed over. But somehow I just keep making it worse.”

“You ever think you’re trying too hard to earn forgiveness from everyone else and not hard enough to forgive yourself?”

Clay looked at him. “No.”

“Good you’re keeping an open mind about it.”

He sighed. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Yes, you do. Don’t drink. That’s the hardest part, and you’ve already got that down.”

“That’s not the hardest part,” Clay said, then stifled the urge to crack a crude joke.
Hardest part.

“What?” Patrick asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You got a funny look just then.”

Clay shrugged. “It’s dumb.”

“Dumber than sleeping with your dream girl’s cousin?”

“Good point.” He sighed. “Okay, my best buddy and I used to do this thing where we’d turn everything into a dirty joke. Everything was an innuendo of some sort. It’s stupid. I stopped doing it when I got sober.”

“Why?”

“Same reason I stopped drinking, I guess. I wanted to show I’d grown up. That I’d changed.”

“You don’t think not drinking was enough?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure it’ll ever be enough.”

“Tell me a dirty joke.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Tell me a dirty joke.”

Clay raised an eyebrow at him. “Is this one of the twelve steps I missed?”

“Come on. Do it.”

Clay thought about it for a minute. “Fine. Two guys are sitting in a bar and one turns to the other and says, ‘If I slept with your wife, would that make us family?’ The other guy looks at him for a minute and says, ‘No, but it would make us even.’”

Patrick grinned. “Nice. I like it. Tell me another.”

Clay glanced over at the bartender, who was drying the same beer glass he’d been drying for the last five minutes. He was smiling just a little.

“All right. Two nuns are riding their bicycles down an alley in Rome. One turns to the other. ‘I’ve never come this way before,’ she says. The other one nods, smiles. ‘It’s the cobblestones.’”

Patrick hooted and smacked his hand on the bar. Clay grinned in spite of himself.

“There you go,” Patrick said. “You’re smiling. That can’t be a bad thing, right?”

Clay raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’d also be smiling if this glass were full of Jack and Coke.”

“Yeah, but you’d be puking in an hour. When was the last time you puked from a dirty joke?”

Clay grinned. “Well, I know an old guy in a biker gang who tells jokes filthy enough to make me queasy. He may have learned them in prison.”

“Save ’em for later.” Patrick slapped his hand on the bar again. “You’re going to be okay, right? No matter what happens with this girl or the construction or the investigation—you’ve got this.”

Clay nodded, then stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Patrick. I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything. Pay it forward sometime. You’ll have the chance eventually.”

Clay nodded. “I’ll do that. How’d you know I was here, anyway?”

“Dumb luck. I was meeting friends for dinner across the street and I saw your truck. Thought I’d see if you needed anything.”

“So it wasn’t the tracking device?”

“Not this time.” Patrick stood up. “I’d better get going. Be well, okay?”

“Thanks, man. Have a good night.”

Clay watched as Patrick ambled off, then looked down at his empty plate.

“You want more fries?”

He looked up to see the bartender holding a plate piled high with greasy goodness.

“This a new thing?” Clay asked. “Free French fry refills?”

“Nah, but the lady in the corner just ordered ’em and now she says she doesn’t want ’em. She’s a little messed up. Not drunk or nothin’—she’s just drinking root beer, but still. I just called a cab to come get her, but now I got these goddamn fries to get rid of.”

Clay reached up to take the steaming plate, daring a quick glance at the table in the corner to see the pitiful soul who’d given up her French fries.

He almost dropped the plate.

“Sheila?”

She looked up, swaying a little in her chair. Her eyes were red and ringed with mascara, her face streaked with dried tears and snot. The top of her table was littered with soggy tissues and a half-empty glass of root beer.

He stood up and took two steps toward her. “Sheila? What’s going on?”

She dissolved into sobs, her shoulders shaking so hard Clay thought she might topple to the floor.

“Oh, Clay,” she sniffed. “This is bad. This is really, really bad.”

“What’s bad? Are you hurt? Did something happen to Eric?”

She was sobbing too hard to answer, so Clay looked at the bartender. “How much has she had to drink?”

“Not a thing. I wouldn’t serve her.”

“I came here to get wasted,” Sheila sobbed. “To forget. Only he thought I was already drunk because I can’t stop crying, so he wouldn’t let me order anything. But that’s not why I can’t stop crying. Oh, Clay. I don’t know what to do.”

He dropped into the chair beside her and touched her arm. She was ice cold. Dread clenched Clay’s gut like a fist.

“Sheila? What is it?”

She looked up at him and shook her head, tears slithering down her cheeks. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you. Something awful.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Reese couldn’t remember ever feeling worse in her life. Not even the time she’d thrown up in her underwear on the last day of eighth grade, or the time she’d failed her Advanced Rootstalks & Cultivars course in college and realized she might never make it as a vineyard manager.

You felt worse when you walked out on Clay in the middle of the night fifteen years ago
, she reminded herself.

You felt worse when you left him in jail to rot after you got punched at Finnigan’s that night.

That didn’t help.

She wasn’t sure how she made it back to her house after the meeting with the fire marshal, but she knew the only thing she wanted to do was curl up in her bed and cry. She had just pulled on her pajamas and yanked the elastic off her ponytail to let her hair down when she heard a knock at the door.

Stifling a groan, she peeled back the bedroom curtain to peer out, thinking seriously about not answering it.

When she saw her mother standing on the front porch holding a tray of brownies, a box of Popsicles, and a bottle of Pinot, she reconsidered. Padding into the living room, she dragged the door open and offered a weak smile.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hey there, sweetie,” June said, her voice tinged with worry. “I wanted to see if you’re doing okay.”

“You brought me comfort food,” Reese said, feeling guilty for not confiding in her mother sooner.

But June just walked inside and thrust the brownies in front of her. “Here, have one. Or would you rather have a Popsicle?”

“Popsicle, please.”

“Here you go.”

Her mom handed her the whole box, and Reese opened it slowly. She took a Popsicle and peeled back the wrapper, biting into the sweet iciness. June set down the wine and brownies on the coffee table and trooped to the kitchen to throw the rest of the Popsicles in the freezer. She returned to the living room and sat down on the sofa beside Reese, giving her daughter’s arm a squeeze.

“So the meeting with the fire marshal was interesting,” June said. “How are you holding up, sweetie?”

Reese raised one shoulder, lacking the energy to perform a full shrug. “I feel like an idiot.”

“Oh, Reesey.” Her mom leaned over and wrapped her in a hug that smelled like brownies and grapes and Oil of Olay and everything good in the world.

Reese started to cry.

Then she choked on a chunk of Popsicle.

“Hold still, honey,” June said as Reese wheezed and coughed and spit purple slush on the floor.

June whacked her on the back a few times.

“I can’t even cry right,” Reese choked, dodging her mother’s blows as she regained her breath. “I screw everything up.”

“That’s not true—”

“My marriage, the construction project, my relationship with Larissa, any potential I might’ve had to enjoy any sort of relationship with—”

Her voice broke. She couldn’t even say Clay’s name.

“Oh, honey, no, you didn’t.” June stopped hitting her and tried hugging again. “This vineyard has been running strong for more than forty years. So what if we lose a little ground? We’re still hanging in there. And Larissa will get over it. I saw her not thirty minutes ago and she was getting ready for a date. She’s fine, honey. You two will kiss and make up.”

Reese sniffled and shook her head, noticing her mom had deliberately dodged the issue of romance. She wasn’t surprised. She’d already proven she was beyond hope.

As if reading her mind, June put a finger under Reese’s chin and nudged it up. “Hey, look at me. You’ll find love, too.”

Reese just shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Of course you will.”

“I don’t think I’m cut out for it, Mom.”

“Nonsense!” June said, her eyes taking on a rabid glow. “You
will
find love. And when you do, it’ll be special and wonderful and just like your father and I have enjoyed. Don’t you want that, honey? What Daddy and I have?”

Reese felt a sharp pain beneath her ribs. “Of course.”

“It’s out there for you, too, honey. Just wait and see. When it’s right—”

“I know.” Her voice came out harsher than she intended, so Reese forced a smile to make up for it. “Thanks, Mom. I feel better already.”

June nodded and grabbed a brownie. “Everything will be fine, sweetie. You’ll see.”

“Okay, Mom. Thanks.” She was trying to think of a tactful way to tell her mother she wanted time alone when her father came limping up the walkway.

“Damn Leon,” he muttered as he stepped up beside June and put an arm around her. “Ambushed me that time.”

June touched his leg. “Oh, honey—are you okay?”

“Fine, fine,” he said. “Just wanted to come find you and see how Reese is doing. You holding up all right, baby?”

Reese shrugged. “Fine, I guess. I think I’ll just take a bath and read a book or something.”

“That’s good. Give yourself a nice, quiet night at home to let things settle. Your mom and I will be at the house if you need to talk or anything.”

“We’re here for you, sweetie,” June said.

Jed planted a kiss on his wife’s forehead before turning back to Reese. “You sure you’re okay? It’s kind of a big deal, the whole arson thing and all.”

“Right,” Reese said. She bit her lip. “Look, about Clay—”

“Always liked that boy,” Jed said, nodding once. “Good to see he’s getting his life back together.”

Reese sighed. “Being investigated for arson will really help with that.”

Her father reached out and patted her arm. “I’m sure it’ll all work out. He’s a tough kid, and I’m sure he’s got a good support system at St. Peter’s. They take care of their own over there.”

Reese frowned at her father. “The Catholic church? What are you talking about? Clay isn’t religious. At least not that I know.”

Hell,
did
she know? Maybe he really was a stranger to her.

Her father shrugged. “Guess I figured from his tattoo he must be Catholic.
Res firma mitescere nescit.
Latin. I think I remember it from Mass when I was a kid, or maybe I’ve just seen it around the cycling scene forever.”

“What does it mean?”

“Depends on how you translate it, I guess. ‘A firm resolve doesn’t weaken,’ might be one way to read it,” Jed said. “‘A rigid thing doesn’t soften’ or ‘When you’ve got it up, keep it up,’ is another, though I’m not sure that makes much sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Reese said, realization dawning. “For crying out loud, he has a dirty joke tattooed on his arm. No wonder he wouldn’t tell me what it said.”

“Oh, honey,” June said. “I don’t think he meant it that way.”

Reese snorted. “I think that’s exactly how he meant it. Clay was always all about the dirty double entendre. Now he doesn’t even say
fuck
when he hits his finger with a hammer. No wonder he’s embarrassed about the tattoo.”

She shook her head, not sure whether to be annoyed at Clay for always dodging the subject of the tattoo, or for putting her in a position to find out from her father what it said.

Like it mattered.

“Sweetie, you sure you don’t want to come down to the house for dinner?” June asked. “Oysters and asparagus?”

Reese shook her head, not at all interested in sharing an aphrodisiac dinner with her parents. “I appreciate that, Mom, but I really need to be by myself for a bit.”

“Okay, honey. Whatever you need.”

“Thanks for the Popsicles and brownies. Love you.”

“Love you, too, sweetie.”

Both parents kissed her on the cheek before heading out the door hand in hand. Reese watched them walk into the crisp spring evening, their heads bent close together as they made their way toward the house.

Then she closed the door, not feeling much better but not feeling a whole lot worse.

She picked up the wine in one hand and the brownies in the other and stashed both in the kitchen. Returning to the living room, she stared at her bookshelf and tried to decide between rereading her favorite Kristan Higgins romance or her favorite Jennifer Crusie.

She was still staring at the book spines when Axl burst through the front door. His frizzed white hair made him look like a big Q-tip. He yanked off a tattered leather biker bag, knocking his aviator glasses crooked.

“There you are,” Axl barked. “Your mom said you were up here feeling sorry for yourself. You and me, we gotta talk, girlie.”

Reese sighed. “Axl, I don’t really feel like—”

“Shut up.”

Reese shut up.

“I got a couple things to discuss,” her grandfather continued. “Move over, make room for me on the sofa. I gotta show you something.”

“Axl, if you’re going to show me your nipple piercing again, I’m not interested,” Reese said. “If it’s infected, call your doctor.”

“That’s not it. Gimme one of those brownies. They got anything good in ’em?”

“If you mean eggs, sugar, vanilla, flour, and cocoa powder, yes.”

“Go get me a glass of wine, then.”

Reese sighed, knowing it was futile to argue. She got up to open the Pinot her mother had just brought. Retrieving a good Riedel wineglass from the cupboard, she poured a slosh of Pinot into the glass. Then she returned to the living room, setting it down in front of her grandfather.

Axl grinned and took a sip, then belched.

“Nice,” he said. “It’s the 2011 Resonance Vineyard Pinot Noir from Sineann, right?”

Reese raised an eyebrow as she dropped back onto the couch. “Good call.”

“Yeah, I’m full of surprises,” he muttered. “Like this one.”

He reached into his leather satchel and pulled out a picture frame that was tarnished around the edges. He looked at it for a moment before passing it to Reese with uncharacteristic reverence.

“See that?” Axl said, stabbing at the photo with one finger. “That’s me and your grandma at our twentieth anniversary party.”

Reese looked at the photograph, pretty sure it was illegal in most states for a granddaughter to see her grandparents in such a state.

“You had your twentieth anniversary party at a nudist resort?” she asked at last.

“Happiest time of my life,” Axl said. “She was a good woman, your grandma.”

Reese frowned. “I thought you called her a no-good, cheating, skanky excuse for a—”

“I was just mad,” Axl interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “That was after she ran off with Floyd and things were a little rocky, you know what I’m saying?”

“Sure.”

“But up until then, we had it pretty good. Man, we had such good times when we were first married. The date nights and the swingers clubs and the—”

“Um, Axl? I don’t know that I need to hear all this.”

Axl glared. “My point is this, Peanut Butter Cup—your grandma and me, we had a damn good marriage.”

Reese couldn’t help it. She felt her eyebrow rise with a skepticism she couldn’t disguise. She half expected Axl to curse her out, but he just shook his head.

“People’s marriages aren’t always what you think they are,” he said. “Sometimes the ones that look shitty on the surface have a lot of good stuff underneath. Nice stuff. Stuff that keeps you together and happy and doing the dirty every day for thirty-three years.”

“Axl, I don’t—”

“Shut up. Let me finish.”

He folded his arms over his chest, looking unusually serious. Reese sat up a little straighter, the photo still gripped in her hand.

“Sometimes the marriages that seem perfect—well, they’re not,” Axl said. “That doesn’t mean they’re bad, or that they won’t work out. It just means some folks are better at hiding stuff than others. Some people have to work harder than others, you feel me?”

Reese frowned and handed the photo back. “I guess so.”

Axl took the photo and brought it up to his mouth, huffing a steamy breath on it and polishing the glass with his sleeve before shoving it back into the knapsack.

Then he looked at Reese again. “I’m just trying to tell you that no one really knows what goes on in other people’s houses, so they sure as shit can’t judge themselves by their goddamn standards.”

Reese frowned. “Fine, but I’m not sure what this has to do with me.”

Axl shook his head and smacked Reese on the knee. “For a smart girl, you can be pretty dense.”

“This outpouring of grandfatherly affection is unsettling.”

Axl ignored her, intent on digging in his knapsack again. This time, he pulled out a green folder. He held it on his lap for a moment, studying it before turning to Reese.

“This is the other thing I’ve gotta show you.” He pushed it toward her, and Reese found herself taking it, not sure what she was being offered. “Careful with this, now. Your mom would shit a brick if she ever knew I borrowed it, so don’t crease it or anything.”

Something in her grandfather’s voice made Reese’s pulse kick up a notch. She studied the folder, the kind with little hooks on the ends to hang in a file cabinet. Frowning, she touched the edge of it, still not daring to crack it open. “Where did you get this?”

“Picked the lock on your parents’ file cabinet. I always knew it was in there but never had a reason to go looking before now.”

“Axl, I don’t know if we should—”

“Open the fucking thing!”

Reese shut her mouth and flipped open the file.

A single sheet of paper rested there. Reese stared at it, not understanding the words at first. The instant it began to make sense, Reese felt her skin go cold.

“Divorce decree,” she read aloud. She peered closer, the words tumbling at her in a confusing succession of dark ink and legal language. Her stomach began to twist itself into a knot. She stared at the date, at the names on the paper, at the stamp in the corner.

Then she shut the folder and set it on the coffee table, her hand shaking as she drew it back.

“I don’t understand,” she said. She couldn’t bring herself to look her grandfather in the eye. “When did my parents get divorced?”

“About six months after you were born,” Axl replied. “Things were pretty rough around here, what with the vineyard just getting up and running and your parents being newlyweds and all, and with a brand-new baby to take care of—well, they just sort of cracked.”

Reese nodded, not even sure what she should be asking. “How long—I mean, are they still—”