Julia's Journey (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 2) (6 page)

“I like it straight and sleek. Not wild and wavy,” I grumble
as I pick up
Fifi
and love on her some. The darn
thing is too cute.

Greyson places a bowl beside me and fills it with water.
Fifi
wiggles out of my arms and starts lapping up the cool
water. My hand moves over to her on its own accord and pets her. Greyson runs
his fingers through my hair softly in the same manner as he steps around me
before sitting in the leather chair across from me.

“I think you should kidnap
Fifi
,
too,” I comment.

“I haven’t kidnapped you and won’t start with this little
girl.” He bites into an apple, watching me. “Besides, I couldn’t steal
Fifi
from that sweet little lady. Man, I love that southern
accent. Where do you think she’s from?”

“It’s not a South Carolina twang.
Maybe
Georgia.”
I shrug my shoulders.

“I wish you would rediscover that southern twang you had
when we first met.”

I look over at him and he’s smiling with those big green
eyes sparkling at the memory, I guess. I keep forgetting how long we’ve known
each other. The last two years with him disappearing makes me feel like we’ve
somehow lost the history between us.

“Greyson, please tell me where you’ve been.”

He shakes his head and loses the smile. “It’s time to go
eat.” He picks up
Fifi
and walks out the door before
I can harass him any longer.

“You’re going to tell me eventually,” I say to his back, and
he stays quiet. “I sure hope alcohol is served at this meal. I need a drink,” I
grumble under my breath. He hears me, though, and cuts me a sharp look. I just
glare back at him.

We walk over and the smell of savory meat cooking on the
grill finds me, making my stomach growl and my mouth water simultaneously. It’s
painful and so I focus on it as I always do. We reach the site and find a cute
little feller with a mop of curly grey hair manning the grill that is covered
in barbeque chicken and fat sausages.

“Stan?” Greyson asks with one of his hands held out while
the other holds on to
Fifi
like a baby. “I’m
Greyson.”

Stan shakes his hand then mine. “You must be Julia.”

“Yes. It’s nice to meet you.”

Mrs. Betty exits the camper with her hands full of dishes.
Greyson hands
Fifi
over to me and goes to help her.
She’s not a baby, so I sit
Fifi
down on the ground
and stroll over to the picnic table.

“You young’uns ready to eat?” the little lady asks. She sets
the table. Greyson falls right in and starts filling glasses with lemonade.

“I’m starving,” he says.

“Good. We got a feast,” Stan declares as he unloads the
grill and brings the bounty to the table.

Greyson tries beckoning me to the table, but I shake my head
and brush off his request with a flick of my wrist.

“
Suga
’, you not
gonna
eat?” Mrs. Betty asks.

“I’m good. I already had a shake.” I sit in one of their
camper chairs.

“Well, bless your heart,” Mrs. Betty says as she reenters
the camper.

I shoot her a look. “Humph.” I sigh.

“She’s sweet,” Greyson says but then looks over at me and
catches the frown on my face. “What?”

“She just insulted me.” I cross my arms and gaze over to the
lake.

Greyson comes over and stands next to me with his hands on his
too lean hips.
“How?”

“Bless your heart is the South’s way of saying you’re
stupid.”

He smirks at this and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.
“So, you say you’re not hungry?”

“Yep.”

“Well, bless your heart,” he draws out in a pathetic attempt
to sound southern.

“You don’t even come close to pulling that accent off,
Stone,” I sass back.

He raises an eyebrow at me and throws his hands up in defeat
before going over and sitting at the picnic table. Stan blesses the food and
the three of them dig in.

For the next hour I sit in misery as Greyson shovels in food
at a considerable rate. I’m worrying if he is overdoing it, but he looks so
darn happy. I sit back and watch him consume nearly an entire chicken and three
helpings of potato salad and baked beans. He’s so cute, covered in sticky
barbeque sauce and carrying on a lively conversation with our company like he’s
known them all of his life. That’s the thing about Greyson Stone—he doesn’t
meet a stranger. Meeting people and getting to know them is something this man
can do with such ease.

He eventually throws in his napkin only to pick it back up
when Mrs. Betty pulls out a banana pudding.
I.
Hate.
Bananas.
I think it’s something in the
Thorton
blood. Even the smell of them makes me nauseous.
Before the gagging starts, I excuse myself and head back to the RV.

I flop on my bed and make the mistake of checking my
messages. Tabloids are now reporting falsely that I vanished with a few other
models for another stint in rehab.
Great.
Just great.
Another message pings from my agent. She thinks
it’s the perfect time to agree to another movie role with
all
of the
buzz around my name. Leave it to her to work the negative
publicity to further my career. I’ve put in my time with roles in probably
twenty films.
Mostly supporting roles.
A few leads,
but I’m over that too. It’s just as stressful as the modeling career. All of it
is just too overwhelming anymore, and I don’t know what I want and where I want
to go next. Feeling defeated, I power off the phone and settle on my bed,
trying not to cry as I wait for Greyson to return.

I guess about an hour later, he shuffles in slowly, looking
a bit green. He sits in one of the plush leather chairs diagonally from me and
takes several deep breaths.

“Honey, are you okay?”

He takes off his hat and rubs his head in misery, but says
nothing.

“Greyson?”
I ask as I scoot to the edge of the bed to give him a
better inspection. A fine sheen of perspiration glistens from his face and he
looks downright miserable.
 

Before I can decide what to do, he bolts out of the chair
and rushes to the bathroom. Instant sounds of him retching up all of that food
fill the RV, and I actually feel pain for him.

I go over and knock on the door when he quiets down.
“Greyson, honey, are you okay?” He only grunts for a response and it worries
me. I stand by the door for what feels like forever, listening to him breathing
laboriously, and then the sink water finally turns on and his electric
toothbrush comes to life.

After the hum of his toothbrush silences, Greyson staggers
out the door and almost plows right into me. I put my arm around him to help
him steady. “You okay?” I whisper.

He nods his head and walks like a zombie to his bed. I help
him lie down and then go grab him a bottle of water. Without thinking, I open
the cabinet where he stores his vitamins and plunder for some antacids. There
are prescription bottles I have no idea what are used for and it makes me
uneasy. Has he begun to dabble in pills? They are just as bad as any street
drug addiction. This is one thing I’ve learned. Addiction comes in all sorts of
forms. I scan the bottles until I stumble across one for nausea. It’s Phenergan
and the only label I recognize. I bring it along with the bottle of water, but
he is already out. I set the water beside him and sit on the edge of the bed. I
know he overindulged, but he seems so feeble too.

As I watch him sleep, questions swirl around my mind—
is he coming off some drug, did he take up
an eating disorder,
is
he sick
? All I know is he
doesn’t look good. I’ve just about talked myself into snatching his phone and
calling his mom, but I think better of it. I wouldn’t want Greyson to call
mine, so I leave him be for now.

Chapter Six

Greyson

This trip sucks. It really sucks! And it’s time to change
that. We’ve been milling around the campground in Maine for over a week with me
trying to get my act together and also constantly talking myself out of not
shipping Julia away. She bickers that all I do is sleep and I ride her right
back about her endless exercising and nonexistent eating. We need an adventure,
whether I feel up to it or not.

So today it starts. I’m stoked with the anticipation of it,
yet I’m also worried that neither one of us will be up for it. Nonetheless,
I’ve already called and booked the boat charter. When I broke the news to Julia
yesterday, she seemed sort of bummed that we will start this adventure catching
fresh lobster.
Seriously.
You can’t go to Maine and
not try this, so I told her to suck it up.

“How do you plan on getting us there?” she asked. Like I
would plan this whole trip out and not have such details buttoned
down.
She knows me better than that.

“I have mopeds,” I tried to explain. Then she went to
whining.

“I’m not riding around on some silly scooter. Rent a car or
call a cab,” she demanded. I was itching to call her a cab to send her packing
all the way back to New York, but my conscience wouldn’t let me. She had been
well over a week with no alcohol and I know that’s not easy for her, so I tried
to give her some slack.

I had scoffed at her lack of faith in me, but I forgot she
had no idea how many hours I had clocked in with planning this trip out. I
ushered her outside and with a handheld key fob I had remoted the large custom
back compartment of the motorhome open to reveal two customized street mopeds.

“No way!”
She gawked at them in what I think approval.

We both eyed the two sleek pieces of machinery sitting in
wait.
“Yep.
Lucky for you, I ordered an extra one for
backup. Mom made me promise not to get a motorcycle. She didn’t say anything
against mopeds.” I smiled at being able to get something by my mom. Although
I’m a grown man, I still respect my momma. God blessed me with a good one and I
never want to let her down.

“Mrs. Barbara would have your hide if she knew this was what
she agreed to, sir. They look mean,” Julia said approvingly. And I definitely
agreed with her.

Those babies cost me a pretty penny to customize. They are
top of the line Honda Silver Wings.
Silver, black and sleek.
I had lift kits added to accommodate my height. Julia’s just lucky she’s tall,
too.

“I barely know how to drive a car, much less a slightly
tamed motorcycle, Stone.” She looked pretty nervous, standing there worrying
her bottom lip between her teeth.

So I hauled them out and we set out driving test laps around
the campground to familiarize her with the bike. She laid hers down twice, but
picked it back up and tried again like a champ. It gave me hope that maybe
Julia would eventually get on board with this adventure.

I’m even more hopeful this morning when I emerge from the
bedroom and find my girl sitting with a cup of coffee and a protein shake. She
is dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with all of that hair tied back in a
ponytail. Her bag and running shoes are waiting by the door. To avoid the smile
I can barely contain, I duck into the bathroom to take care of morning
business—smiling through it all.

My bowl of oatmeal, with a handful of dried fruit and nuts,
is next on my morning to-do list. While I prepare this, Julia actually makes me
a cup of coffee. I can’t help but smile some more. This is a woman that serves
no one. Everyone else has always served her. “You want me to make you some
oatmeal,
Thorton
?” I offer.

“No
thanks,
honey. I already had a
shake.” She hands me my coffee and I shove the bowl of oatmeal in her empty
hand.

“At least try it.” Julia shakes her head and tries to push
it back into my hand. I set my coffee down and turn on my persuading skills. I
push the spoon through the oatmeal and present it to her lips before she can
back away. “Come on. I just want you to try it. Please. For me…” This cracks
her up instead of wooing her. I don’t care. She’s laughing, so I take advantage
of this and shove the spoon in her mouth.

“Stone,” she sputters around a mouthful of oatmeal.

I ignore her and shovel in my own bite. “You ready for the
boat ride?”

After she swallows, she grumbles in true prissy Julia
fashion.
“If we have to.”

“Yes, we have to, so suck it up and try not to be the fun
police.” I throw her saying at her and she rolls those big beautiful eyes at
me.

It takes us only thirty minutes to reach the boat docks.
This is another part of my plan—to have the excursions no farther than thirty
minutes from the RV. I pop a
nondrowsy
motion
sickness tab for precaution as soon as we park. Julia eyes me suspiciously.
“Dramamine.
You need one?” I offer.

“I’ve boated before,” she rebukes, looking at me like I’m a
pansy.
Again.
I don’t care. All I want to do is enjoy
this and I’m not sure I can handle it all at the same time.

“Suit
yourself
,” I say, before
grabbing her hand and walking over to the tour office.

I’ve been holding Julia’s hand since we were teenagers.
We’ve never kissed or anything, but it’s like we have always been tethered
together. She needs me, and honestly, I’ve always needed her. I felt starved
for her these past two years, but there’s absolutely no way I could have ever
dragged her down that dark road I had taken. It was the worst time of my life
and I’m glad she was spared. I just want to move forward.

And so that’s what we are doing.
Moving
forward.
At the moment along the Maine coast in this incredibly cool
lobster boat with four others plus the captain and the guide—all clad in yellow
fishing bibs with the exception of Miss Difficult. Julia refused to wear them,
saying that they were tacky. So be it. This tour includes the two hour
chartered ride where we will haul lobster traps and then the fun concludes with
a lobster bake right on the beach back at the boat docks.

As we ride along the choppy water, our guide comes over and
stands near the rear where we are all hanging out. I think he’s close to my age
of thirty-one, but living on this water has aged him before his time. My years
as a model have taught me to never start the day without sunblock. My little
princess knows this too, and I watch as she is already lathering on another
coat of it as we speak.

This weathered dude gives us a pretty interesting history
lesson on lobster. “Lobster didn’t start out as glamorous as they are today.
They were so plentiful back when the settlers took over the North American
shores that these crustaceans were actually used as fishing bait and crop
fertilizer. Lobsters would just wash up on shore back then and all the settlers
had to do was walk along the beach and scoop them up. In the late seventeen
hundreds, the introduction of Smacks came about first right here in Maine.
These specially-designed boats housed large tanks to transport live lobster. Lobster
traps also made their debut in Maine by the mid-nineteen hundreds. Some may be
surprised to know that lobster began with the name of the poor man’s protein.
The underprivileged and prisoners were fed the crustaceans.”

The crowd seems amazed at this admission with some
murmurings.
Except Julia.
She just keeps staring off
over the ocean as if she’s completely bored. I try not to worry about her fun
level and focus on enjoying myself. No nausea. No headache. I feel pretty great
and am starting to get antsy with wanting to haul some lobster.

The guide continues after answering a few questions that I
didn’t catch. “Lobster can weigh more than forty pounds and reach up to three
feet long. The largest on record was caught off Nova Scotia in nineteen
eighty-eight. It weighed in at a hefty forty-four pounds and clocked in at
three and a half feet long.”

Julia yawns and drums the side of the boat, but perks up at
the mention of low calories. The guide explains that lobster is less in
calories than an equal portion of skinless chicken breast. Maybe I can get her
to enjoy our bounty later this evening.

He wraps up another round of questions as we reach the first
traps. I let the others go
first,
hoping Julia will
get in the spirit of things and want to give it a try. When I offer her the
next turn, she just flutters her prim hand in the air and tells me, “You just
go ahead, honey.”

I give up and haul in both our pods and am rewarded with
three good-sized lobsters. Perfect, because I’m starving by the time we reach
the beach.

The beach is surprisingly smooth and sandy. I had imagined a
rocky shore when I planned the trip. It’s really nice. There’s a fire pit
already crackling away with a low table set up right beside it. The guide turns
our lobsters over to a thick chef that met us on the beach when we returned. He
gets busy with the meal preparations while a waitress walks around the small
group for drink orders.

“I’ll have a bottle of water, please,” I answer the little
brunette when she reaches me.

“White wine,” Julia answers, but I shake my head.

“She’ll have water as well.”

“I’m a grown woman. I can order whatever I want.” She’s
glaring at me, and I don’t want a scene.

I dismiss the waitress and lead Julia away from the group
out of earshot. “You can’t drink. You’re driving,” I remind her.

“It’s just one glass of wine, Stone,” she snaps as she pulls
her arm out of my grasp. “The food will suck it right up.”

Julia is trying to sell it, but I’m not buying. For one, I’m
not so sure she will even eat and more importantly, I’ve never seen Julia stop
with just one drink. “Please don’t drink tonight. I’ll worry the whole way back
to the campground.”

I see the slight tremor to her hands so I grab them firmly
in mine and drag her to the edge of the water to distract her. We are already
barefooted and have our jeans rolled up so I don’t stop until the edges of our
pants skim the water and she’s squealing from the icy rush of the water.

“Let me go, you jerk,” she demands between laughs. I think
about scooping her up and going farther, but I’m still too weak. I banish the
thought before I get mad about it and set out to kicking small sprays of water
up her leg. This continues until we are both more wet than not and the chef is
saying the feast is ready.

And boy is it ever. Julia and I curl up in beach towels as
close to the cozy fire pit as is safe. We are each presented with small
individual steam pots with tags to identify who’s who. Man, is it cool to catch
your very own supper. It’s heavenly when I open the pot and find not one but
two perfectly steamed lobsters surrounded by small new potatoes and corn on the
cob. We are perched on big pillows that surround a low driftwood table. The two
other sets of couples seem to not want to socialize so much. I tried on the
boat ride, but eventually gave up.

The waitress walks around and gives each of us small ceramic
containers of melted butter. Everyone digs in with Julia inspecting her food
with apprehension. I grab her hand and whisper a prayer of thanks for the food
and opportunity of this day. I raise my head and see that everyone paused in
reverence. Good. These folks need to remember to give thanks. I release Julia’s
hand and dig in.

“How much did my lobster weigh?” she asks while she taps
away on her phone.

“A pound and a fourth,” I answer as I crack open my first
lobster. I am mentally reminding myself to take it slow and enjoy the lobster
first. If I have room after that, I’ll work on the sides.

“Humph. That’s only forty-five calories. You think that’s
right?” she asks as she reenters the information to recalculate the calories. I
look over and sure enough, the screen says only forty-five calories.

“Good news,
Thorton
. You can eat
the
whole
thing,” I say
encouragingly. I start in on my food and let her stew over eating or not. Right
now, all I want to do is relish in this meal. I’m able to polish off both
lobsters with my melted butter as well as Julia’s. She eats the meat of the
tail and one claw. I consider this a success, so I don’t push her or me to
finish the rest of the meal. S’mores ends the meal. I do end up eating both
mine and Julia’s. I can’t say no to anything chocolate. It’s my weakness.

As we ride back to the campground, I declare the day a
triumph. We both survived it without getting sick or on each other’s nerves too
badly. We reach the RV at dusk and before I can reload the mopeds, Julia has
changed and set out on a run.
Great.
That one thing
just about knocks the wind right out of my sails. This chick is so stubborn.

“Really?”
I say harshly towards her back.