Wishing Lake (13 page)

This was the worst Thanksgiving Darius had ever had. How was that possible? He and his mother were the only two people in the dining room of his family’s house Thursday afternoon. Then why did it feel so crowded? The beige walls were closing in on him.

From her seat at the head of the walnut dining table, Ethel gave the impression of serenity, but there were telltale signs of tension: tight jaw, thinned lips, and narrowed eyes. She’d barely said ten words since he’d arrived. Was she giving him the silent treatment because he’d asked to have Thanksgiving lunch with her so he could see Simon later this afternoon? These holiday dinners were miserable enough when he’d had to spend it with Ethel and Simon together. Sharing a meal with each of them separately on the same day was an experience Darius was anxious to put behind him.

The silence dragged on. Darius had to say something before it drove him crazy.

“The turkey tastes good.” He sawed another slice from the chunk of meat Ethel had tossed him.

“Thanks.” Ethel allowed the conversation to lapse again.

Yes, she was definitely punishing him for having the early meal with her. But if he’d seen his father first, she’d have punished him for that.

Uncomfortable silences hadn’t been as uncomfortable when there’d been the three of them. What made this worse was that he couldn’t escape into his own mind. It would be too obvious.

Darius put down his knife and fork. Enough was enough. He couldn’t continue this way. “Mom, why did you invite me to share Thanksgiving with you if you’re not going to speak with me?”

Ethel forked up more stuffing. “I’m speaking.”

“Two-word responses to my questions don’t qualify as holding up your end of a conversation.”

“What do you want me to say?” She still wouldn’t look at him.

What was going on?
Darius strained to read her thoughts. “I’m your son. I shouldn’t have to coach you through a conversation with me.”

“What do you want me to say?” She repeated the words with an edge of desperation.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“You look just like him.” She still wouldn’t look at him.

Simon. He looked just like his father. He knew that. “That bothers you?”

“Yes.”

He flinched. “Why?”

Ethel’s hand shook as she dropped her fork onto her white china plate. The sharp
clang
was a slap across his face.

“He lied to me. He treated me like a fool.” Ethel clenched her fists, staring off into the middle distance.

“Yes, he did.” Darius took a deep breath and forced an even tone. “But you knew he was lying—or at least suspected it. Why didn’t you push him harder for the truth?”

“It didn’t matter how many times I asked him. He just kept denying it, over and over and over again.”

They’d never discussed this. As a child, he hadn’t known the reason for the tension in their house. He only knew he much preferred his friends’ homes because everyone was so much more relaxed there.

Darius studied the soggy stuffing. “I’d often wondered why you didn’t leave him.”

“Why should I leave?” Ethel stabbed a broccoli spear from her plate. “I paid half the deposit on this house. I pay half the mortgage. I told him to get out years ago, but he wouldn’t.”

They’d stayed in their tension-filled marriage because they were both too pigheaded to leave. He should have known. He’d thought—hoped—they’d tried to make their marriage work because of him. Instead, they’d stayed together because of a house.

“So instead of leaving, you stayed.” Darius caught and held his mother’s resentful gaze. “Instead of punishing him, you punished me.”

“What are you talking about?” Ethel’s frown darkened.

“You weren’t at any of my football games.”

“I fed you.”

“You didn’t attend my graduations.”

“I clothed you.”

“You never helped me move into the dorms at college.”

“I was there for you.”

“No, you weren’t.” Darius stood. What was the point of this? Thanksgiving? He’d be thankful when it was over. “Instead of snubbing Dad, you ignored me. Instead of giving
him
the silent treatment, you were cold to me. Is it because I look like him? Were you afraid I’d become like him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ethel grabbed the napkin from her lap and threw it onto the table.

“Yes, you do.” Darius’s muscles shook with cold, though the dining room was way too warm.

Ethel stood as well. “You’re talking nonsense.”

“Will you ever stop punishing me for what you did to each other?” Darius pinned her with his stare.

“Get out.” Ethel swung a stiff finger in the direction of the front door. “Get out of my house.”

Darius folded his napkin and laid it on the table. “You won, Mom. You got the house.”

Darius circled the long, walnut wood dining table and crossed to the closet to collect his topcoat. He yanked open the front door and left, never looking back.

“Did you know there are NFL games on television throughout the day?” Peyton met her parents’ blank stares as they sat around the kitchen table Thanksgiving afternoon.

The big, bright kitchen had always been her favorite room in the house. It was the most welcoming. And it was always painfully neat, from its black-and-white flooring and marbled countertops to the sterling silver appliances.

“When did you start watching football?” Her father, Carlson Harris, paused in the act of spooning up his chicken noodle soup.

The Harris family was enjoying a late breakfast/ early lunch of soup, cheese, and crackers before their traditional turkey dinner fresh from the caterers.

“Ever since I attended a football game at one of the local high schools.” Peyton attempted a casual shrug. Had she pulled it off?

“You sound as though you’re putting down roots in that little town.” Irene, her mother, laughed a little, but her dark eyes were concerned. “Don’t get too comfortable there, dear. You’re coming back to New York next month.”

“Actually, Mom, that’s something I wanted to speak with both of you about.” Peyton stared at her plate of wheat crackers and Brie. This was as good a time as any to break the news to them. She took a deep breath. “I’m not coming home at the end of the semester.”

“Excuse me?” Irene gave her a blank look.

“When are you coming home?” Her father picked up his glass of lemonade. His eyes were steady on hers.

“New York isn’t home anymore.” Peyton wasn’t convinced it ever truly had been. “Trinity Falls is.”

The silence was dense with confusion, denial, and disbelief. Her parents looked at each other, then back at her. Peyton’s eyes found the coffee carafe on the counter behind her father. Her knees were too shaky to carry her that far.

“When did you make that decision?” Irene sounded lost.

“Before I left in July.” Peyton held her mother’s gaze with difficulty.

“When were you going to tell us?” Carlson’s voice was unrecognizable.

“This weekend.” Although, she hadn’t intended on ruining the weekend this early.

“
Why
have you left New York? This is where you were born. You grew up here.” Her mother’s voice shook with emotion. “You started your career here. This is where
we
live. Why would you leave? And without even discussing it with us first.”

Peyton’s heart galloped in her chest. This was worse than she’d imagined. “I wasn’t happy here, Mom. I needed a change.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this?” There was concern in her father’s words. “You just snuck away like a thief in the night.”

Peyton steeled herself against the imagery. It was true but no less hurtful. “I knew you’d try to change my mind.”

“Damn right we’d try to change your mind.” Irene’s eyes welled with tears—of anger or sorrow? “It’s ridiculous. It’s dishonest.” Her mother’s words cut deep.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“I don’t want your apology.” Irene stood. “I want you to keep your word and return to New York in December at the end of the semester. We even changed the date of our Aruba cruise to accommodate you.”

“Your mother’s right.” Carlson’s calm words were a jarring contrast to her mother’s emotional outburst. “That’s the commitment you made to us.”

“But I can’t. I signed a contract with the university. Besides, I’m happy in Trinity Falls.” Peyton tried willing her mother to understand.

“How can you possibly know that?” Irene threw up her arms. “You’ve only been there five months.”

“What about Bruce?” Carlson asked.

Peyton drew a bracing breath, taking in the sharp scent of Brie. “I told you before I came home that Bruce and I ended the engagement.”

“
He
doesn’t consider the engagement off.” Irene’s tone and posture threw out a challenge.

“What is he going to do, knock me over the head and drag me to the altar?” Peyton was almost amused.

“Peyton!” Irene gaped at her. Small wonder. Her mother wasn’t used to such open subversion. “We’d hoped you’d reconsidered your impulsive decision. You’re never going to find another man who’s as good a catch as Bruce. He’s a rising star at your father’s brokerage.”

Darius’ smile flashed across her mind. Her mother had never been more wrong. Irene Biery Harris wouldn’t be impressed by Darius’s reporter’s salary. But he was a good person and a loyal friend. He made her heart pound and her body burn. That was more important to Peyton. “I don’t love Bruce, Mom. And he doesn’t love me.”

“You’ll grow to love each other.” Irene tossed a dismissive hand.

“I want to be in love
before
I marry.” Peyton sipped her lemon water. “And I want to be confident the man I marry loves me—”

“Love doesn’t always last, Peyton. Your mother and I are lucky,” her father interrupted. She heard his strained patience. “It’s more important to us that you’re well taken care of.”

“I can take care of myself.” Away from her parents’ influence, she’d never been more confident of her capabilities.

Carlson shook his head. “You haven’t given us any reason to believe that. Look at your most recent behavior. You assured us you’d return to New York in December and start planning your wedding to Bruce. Now we’ve learned you’ve moved to Trinity Falls and ended your engagement. You’re reckless and impulsive.”

“What were you hoping to accomplish?” Irene asked.

“You’ve both been telling me what to do, when to do it, and with whom.” Peyton looked from her mother to her father. “That was fine when I was four. I’m thirty. It’s past time I made my own decisions.”

Her father regarded her with stern dark eyes. “We’re trying to guide you so you don’t make mistakes like moving to some town no one’s ever heard of and breaking your engagement to a man who can take care of you in the manner to which we’ve made you accustomed.”

“Dad, I have a career.” Peyton carried her dishes to the dishwasher. “I’m accustomed to the manner in which
I’ve
been caring for myself.”

“You’re making a mistake, Peyton.” Irene turned to follow Peyton’s movements.

“Even if I am, it’s my life. It’ll be my mistake.” Peyton tossed the remnants of her soup into the garbage disposal. She rinsed her bowl, then loaded it into the dishwasher.

“I invited Bruce to join us for Thanksgiving dessert.” Carlson’s announcement made Peyton’s blood run cold.

She straightened from the dishwasher, closing the appliance’s door before facing her parents. “It’s your home. You can invite whomever you’d like.”

Peyton left the kitchen, ignoring her parents’ stunned expressions. Her back was straight, her shoulders squared. Inside, she was seething. They’d invited Bruce for Thanksgiving dessert. Obviously her parents weren’t done trying to run her life. But they were mistaken if they thought she’d continue to let them. Paraphrasing Janet Jackson, she was in control now. She owed a great debt to Trinity Falls—and to one sexy, sensitive, small-town reporter.

In the end, Darius kept his commitment to share an early Thanksgiving dinner with his father. Just because things hadn’t worked out with Ethel didn’t mean he and Simon couldn’t enjoy the holiday . . . he hoped.

Simon opened his apartment door in response to Darius’s knock. The older man’s eyes were wide and wild with stress and frustration. “I’ve burned the turkey. We’re having sandwiches.”

Darius nodded, taking in Simon’s sweats and bathrobe. “May I come in?”

“Oh. Sure, sure.” Simon pulled the door wide as he stepped back.

“Anything I can do to help?” Darius crossed the threshold and waited for his father.

“You can help me make the sandwiches.” The response was grumbled over Simon’s shoulder as Darius followed him through the apartment.

The living room looked like a spillover, walk-in closet. Discarded shoes marked a trail leading into the kitchen. The remnants of several days’ worth of fast-food meals covered the coffee table and half of the sofa. Simon had been living in the apartment for only four months. But it looked as though he’d been collecting trash for years.

How had his mother kept a spotless home when she’d lived with a man who elevated making messes to an art form?

And what was that smell?

“Dad, how can you live like this?” Darius gritted his teeth.
Am I going to be sick?

“Don’t judge me, Darius. I’m doing the best I can.”

That was hard to believe. The stench grew stronger the farther into the apartment they came. Darius crossed into the kitchen and froze. A pile of dirty dishes stood in a sink full of filthy water. He’d found the source of the stench.

Darius stepped back. “Get dressed. We’re going out to eat.”

“What? Why?” Simon frowned his confusion.

“Can’t you smell that?” Darius gestured toward the sink. “Look around, Dad. Can’t you see this?”