Chapter 4: Mom And Dad

Mom was at the kitchen sink when Dad led the way through the front door and to the back of the house. I loved their open concept with the vaulted ceilings and newly renovated clean lines. Dad had always seemed content with the seventies-esque feel of the place, but it was nice to see my mother finally got her way when Dad decided it might be time to think about retirement.

"I honestly believe he didn't want to spend every day home hearing me complain about the cabinets and carpeting," she admitted in a girly giggle that made me smile just a week ago over coffee.

My socks skidded on the newly polished hardwood floors as I scuffed my feet on my way through to the marble tiles that glowed in the sunlight, the slab of granite Mom chose a hulking monstrosity on the surface of the large island she decided on for the centerpiece of the new kitchen. The last of the sunbeams poured in the sliding glass doors, lighting the room in a heavenly glow that instantly made me feel better. I sighed as I hugged Mom, her cheek against mine, matching auburn hair without a hint of gray, though I knew she had a box to thank for that. Still, her lack of wrinkles and constant cheery expression gave me hope I'd age gracefully.

Either that or I'd end up like my mountain of a Dad with a permanently grouchy look on my face. I'd pick Mom's sunny optimism any day. Too bad it didn't pick me back.

"Sweetie!" Mom spun toward the counter and the glass enclosed sculpture of chocolate standing on a charming pedestal. She swept the cover free, gesturing to the untouched cake that lured me like the call of a distant siren. "I just finished frosting it. Want a slice?" She didn't wait for an affirmation, carving out a gigantic piece from the three tiered deliciousness while the scent of cocoa and way too much sugar wafted toward me thanks to the slowly revolving white fan blades turning in lazy relief of the heat over my head. Great reminder I hadn't eaten and probably not the best choice on an empty stomach. But eggs, flour, milk-food groups, right? And worth the sore tummy and the inevitable sugar crash.

"Thanks, Mom," I said. "I could use a little TLC after the day I've had."

She paused to share a sad face. "I wish you'd just let me help you at the house," she said. "I'm happy to do it, Fee."

"You have earned your retirement," I shook my head as I leaned on the counter, body tired now that I'd stopped for a minute. "And I should be able to handle one bed and breakfast. Right?" My mouth watered while I accepted the plate from her, the idea of the chocolatey deliciousness almost more than I could stand.

"You know how much I love to cook," she said. "I'm dying to try some new recipes. You could expand, offer lunch."

I hesitated with a bite of cake near my lips. "Would you fire Betty for me?"

Mom flinched then laughed, blushing. "Listen to me, being so rude. Of course not. Betty and Mary have been with Iris and Petunia's for simply ages." She looked down at the hopeful pug sitting at her feet, the whites of her bulging eyes showing as if anticipating a treat. "Hasn't she, good girl?"

Petunia whined softly and licked her lips.

"Don't even think about it." I waved my fork at Mom who seemed to be considering the unthinkable. "The pug doesn't get sugar." Or chocolate. All I needed was my grandmother to come back to haunt me because I poisoned her precious Petunia.

Dad grunted, opening the envelope as he raised one bushy gray eyebrow at her. "Sure, Fee gets offered," he said, sounding much more grumpy than he really was. I knew from experience how much he loved teasing his beloved wife. "And the damned dog. But I want some? Forget it."

"You," she spun and tapped him on the back of one hand with the spatula, dotting frosting on his skin, "are on a diet." She tossed her full head of hair and winked at me, even as she ladled a second piece onto a plate, just as big as the first, followed by a more modest one for herself.

Ah, the parent dance. It hadn't changed one bit since I was a kid. So predictably sweet and endearing. And made me feel almost instantly like I was ten again. Not necessarily the best reaction when I had very grown up things to worry about. But it was nice to perch on the soft seat of the stool at the island and take a big, heavenly bite of Mom's prized chocolate cake and let my father read over the paperwork that dread had kept me from opening myself.

Sure, I was a big girl now. But that didn't mean I couldn't find support and love from the two people who brought me into the world while cold milk and cake healed the hurt in my heart.

Dad didn't touch his dessert, starting to swear softly under his breath, eyebrows meeting in the middle while his cheeks turned first pink then dark red. The tendons in his neck stood out in impressive ropes and I only then wondered if I'd made a huge mistake not breaking this whole mess to him more gently. After all, it was his mother who supposedly signed away the B&B, right? While dying from the deterioration brought on by a debilitating stroke in a nursing home. I really was an idiot.

Mom leaned in, one hand on his wrist, concerned expression making me feel worse. I swallowed hastily and spoke up as Dad continued to read and mutter swearwords that made me wince.

"Supposedly," I said, looking back and forth between them, "Grandmother Iris signed paperwork that deeded Petunia's to some guy named Pete Wilkins." Mom hissed a sharp intake of breath, green eyes flashing to Dad who crumpled the papers in one giant hand and tossed them to the marble countertop.

"We'll just see about that." And then he stormed out like a marching juggernaut on his way to do damage. I gaped after him and his sudden departure, cake forgotten.

"Oh, dear," Mom sighed, staring down at her own slice. "This is terrible."

"You're not kidding," I said. "Could it be real?" This was the first time I actually allowed myself to accept fully it might be, absolutely, and that my whole reason for coming home was about to fall out from under me. A gaping maw of panic rose up inside me, choking my breath. What would I do? Where would I go? I couldn't, at almost twenty-nine, move back in with my parents. Wouldn't. But returning to New York? That was impossible now. I'd burned that bridge. Dear God, what was I going to do?

Mom must have known my head was spinning because she scooted around the island and took the stool Dad vacated, leaning in to hug me before carefully smoothing out the wrinkles and then perusing the paper he'd discarded. Her years as an English teacher might not have made her a lawyer, but she taught Law, too, so she at least would know something, right?

She finally slipped the offending sheets, still wonky from Dad's furious attention, back into the envelope and set them before her, little hands folding over the surface, covering my name with those familiar fingers. My eyes settled on the ridges of skin that were the proof of years of contentment cupping the wedding band and engagement ring she'd worn since she was eighteen. Coral polish shone on her perfectly oval nails, faintly blue veins showing under the thinning skin. Weird how those details came into sharp focus for me at a time like this, but I found the longer I stared at those hands I knew so well, hands I'd missed being away from this long, the deeper I was able to breathe and the more my rational thoughts returned, banishing the panic until I was able to concentrate when Mom spoke.

"John will blame himself for this," she said, tears in her eyes. "There's old, bad blood between him and Pete, Fee. And it has nothing to do with you, or Iris. So sad." Mom shook her head, stared down into Dad's untouched cake. "But don't worry a bit, all right? Your father will get this sorted. There's not a single thing to fuss over." She grasped and squeezed my hand, forced a brave little smile. "Okay, sweetie? Not a single thing."

That routine worked when I was a kid. But I wasn't so sure Mom's goodness and light was going to come to the rescue this time. Not that I didn't appreciate the effort.

"What bad blood?" I reached for the envelope, hating the thing now though I personally hadn't looked at the contents and it was just paper and ink. Soulless, impersonal. Not worthy of hate, really.

Mom sniffled and stood, taking Dad's plate, replacing carefully the slice of uneaten cake on the glass pedestal, doing the same with her own, before setting the cover softly on the base. "It doesn't matter now," she said. "John's retired. It's Crew Turner's problem from here."

So this was a criminal matter turned personal? "Mom," I said. "I'd better call a lawyer."

She turned and smiled again, not quite so fake anymore. "Just let your father talk to Pete," she said. "I'm sure he'll get it all sorted out." She hesitated before her chin dropped a little, brave face fading. "You have his mind, his passion for truth. I wish..."

I didn't want to talk about Dad's insistence I not follow in his footsteps, the only thing I'd ever really wanted. Too depressing.

Mom must have agreed. "Eat your cake, Fee."

And while it was probably the last thing I wanted to do now, I did as I was told like a good girl. By the time I was done, Mom standing in contemplative silence in the slowly darkening kitchen so long my last few bites were like eating in the most uncomfortable quiet of my entire life, I had to choke down the final swallow. When I rose to take the plate and fork to the sink, turning on the light under the counters to cut the shadows, she jerked into motion again, her beaming smile firmly in place, Petunia snuffling at her feet as a few crumbs fell when Mom scooped the dishes out of my hands.

"Now, don't forget, six o'clock Saturday," she said, depositing the plate and fork into the sink before turning me and aiming me for the front door. So, time to go then, was it? I grabbed the envelope, Petunia trailing mournfully after me. "Dinner for my birthday. You won't forget?"

She sounded worried. I turned and hugged her. "I wish you'd let us take you out. Or at least allow me to cook for you."

Mom beamed then, kissing my cheek, bending to pat Petunia's wrinkled head. "The very best gift I can receive is to cook whatever I want for my own birthday." She nodded sharply once with a gleam in her eyes. "I can't wait."

Petunia grunted while Mom ushered us smoothly out the door and waved. I gave up trying to argue, impressed as always at how deft she seemed to be, the effortless way she managed to shoo me along, and finished sliding my heels into my sneakers before heading for home.

The second my feet hit the sidewalk, street lights flickering to life despite the fact on the other side of the mountains the sun still shone, a horrible thought struck me. I really was going to need a lawyer. And I knew a good one, a damned good one with tons of experience and enough motivation to represent me for free I'd likely win no matter what kind of paperwork Pete Wilkins thought he had against me.

The only trouble was that lawyer was my ex. And I just wasn't willing to go there.

Sighing over the Pandora's box of my history and hoping Mom's attempt at reassurance meant I could keep Ryan Richards safely in the past, I slumped my way home to the B&B while the namesake of that same place grunted and snorted and farted beside me.

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