Delay of Game (The Baltimore Banners Book 6) (20 page)

Because no matter what Justin did, his father would always blame him for the accident that took his mother's life.

Val stood in front of the window, looking down at the parade of cars fighting for the right-of-way in the circle below. A coach bus was moving at a snail's pace, snarling the traffic behind it when the driver slammed on the brakes as a large truck approached from the left. Horns blared, their sound muted through the glass and distance of three stories. Another horn, longer this time, coming from a pick-up truck right behind the hesitant driver. The bus finally inched ahead, almost causing an accident as it finally made its way into the roundabout.

Except for the snarling traffic below them, the scene was deceptively peaceful. Twilight was falling, engulfing everything around them in a mysterious purple light. Off to the west, just beyond where she could see out the window, the last rays of the dying sun painted the edges of the distant buildings a fiery red. People lined the street below, many of them carrying bags. Even more would stop in the middle of the walk, heedless of anyone behind them, read something from a guidebook in their hands, then look around, as if trying to find something.

Or maybe trying to visualize the surroundings as they had been over 150 years ago during the battle.

Val figured that last part shouldn't be too hard, considering the town of Gettysburg hadn't changed that much. At least, that's what the few photo books in their room claimed. She had glanced through a few when they first got into their room, just to see—and figured a few of the authors probably stretched dramatic license a bit. The town itself had largely escaped modern development and while it kept most of its original charm, it certainly wasn't exactly as it had been 150 years ago.

Val glanced over her shoulder at Justin. He was sprawled out on the sofa, his attention focused on a stack of papers in his hand. The skin of his face was pulled tight, lines of weariness showing around his mouth and the corners of his eyes. He looked drained. Tired and worn-out. She couldn't blame him, not after the dinner at his father's house. The experience had been enough to drain her, and she'd only been there for a little more than an hour.

They'd gone from his father's house straight to here, the old hotel right in the middle of the town square. Justin had chosen one of the few available suites. Considering the hotel was more than two hundred years old, Val hadn't known what to expect and figured the term 'suite' was probably going to be an optimistic stretch, another example of dramatic license.

She had been pleasantly surprised. The room boasted a large bedroom area with a king bed, complete with overstuffed mattress and gas fireplace. The adjoining living area had a small wet bar and large flat screen television in addition to the sofa and chairs and second gas fireplace. Fresh flowers sat in a vase on the small table and several Civil War prints decorated the walls. It even had a two-person Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom that Val fully intended to take advantage of—with Justin.

The hotel had obviously been renovated sometime in the last few years but still retained its charm. The entire hotel was quaint and romantic, a perfect place for an intimate getaway.

Val was afraid this week wasn't going to fall into that category.

She let the drapes fall back in place and stepped away from the window, wondering what to say to Justin. He'd been quiet ever since they arrived at his father's house. Too quiet. Tension rolled off him, from the hunched set of his shoulders to the muscle ticking in his clenched jaw. She knew he was embarrassed, maybe even angry, about the way his father acted. But he didn't say anything about it, didn't even acknowledge what happened. Part of her wanted to ask if his father was like that all the time.

Another part of her told her to leave it alone, that it wasn't her business. Justin had mentioned, more than once, that the relationship with his father was strained, that they didn't get along. She didn't need to bring up the obvious, didn't need to ask questions that might make things worse.

But she had so wanted to say something earlier. Not to Justin—to his father. It had taken all of her self-control and then some to keep her mouth shut, to bite her tongue and keep the words she wanted to say to herself.

She still couldn't believe the way Brian Tome had acted, the way he'd talked to and treated Justin. And her. The things he'd said. What didn't make sense to her was that it seemed like he only treated Justin that way and not his brother, Gary. His father was the type of man who would never be called loving, but he'd been positively antagonistic toward Justin—and only Justin. She didn't understand it.

And she didn't understand why Justin merely sat there without saying anything back. Without defending himself—or her.

Val moved to the sofa and sat in the corner, curling her legs in front of her then wrapping her arms around her knees. Justin was still looking through the papers in his hand, his brows lowered in a frown as he flipped from one page to the next then back again.

"Did you need help with anything?"

"Hm?" A few seconds went by before her question actually registered. Justin tossed the papers on the coffee table and shook his head, then finally looked over at her. "No. They're just reports for the past year and expected expenses for the coming year."

"Oh." She waited for him to elaborate, to explain where the reports were from and what they were for. But he didn't say anything, just leaned his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes with a weary sigh.

Val wanted to slide closer to him, to sit beside him and wrap her arms around him, maybe rest her head on his shoulder. But she still felt the tension coming from him. And something else, almost like he was trying to put distance between them.

"I'm pretty good at reports, you know. From the restaurant and everything."

Justin rolled his head to the side and opened his eyes, watching her for a few quiet seconds. Then the corner of his mouth lifted in a tired sad smile. He stretched his arm out, his palm upturned, silently asking for her hand. She reached out and laced her fingers with his then slid closer when he tugged. He released her hand and draped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer and dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

"I know. I appreciate the offer. But it's nothing I can't handle."

"Oh." She snuggled closer, resting her head against his chest. "What are they for?"

"Just yearly expenses for the farm. I look them over once a year before writing the check."

"The check for what?"

"For the running of the farm."

His voice rumbled in his chest, echoing in her ear, harsh and bitter. Val stilled, surprised at the emotion under the words. She wanted to ask why, wanted to ask what he meant, but she didn't. She didn't have to, not when it was too easy to guess. Justin was obviously paying for everything for his father. The question was: why? With all the tension and animosity between them, why would Justin do that? No matter how much she wanted to know, she didn't dare ask.

Val turned her head and pressed a kiss in the middle of Justin's chest, then raised her head so she could look at him. He looked tired, more now than just a few minutes ago. And lost, like his mind was a million miles away. Somewhere in the past? Or just somewhere up the road, back at his father's house?

It didn't matter. What mattered was the ache in her chest when he looked like that, and the burning need to make him smile. To get his mind away from wherever it was. She didn't like seeing him like this, especially not after everything he'd been through the last few weeks. This was supposed to be a fun trip for them, a little getaway. At least, that's what she had thought when he first invited her. After meeting his father, she wasn't so sure. But that didn't mean they couldn't do something just for them, something fun and relaxing.

She forced a smile to her face then reached up to trace his full lower lip with the tip of her finger. "So what do you want to do tonight? I saw some brochures for ghost tours. Did you want to do one of those?"

He looked down at her, his eyes full of shadows. "I think you should go home tomorrow. Take my truck. I can get Gary to bring me back."

"What?" Val sat up, both feet planted on the floor, and stared at him. "You want me to leave?"

"I shouldn't have dragged you up here, not when I knew this would happen."

"Asking about a ghost tour? Fine, we don't need to go. It's not that big a deal." She tried to make light of it, to pretend she didn't understand what Justin was talking about, to make him laugh or smile.

One corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, then dropped again. He ran his finger along her cheek then pushed her hair behind her ear, his eyes watching her too closely.

"That's not what I meant."

She reached up and pressed her hand against his, holding it in place against her cheek. "Then what did you mean?"

"I think you know."

She held his gaze, silently begging him not to look away. Not to shut her out. "Tell me."

"Val, it's—" He paused, swallowed, and she held her breath, waiting. Disappointment filled her when he shook his head and looked away. She let out a small sigh then leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss against his mouth.

"Justin, I get it. Your father and you don't get along. That doesn't mean I have to leave."

"Val, it's more than that. He's—" Justin took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair then dragged it down his face. "In my father's eyes, I've never been able to do anything right. I've fucked up everything, ever since I was eleven. It doesn't matter what I do, nothing is ever good enough—"

"Why eleven?"

"What?"

"You said since you were eleven. Why then?"

Justin froze, his entire body stiffening next to hers. Color drained from his face, leaving his skin a pasty white. Val reached for him, afraid something was wrong. "Justin, what is it? Are you okay?"

He shook his head and waved her back, not even looking at her. His eyes closed and he took several long deep breaths. Color slowly seeped back into his face, turning his complexion blotchy before finally evening out.

"Justin?"

"I'm fine. It's—I'm fine." He stood up, his back straight and stiff, and moved to the wet bar, pulling out a bottle of water. He twisted off the cap one-handed and drained it in three long swallows then leaned against the small countertop, his back still to her.

Val didn't know what to do, what to say. Something had upset Justin, something she had said. But what? She tried to think, to remember, wondering if maybe she said something she shouldn't have. But that couldn't be right. All she had asked was—

"Why eleven?" Justin repeated her question, his voice hoarse, slightly unsteady. He cleared his throat and turned around, facing her. But his gaze was focused on the empty bottle in his hand, not on her.

Silence stretched around them, long and brittle, threatening to shatter under the slightest noise. Then Justin inhaled, a deep breath that seemed to go on forever. When he exhaled, it came out in a burst, a harsh laugh that was almost chilling.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make it sound so dramatic. It's, uh, well, it's actually pretty cliché. My mother died when I was eleven and my father blames me for it."

The words were said so casually, so matter-of-factly, that they didn't immediately register with Val. Then a tidal wave of emotions rolled over her, crashing into her so fast she didn't know where one ended and another began. What kind of father would blame his own son for the death of his mother?

She pushed against the sofa, trying to stand, wanting nothing more than to go over to Justin and hold him. But he shook his head, holding his hand out to stop her, a brittle smile on his face. She sat back down, her hands curling into the edges of the sofa cushions.

"What happened?"

Justin's hand tightened around the empty bottle, the plastic collapsing under his grip. He looked down at it, frowning, then tossed it into the wastebasket near the wet bar. Then he leaned against the counter and shrugged.

"In case you didn't notice, there aren't a lot of ice rinks around here. My father didn't much see the point of me playing hockey so my mom would drive me. An hour away, three or even four times a week, if not more. Most times she would wait at the rink, other times she would do some shopping or running around or something until I was done." Justin cleared his throat then looked down at his feet, shifting his weight. "She was an in accident, got hit when she was turning into the rink to pick me up. Killed her instantly."

"Oh God, Justin."

"So yeah, Dad blamed me. And he was right."

Val pushed off the sofa and walked over to Justin, her heart breaking for the young boy he had been. Had he seen it? He must have, if he had been at the rink. What must he have gone through? She couldn't imagine. And for his own father to blame him for it. Anger ripped through her. Anger, and the overwhelming need to defend the man who had been that boy.

She reached out and placed her hand on his arm, not surprised at the tension thrumming through the hardened muscle. "Justin, how can you say that?"

"Because it's the truth. If I hadn't insisted on playing hockey, Mom wouldn't have had to drive me. She wouldn't have been in the accident."

"Justin—" Val struggled for the right words, her mind searching for something to say to ease his mind, to take away the pain he must still feel. She remembered growing up, and how her parents would take turns driving Randy to his practices and games and tournaments. How many nights she'd done her own homework at some ice rink because Randy had practice. How her parents had made fun weekend getaways out of his tournament trips, turning it into a special family time. And they did it because it was what Randy wanted to do, because they loved him—loved both of them—and that was what parents did.