Point Hope
Point Hope
Trey’s orphaned niece needs a home, but his family is falling apart.
Kristen James
© 2013 Zulu 7 Productions LLC and Kristen James
www.facebook.com/WriterKristenJames
https://twitter.com/writerkristenj
Edited by Carol Teegarden
Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood
Also by Kristen James:
A Spy for Christmas
A Special Ops Christmas
A Cowboy for Christmas
The Cowboy Kiss
Embers of Hope
, Book 1, Second Gift Series
More than a Promise
, Book 2, Second Gift Series
More than Memories
The Enemy’s Son
Amazon Author Profile and Full Book List:
http://amazon.com/author/kristenjames
Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Trey held an aged picture in one hand, rubbing a thumb over it. It showed two young boys with dark hair sitting on the front steps together, a yellow lab puppy on their laps—the front half on Ricky’s lap and the back half spilling onto Trey’s cut-off jeans.
Trey had wanted the chocolate lab, but Ricky had begged and pleaded for the yellow one. It was a girl to boot, and Trey had wanted a boy dog. A boy like them. But his younger brother had fallen in love with that yellow lab, with her imploring brown puppy eyes, silky soft fur, and tiny pink tongue that licked them both
Even at that age, Ricky was a people person and knew how to be persuasive. It took just a flash of his little-boy smile, a tilt of his head, and his, “Aw, come on, Trey.” So Trey had given in and let Ricky pick their new puppy, denying—of course—that Ricky had pushed him into it. There had been something special about the way Ricky had looked at that tiny dog and the gentle way he’d held her.
They’d named her together: Helen of Troy. It was a strong name, they thought, judging from a movie they’d just watched.
Helen had been gone a long time—she’d hailed back in the days of paper airplanes, secret forts, catching snakes, and baseball in the backyard.
Now Ricky was gone too.
A noise startled Trey, and he slipped the small photo back into his shirt pocket. He looked up as Rosette walked into their home office, noticing it took her a few steps to see him silently sitting in the brown leather chair in the corner. They’d been sharing the office, one person coming in when the other was out. The room had her mark all over it. She’d painted the walls a soft sea foam green. Her pictures and notes for their family history book were spread across their old oak desk. Her light purple sweater was slung over the armchair in the other corner—they’d picked out his-and-her chairs together a good six years ago. His sole decorating contribution was a large, framed photo of the Cape Arago Lighthouse, with the ocean and fiery sunset behind it, which he’d taken himself.
Her dark hair was swept over one shoulder and cascaded down, looking like it wanted to curl. That was the usual state of it: doing what it wanted while she always tried to brush it straight. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and her crisp blue eyes and dark lashes looked stark in her pale face. He watched her slack expression stiffen.
“Oh.” Her body tensed and she paused, ready to turn around, but something stopped her. Maybe his expression, but more likely it was the new awkwardness they both felt around each other. They hadn’t spoken in several days, except when the kids were present.
“Rosette,” he started, but all the words he had been thinking over the last twenty minutes fled his mind.
Her face softened. “I’ve been trying to find a way to truly tell you how sorry I am about your brother.”
He sucked in a breath as if she’d kicked him in the stomach. The pain was so fresh, raw, alive. “Thanks for that,” he managed. “I was sitting here thinking about tomorrow.” He preferred to say
tomorrow
instead of
the funeral
.
She gave a weak nod, a half nod really, unsure of what to say. When Trey had learned his brother had been killed in action in Afghanistan, he’d wanted to go to her. Maybe he had. That day was hazy in his mind now. He had wanted to run to her so many times in the days since, but the reality of their situation came back, again and again, like a paper cut popping open. You can almost forget a paper cut until it gets pulled open and the pain shoots back, just like the cut now ripping across his heart. They were still living under this roof together only because Ricky’s death had interrupted their plans.
She fidgeted. They both knew they should talk about them—the divorce—but it was the worst possible timing. He saw the tension in her drawn mouth, the darkness to her eyes, the way she twisted her fingers together.
Finally, he said, “We can put everything aside until after the funeral. We can do that, can’t we? It’s not like we haven’t lived together for ten years. We can handle a few more days.”
Almost ten years, he mentally corrected himself. Their anniversary was coming up this summer, but it might not mean anything by then. She didn’t answer, and he wondered if she thought his words were yet another jab aimed at her. Honestly, he wasn’t trying to hurt her. It was actually rather ironic—a week ago they’d been stabbing each other with words, and now he was afraid of hurting her.
She nodded without looking at him, then shrugged. He thought she was looking at the family pictures on the wall to avoid him, but suddenly he realized she really was looking at them, remembering their lives. She glanced over to say, “I was thinking the same thing. Why do a double whammy to the kids?”
The kids. For Christ’s sake, how could they do this at all to their kids, and to Alex, his little brother? Trey choked down any response to that. Their kids, Candice and Jake, were so young they might not really understand all this, but his brother Alex was fifteen. This had been Alex’s home and family since he was barely walking. He had lost his parents once, and now he’d be losing another set all over again.
This is all my fault.
“It’s agreed then,” Trey said. “We’ll just act normal and attend the funeral.”
“Okay.” She turned to leave but paused in the doorway. Looking over her shoulder, but not directly at him, she added, “We’ll tell the kids afterwards.”
Afterwards. The word hung there like a fragile glass ball, waiting to fall and shatter. As much as he dreaded his brother’s funeral, now he dreaded the
afterwards
even more. Ricky was already dead. And Trey’s marriage wasn’t in the ground yet—it just seemed like it. But he hoped it was still gasping; he was not quite ready to give up the fight.
After Rosette left the room, he couldn’t sit in the office any longer. It had begun to feel more like
her
office than theirs. Sometimes it felt more like
her
house and
her
life, and he was just there by accident. She’d painted the kitchen a bright, warm yellow and the living room a light coral. He had never minded, but now he found himself looking around for even a tiny glimpse of his mark on their home. On his way through the kitchen, he paused and told Rosette, “I’m going for a walk.”
Were you supposed to tell your soon-to-be ex-wife that you were leaving the house? What was the protocol for this? He could have left without saying anything, but that felt rude after she had made an effort just minutes ago.
He barely looked at her, but it was long enough to see the fall of her face and the hurt in her eyes. Even with a divorce on the horizon, they had two young children and a teenager to care for, and she expected him to do his part. He was home from work for a few days due to his brother’s death, and the funeral was tomorrow.
He went out the back, which just as easily could have been the front because it faced the ocean. His little brother—and only remaining sibling—Alex was coming up the path from the beach. “Hey, Trey.” He had an easy smile, which baffled Trey. Alex took a lickin’ and kept on tickin’. Maybe he was trying to make the rest of them feel better?
“How are you doing?” Trey asked, hoping his sincere tone would get a real answer.
Alex shrugged. “Okay, fine, I guess.” They stood in silence for a minute before Alex added, “Are you and Rosette doing okay? With all this, I mean.”
That last part seemed to cover for something. Had Alex noticed how he and Rosette had hardly spoken this week? Trey shrugged and then felt bad for the vague answer. “Things are going to be okay.”
Things weren’t okay at all.
Trey felt even worse.
Alex offered a weak smile and headed inside. The kid needed a haircut. His almost-black hair was curling this way and that, down past his eyebrows and over his ears. That would irk their dad to no end if Jonathan Trevor Sinclair II were still alive. As it was, Trey was raising the youngest of the Sinclair boys, and he couldn’t tell if he was doing a good job or not. He sure hadn’t done right by Ricky.
Maybe he shouldn’t be leaving. He slowed his step and then heard the back door shut. Oh well. Alex had Rosette to talk to, and they seemed to connect better anyway.
Trey walked across the yard to the rough wooden stairs leading down to Lighthouse Beach. They had a private beach in front of the line of neighboring houses, secluded from the rest of the coastline with Yoakum Point to their north and the Cape Arago Lighthouse on the south side, perched proudly where the land jutted out. He enjoyed walking in their cove, or even further to Bastendorff Beach, if he wanted to walk around the bend.
Bastendorff was a public access beach, but it usually wasn’t too crowded, especially this early in the spring. If he really wanted to wear himself out, he could walk the complete length of that beach and continue out onto the jetty.
The beach stairs serviced his neighbor’s house as well. He wasn’t surprised when Leena from next door called his name, and he turned his head in time for a quick glimpse before she engulfed in him a tight embrace.
“Trey, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Anything at all? If you need to talk or anything, I’m right next door.”
He nodded against her head, not shrugging out of the embrace. Actually, he found he’d slipped one arm around her as well.
She leaned back. “Want to come in and talk?”
It was tempting. He went as far as to look over at her house before shaking his head. “I need to walk awhile and clear my head.”
That phrase wasn’t an alarm bell to Leena. It was Rosette who worried about his PTSD when he said things like that.
Leena just nodded, looking disappointed. Pouty might be a better word. She had naturally light brown hair but added bleach-blond and red highlights, and curled the ends. The added colors changed often. She was always too tan for the Oregon coast and wore lipstick that was a shade too bright. Her overall appearance made him think of the girls on the magazine covers in the grocery store. “Snooki” or some name like that came to mind. Suddenly, her face brightened. “I could come with you.”
Her enthusiasm for him always left him confused, kind of flattered but overlaid with guilt. He had a perfectly valid reason to want her company right now, but he just couldn’t do it. “I’m sorry, Leena, I want to go alone.” He stepped back. It took great willpower not to glance back at his house for any parted curtains.
