When I See You (28 page)

"Four this afternoon."

I glance at the car's clock. It's just a little half past one. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving. I can always eat. The Lazy J is fully stocked. Tate made sure of that. We can rustle up something for lunch. I thought we might grill steaks while we're there, after they arrive. Is that all right?"

"What about Kate?" I ask.

Why do I ruin the moment by bringing her up?

"Kate's spending a few more days in D.C."

"Oh."

"Don't worry. You'll get to meet her. I just wanted to spend a few more days with you and Max. On our own. Get everything settled."

"Oh."

I'm a task on a to-do list.

My mood swings in the complete opposite direction from euphoria to disappointment. I sigh. He must hear it.

"It's not like that. She's coming to consult with Dr. Tethers. I told you that."

"It's none of my business."

I reach out and downshift to fifth, then fourth gear. Brock looks a little disconcerted.

"Milepost 29. Where to, now?" I ask with indifference.

"There's a gravel road about a quarter of a mile from here. Take that right." He hesitates. "She's my psychiatrist. A friend," he says softly.

"Uh-huh. Like Ashleigh's your friend? Or, something different?"

"Ashleigh is a friend. And, Kate's just trying to help me out."

"And, how's that going for you?"

"You're impossible," he says. "Kind of cranky."

"Maybe, it's the flu."

"Please don't throw up in my car," he says.

"Are you
begging
me, Mr. Wainwright?"

"No. But I will," he says with a wan smile.

Truce.

Kate appears to be a touchy subject for both of us. I don't stop to examine why.

I, again, revel in the amazing exhilaration of driving his car. As we approach the turnoff, I automatically slow way down, careful not to pitch up too much gravel on his beautiful car. He gets this satisfied grin as if he knows I'm taking care with his precious Porsche.

"What are you thinking?" Brock shouts above the dense road noise.

"I'm thinking that all men love their cars more than anything else."

"More than anything else? That's what you
think
?" Brock asks. He seems somewhat disappointed with what I've said.

"That's what I
know
."

"It's just a car," he says. It's easy to detect the wistfulness in his tone. Even unseeing, he shifts his gaze toward the passenger window.
He wants to drive.

I slow to a stop. We're in the middle of nowhere. The road is about fifteen feet wide. The wind grazes across it and stirs up the dust. I climb out of the car, walk around, and open up the passenger door, and greet a bewildered Brock from the other side.

"What are you
doing
?"

"It's
your
car.
You drive.
"

He leans further back into the seat and looks dejected. "I
can't
."

"Says who? It's
your
car. You drive," I say again.

I pull hard on his arm, effectively drag him out of the car, and lead him around to the other side. I put out my hand and protect his head from the car frame as he reluctantly gets into the driver's seat. A minute later, I slide in on the passenger side and close the door with a decisive thud. He looks over at me, unseeing, with uncertainty.

"You
trust
me?" Brock asks.

"I do. I think you know this car better than anyone else. I think you know this road better than anyone else. We're about a hundred feet from the main highway. Just keep it straight and I'll correct your course. Go as fast as you feel comfortable going."

"Why are you doing this for me?"

A loaded question.
I'm uncertain as to why I'm doing this. I don't answer.

And, he waits. He just waits.

I smile a little and shake my head side-to-side, still in awe of his ability to embrace silence as he just waits for me to say something. "Because everyone deserves to have their dreams come true. Driving this car feels like a dream come true to me; I'm sure you feel that way, too. It's something unexpected that you really want to do. Now.
Drive your car
."

He gets this silly grin. I'm reminded of Max when it comes to surprises. Brock exhibits that same uncontainable excitement. I settle back into the passenger seat and watch as he runs his fingers along the steering wheel and the gear shift in some kind of spiritual ritual.

After a few seconds, he puts in the clutch, moves the stick a few times through neutral, and then shifts into first and then second. We sail forward. He races through the gears and we're traveling at a steady clip of thirty miles per hour along the gravel road, stirring up copious amounts of dust behind us as we go.

For the first couple of minutes, I try to relax, but that proves impossible as he begins to veer off course.

"Whoa, Cowboy. Let me help you there." I straighten up and grip the steering wheel and guide us back onto the center of the road.

"Sorry," he says, inclining his head in my direction. "It's seems like I'm going straight."

I sense his frustration and try to put him at ease. "Don't worry about it. I'm not scared," I say airily.

"Are you
ever
?"

"All the time. Normally. All the time."

≈ ≈

"Stop the car!"

I scare the hell out of Brock. He slams on the brakes. We're both pitched forward and then back hard in our seats.

"Jesus Christ, Jordan!"

"Holy shit," I mutter.

There is a cluster consisting of three houses just ahead of us. All grand in build and structure. Modern. Architecturally beautiful in line and stature with just the right amount of glass, wood, and stone. Very un-Austin-like. More Malibu style. More Hollywood glamour than Texas prairie. More Frank Lloyd Wright with linear lines and impossible grades and angles. It's breath-taking. All three, but the one in the center is the grandest of them all.

Brock parts his lips to say something and then stops. Without another word, he shuts off the car's engine and carelessly throws the keys in the console.

Who's going to steal it out here in the middle of fucking nowhere, anyway?

"I take it we're here," he says with a touch of sarcasm.

I just gaze at him in stony silence, then turn away to stare back at the monolith house directly in front of us.

"About fifty feet out," I finally say.

I bite at my lower lip to stop its trembling. I'm going to cry again, but I don't want to. Not here. Not in front of him. My throat gets tight. I can't talk. I take an unsteady breath.

He shoves a document into my hands. "Here," he says. "Start here. Read it. Ask questions, but all I'm going to say is you need to
see
it first."

"I can
see
it."

"I wish I could," he mutters.

"Don't go down that feel-sorry-for-me-now path, Wainwright. It doesn't suit you."

"Read the paperwork." He hands me the document. His fingertips work over the Braille. "Start here. Then we'll go inside."

"It probably wasn't such a good idea to do this now," I say, in a mopey, feel-sorry-for-me tone.

"Probably not," he says, as if he's talking to Max instead of me. "But I did a spreadsheet.
Read it.
It outlines your assets and debts from what I was able to put together. Have you received the life insurance payment?"

"Not yet. I think it will be another four weeks. They were waiting for the final report from the Navy before issuing the check."

"Stalling."

"Maybe."

"I took that into account. It should be about a hundred thousand, assuming the standard policy."

"I think he told me about that once. We talked about getting more coverage, but then we had Max. I took the head chef position at Le Reve."

I glance over at Brock. He looks miserable, staring out the car window and seeing nothing.

The exhilaration and joy of driving his Porsche has left him as much as it's left me.

"The house in Malibu is paid for," I say, automatically filling in the silence. "The taxes and upkeep are all we pay on it." I glance down at the spreadsheet he's done. Under property taxes, he's put in $55,000. "That's about right. A little over $55,000 in property taxes."

He remains silent. I look more closely at the figures. There are a few zeroes and even negative numbers in red within the line items. Ethan's income is zero. That makes sense. He's gone. I swallow hard.

Brock has listed my income at $130,000.

"My income is about right plus $20,000 or so. Louis pays me a bonus every year, depending on how the restaurant does."

All Brock does is nod. It's as if he's willing me to figure it out for myself as if he's afraid to say anything more. The hair on the back of my neck rises up.

"Where did he get the money to build this place with you and Tate anyway?" I ask quietly. "Our money was all tied up in stocks and bonds—money I earned from when I was working at L'Ecole and the trust fund from my parents' estate that came through when I was twenty-five." This disconcerted look crosses Brock's features as he looks in my general direction. "No!" I say with sudden understanding. "He used our life savings to build a house on this ranch with you?"

Brock hangs his head. Seeing or not seeing, he won't look at me.

"Yes."

My body and mind can't sit still any longer. I push open the car door and climb out. Brock noisily follows suit. We seemingly gaze at each other across the roof of the car for a moment.

"No," I say again. Backing away, I start toward the biggest house. "There's more than eight hundred thousand dollars in that account. He took it all? You're sure?"

"We each put in eight hundred thousand. And, there's a mortgage for twice that on the property. It's quite a place," Brock says, following behind me at a slower pace. "And, for the record, I told him to tell you about it. He wanted it to be a surprise. The plan was to finish the tour in Afghanistan, return home, surprise you, and move you all down here. He had it all worked out; said you'd be thrilled. That it would be the best place for Max to grow up and that you would love it."

I stop walking. "Just give up the beach house and a magnificent view of the Pacific and move to God's country? To Texas!"

I flail my arms about. Even though he can't see my frustration, I'm pretty sure he senses it.

"I'm sorry. He said you'd be thrilled. I tried to tell him it was a crazy idea, a big change for a city girl like you."

"You don't even know me!" I clench my fists at my sides ready to pummel him if he comes any closer to me as fury surges through me. "How could Ethan have done this? To us? Without asking me?"

"I'm sorry," Brock says slowly, shaking his head. "I tried to tell him based upon what I knew of you that you weren't going to exactly be thrilled with the idea of moving to Austin, but he wouldn't listen. He said you'd come around."

"Come around," I repeat his words.

My breathing becomes more jagged. I struggle to maintain what little composure I have left.

"What about my dream of opening my restaurant? My own place? What did he say about that?"

"You need to see it first before jumping to too many conclusions."

"See it? He tramples over my dream and just supplants everything in our life with his vision without telling me! What does that say about us? Our marriage? God damn him! And now you're telling me I need to
see
it?"

Brock grabs hold of my hand and pulls me along. He holds his white cane with the other and taps along the driveway. I flush with embarrassment at my temper and the way I've spoken to him.

"I'm going to take a wild guess that buying me out, right now, is out of the question, given your current circumstances."

He gives me a sideways glance. He looks grim.

"I tried to tell you," Brock says quietly. "All these months you ignored me."

"Yeah, I did." I shake my head side-to-side in disbelief. "Well, now, I know."

We stop walking. His breath stirs my hair. I look at his face and see a mixture of remorse and sadness.

"Did he tell you
anything
about the Lazy J?" Brock asks. He sounds despondent. I begin to wonder why.

"No."

I look down at the paperwork I'm still holding. The numbers swim at me now. These hot tears streak down my face making it hard to see. The bottom number is the scary one. It shows a negative $600,000 dollars in red. "I don't understand," I manage to say. "What's the minus $600,000 listed here?"