Unfinished Business (29 page)

“Hayley?” Nick is staring at me, his hands on the steering wheel even though the engine is still off.

The last of his smile fades and he asks, “Is that it? Is there anything else?”

“I called a wedding off at the last minute. Isn’t that enough?”

“You did what you had to do.” He drops his hands and the keys hanging from the ignition rattle when he smacks them.

“Can you take me to my car?”

“There’s more, Hayley. It’s obvious.”

He’s right. There is more. That part stays tight in my chest.

I open my window and let the night air into the cab as he drives me back to the complex. The night guy is in Mr. Hasting’ booth so I have to tell him who I am, show ID and wait while he looks me up. He waves us on. The lot in front of the clubhouse is empty except for my car. The only sign of the celebration is the beaten down grass from where everyone was walking.

Nick pulls up beside my car and cuts the engine of his truck.

He doesn’t say anything.

I don’t want to sit there in silence, feeling his judgment on top of the judgment of all the others. Without any more prompting, I tell him about Waylon’s grandpa and how he gave me some money a couple of days before the wedding. He’d wanted me to have my own nest egg, separate from the savings Waylon and I would have. He’d told me to save it for something important. I’d tried to say no, but he’d insisted, telling me that women always need a little money of their own. So he’d given me the money in secret. I finish with, “I still have the money.”

“Why didn’t you give it back?”

“He doesn’t know what happened.”

“He thinks you two are married?”

I nod.

“His whole family is lying to him?” He makes a face. “That’s messed up, Hayley.”

“I know.” My voice is so small even I have a hard time hearing myself. “He was in the hospice wing of his nursing home. They wanted him to die thinking Waylon was settled. They told me not to tell him. So I didn’t.” I sigh and unbuckle my seatbelt so I can turn to face Nick. “He didn’t die. He got better. Now he’s in the residential section of the home, still very much alive.”

“But they’re still lying to him?”

I nod. “I asked my mom.” A security guy buzzes by on a golf cart. I wave, pretending everything is fine. “If I give the money back, they’ll all hate me.”

“He didn’t give the money to them. He gave the money to you.”

He’s right. I already know that.

Question is, am I ready to do something about it?

Chapter Thirty-Five

At Last

I hand my photo ID to the woman seated behind the counter of Green Acres and wait while she types my name into her keyboard. After the drive out, it feels good to stand up, but my legs are shaky from nerves so I lean over the counter. Behind the woman busy checking her screen is a welcoming display of staff photographs. I look them over and wonder if they know the truth about me.

Disturbed by that thought, that the family may have pulled them into the lie as well, I move my gaze around the reception area. It looks about the same as it did when I came to visit him the last time. Silk flowers, cozy chairs and some abstract art from local artists. That last visit would have been about a year ago.

About the time I start wondering what Waylon’s grandpa thought about me disappearing from his life so suddenly, the woman looks up with a super bright smile. “Family or friend?”

One more lie, just to make things faster. “Family.”

“Oh yes, I see you on the list.” She hands my driver’s license back. “Do you want to speak to a doctor or nurse as part of your visit today?”

I shake my head, worrying again what I might leave in my wake. Again.

“All righty. I’ll just go check on him, make sure he’s ready for a guest and be right back.” She says something to the woman seated beside her, pops to her feet then scoots off with a swish of her floral skirt.

The remaining woman behind the counter smiles at me, looking as though she’s about to ask how my day is so I turn away from her and stare at the glass double doors leading to the parking lot. The hood of Nick’s truck is visible at the edge of the lot. Still no sign of Waylon. I’m not surprised. Just still hoping. He hadn’t responded to any of my texts, including the final one I sent a couple of hours ago, letting him know I was headed back home to see his grandpa.

“He’s excited to see you, Hayley,” the woman in the floral skirt is saying as she strolls back from the hall. “Head on down to the lounge. Third door on the left.”

“Thanks.” I fake an easy-going smile and head to the room. Before going in, I pull the envelope of cash from my purse, take a deep breath.

I spot him right away because he’s on his feet heading in my direction. For a man who was supposed to die last spring, he looks great. His beard is trimmed and his hair is slicked back and up in some swanky old style. He pulls me into a hug, kisses me on the cheek then takes my hand and guides me to a couch beside a window that looks out over a pond.

“If you weren’t so pretty I’d be mad at you for not coming sooner,” he says, waiting while I sit then easing himself down to sit beside me.

As soon as he’s settled, I hold out the envelope. “I brought this for you.”

He takes the envelope, looks inside and makes a harrumph noise.

“I didn’t spend any of it—I wanted to tell you the truth about Waylon and me sooner but everyone…well, they asked me not to. I’m so sorry, I—” I take a deep breath and dive in again, “I should have…I should’ve—”

He waves his hand and cuts me off. “Exactly what are you sorry for?”

I lean forward and touch his shoulder. “Lying to you.”

He tucks the envelope into the pocket of his gray and black plaid shirt. “You’re not sorry about walking out on my grandson?”

I look into his face and remind myself, the truth only. “No, Sir. I’m not.”

He nods then stuns me by smiling.

Something isn’t right. I drop my hand from his shoulder. “You understand what I’m saying? Waylon and I didn’t get married.”

He leans back and grunts. “I know that.” Pointing to himself, he adds, “You think a man gets this old and doesn’t know when people are lying to him? You think I don’t know how to find out the truth?”

“I—I—”

“Don’t be so shocked.” He pats my knee and that smile comes back. This turn of events is almost worse. I want to know how long he knew but then again I don’t. Not really.

“I’m sorry I was part of that.”

“I’m sorry too, Grandpa.” It’s Waylon talking. Leave it to him to arrive after the hard part is over.

“Are you still single?” His grandfather asks him.

Waylon blinks and takes a step back. Finally, he replies, “Yeah.”

“We’ll be having a talk about this later.” The old man shoves himself to his feet. “But right now, I want you to come out in the hall. There’s a gal here I want you to meet.”

“What? I don’t want you to introduce me to anyone.”

“Obviously you need help, son.” He takes a couple of steps then turns back and says over his shoulder, “I’m not going to introduce you. I’m going to pretend to have a heart attack. You introduce yourself.” Then to me he adds, “You better get on out of here. You don’t want to be part of this new small-town scandal.”

And just like that, it’s over.

It may seem quick, but I’m well aware that quick moment was months in the making.

* * * *

Outside, Nick is leaning against the hood of his truck, arms folded across his chest and warm rays of early summer sun slanting across him.

“I saw Waylon go in,” he says, dropping his arms and stepping toward me.

I nod. “Yeah. After I gave the money back.”

“Things go okay?”

Thinking about Waylon’s feisty grandpa who at that very moment is probably lying on the floor, clutching his heart and practicing his acting skills, I say, “I think Waylon’s grandpa is kind of annoyed about being lied to.”

“Oh yeah?” Despite the situation, Nick actually looks worried for poor Waylon.

“He’s also annoyed that Waylon’s still single.”

The concern falls from Nick’s face and he takes both my hands and swings me around so my back is pressed against the truck cab. Smiling down at me, he says, “Waylon who?”

“Exactly.”

There’s no need to say any more because Nick starts kissing me in the perfect way that only a true boyfriend can.

Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

What’s her Secret?

Now You See Me

Pamela L. Todd

Excerpt

Chapter One

“
Same again?
”
The waitress reached for my empty coffee mug, her quick movements startling me from my concentration.
“
Large Americano?
”

I flashed her a distracted smile.
“
Yes, thanks.
”

In the few minutes it took for her to make my deliciously strong coffee, I circled another couple of potential housing solutions. The newspaper was beginning to resemble a bleeding word search puzzle.

She placed the full-to-the-brim mug down on the tiny sliver of free space.
“
Looking for a new place?
”

Ah. She was a chatter.
Note to self
—
little out-of-the-way cafes in New Town aren
’
t prime solitude spots
. I gave a non-committal shrug and avoided eye contact.

Her neon green painted nail pointed like a dart to an ad I hadn
’
t circled.
“
That one looks mint. Why haven
’
t you circled it? Looks fab, that does.
”

With an inward sigh I slumped against the hard plastic backing of the chair.
“
It
’
s a typo.
”

“
You think?
”

“
Definitely,
”
I mumbled.
“
At least one digit is missing.
”

“
Maybe not.
”

“
That area, it
’
s more likely to be
two
missing digits.
”

She grinned.
“
Or maybe it
’
s a hot rich guy looking for company. Or someone ballsy enough to call their bluff. You never know.
”

A surprised laugh bubbled in my throat.

Her smile widened.
“
Go on, give it a ring. You look like the kind of person about to stumble on some great luck.
”

I stared at the four short printed sentences a beat longer. It was only one phone call, after all. One phone call in which someone would answer, annoyed at having to field useless callers over a misprint.

“
Let me know what they say. Enjoy your drink.
”
With a flounce of her black tutu skirt, the waitress disappeared back behind the counter.

I let out a breath I hadn
’
t been aware I was holding. It was the closest thing I could call to a social conversation I
’
d had in a very long time.

The ad glared at me, almost daring me to pick up the phone.
Fuck it
. I typed the number into my phone, waited as it rang and rang and rang.

Just as I was about to hang up, a low, gravelly voice answered.
“
Nate Harding.
”

Surprised anyone had answered at all, I was too shocked to speak.

He sighed.
“
Hello?
”

I cleared my throat.
“
Hello? I
’
m ringing about the room for rent. I saw the ad in this morning
’
s paper and
—”

He rattled off the street address.
“
I have a meeting in an hour. Can you be here before then?
”

“
Um
…”
I ran a quick travel calculation in my head and erred on the side of caution.
“
I can be there within twenty minutes?
”

“
Make it fifteen.
”

“
Okay. But I just want to check
—”

He hung up.

* * * *

Ainslie Place turned out to only be a ten minute walk from where I was, but I stared in confusion and disbelief at the wide black door with roman numerals for probably the same amount of time. There was no chance
…
nowhere near the realm of possibility that this was the place
—
or that it was for the amount stated in the paper.

In the end it was only politeness that made me walk up the smooth steps and ring the bell. Something told me the man who answered the phone would not tolerate being stood up. The corner town house loomed tall and foreboding above me as I waited. Stormy gray sky reflected in its windows, all four stories of them, and I imagined matching cold interiors, as though the chill permeated the veins of the house.