Starfish Pier, page 6
Less than sixty seconds later, a smiling Patrick pushed through the back door.
She studied him.
The sparkle in his eyes wasn’t from alcohol. Spirits had the opposite effect, dulling rather than brightening his vibrant blue irises. And there was an undercurrent of excitement and energy about him that had nothing to do with booze.
“Sorry I got delayed. The time slipped away from me, and when I realized how late it was and tried to call, my phone was dead. Guess where I’ve been?” He grinned at her.
“I have no idea.” She folded her arms tight against her chest.
“Hi, Daddy!” Jonah slid off his chair and ran toward his father.
“Hey, sport. How’s my man?” He swooped the boy up into his arms.
“I got a gold star at school today.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
“Can we eat? I’m hungry.”
“I am too. And I bet your mom made a delicious dinner.” He set Jonah down and turned back to her with another smile.
Lord, it was hard to be angry with him when he looked at her like that.
But life on an emotional seesaw took a toll on good humor and affection . . . and trust.
“It’s ready, if you want to sit.”
“I’ll help you put it out.” He detoured to the playpen and tickled Beatrice, who chortled.
“Chicken’s in the oven. I’ll nuke the biscuits and get the potatoes and green beans.”
He snagged an insulated mitt off a hook and opened the oven door. “So guess where I was.”
“I have no idea. All I know is you’re an hour late.”
“I’m sorry, hon.” Contrition softened his features, and he touched her arm. “I didn’t mean to cause problems.”
“You never do.”
Some of the luster faded from his face at her sharp rebuke, and he lowered his volume. “I wasn’t drinking. I ran down to Starfish Pier on my way home. I only meant to stay a few minutes, but it was fascinating.”
Starfish Pier.
His excuse was credible, at least. Her history-buff husband had mentioned the big news often in the past couple of days.
“You went to see that old cannon everyone’s talking about?”
“Yeah. An archaeologist happened to be there, and we ended up having a long conversation. We also exchanged emails, and he promised to keep me in the loop on developments. I took photos too.” He set the roasting pan on the counter and transferred the chicken to a serving platter. “I could show them to you later, if you’re interested—or want proof about where I was.”
She kept her face averted as she put the potatoes in a bowl, lowering her volume another few decibels. “You’ve never lied to me . . . that I know of.”
“I never have—and I never will.” He touched her arm again. “You believe me, don’t you?”
After a tiny hesitation, she looked over into his earnest eyes. “I’m trying, Patrick. It’s just been hard, and—” Her voice choked.
“Mom?”
At Jonah’s tenuous query, she clenched her teeth. She was not going to break down in front of her children. They needed stability and joy in their home, not worry and uncertainty. Those were her lot. Negative emotions shouldn’t mar the carefree days of childhood.
Forcing up the corners of her mouth, she swung toward her son. “What is it, honey?”
He scrutinized her, his demeanor solemn. “You sounded kinda . . . funny. Are you sad?”
She forced a laugh and bent to kiss the top of his head. “I’m more hungry than anything else. My stomach is growling so loud I could scare away a bear.”
That elicited a giggle.
Thank you, God.
“Your daddy has a story to tell us during dinner about the cannon that washed up on the beach.”
“I love stories!”
“I do too.” She transferred the beans to the table and motioned for Patrick to sit. “Let’s say grace first.”
Although his excitement had dimmed, as they ate her husband did fill them in about his after-work detour and his chat with the archaeologist.
“Was the cannon from a pirate ship, Daddy?” Jonah watched him, wide-eyed.
“They don’t know yet. It could be. The archaeologist told me they’re going to take it to a lab to study it. There are several markings that are partly visible, and once they clean it up, those may give them a clue about where it came from.”
“Are there pirate ships here now?” Her son’s brow knitted.
“No.” Cindy jumped in. No nightmares allowed in this house—for her children, anyway. “There haven’t been any in this area since long before any of us were born. The cannon is very old.” She tapped his plate. “Eat your chicken.”
Jonah poked at a piece with his fork. “Are you going to show us the pictures you took, Daddy?”
Cindy tipped her head toward their son’s barely touched dinner, and her husband picked up the cue.
“After we’re done eating. Tell me about school today.”
For the next few minutes, Jonah regaled them with stories from his first-grade class, raving about his teacher as usual. Staff changes midyear were never ideal, but Hope Harbor elementary had lucked out with Holly Miller. She seemed to have charmed every child in her class.
As soon as their plates were clean, Patrick pulled out his camera and began showing them both the photos he’d taken at the beach.
Although her husband’s photography was stellar, as usual, Jonah lost interest fast in the hard-to-decipher pictures of the sediment-encrusted cannon and wandered off to watch a video.
“You want to see the rest?” Patrick glanced over at her. “The archaeologist thought they were decent and asked me to email a few to him.”
“Sure.” While history wasn’t one of her passions, it would be heartening to see again the spark of enthusiasm that had brightened her husband’s eyes as he’d come through the door.
He ran through them quickly, then pocketed the phone and began gathering up their plates.
“How was work today?” She collected the utensils.
“Same old, same old.”
“It pays well.” While a lumber mill job wasn’t the most exciting career, it provided steady work—and every constant in her life these days was a godsend. “And you did get a promotion four months ago.”
“I know. That was a comment, not a complaint. How was your day?”
“The lunch crowd was noisy—and demanding. And that is a complaint. They weren’t our typical Myrtle clientele. I think they were part of a tour that was passing through. Believe me, I was glad to hang up my apron at three and clock out.” She opened the dishwasher and began slotting plates. “Of course, as soon as I came home, I was back in the kitchen preparing dinner.”
“I wish you didn’t have to work outside the home. Motherhood is a full-time job.”
“We can use the income.” And the security, given her husband’s issues—and where they could lead.
“Speaking of cooking . . .” Patrick fitted a piece of cutlery into the dishwasher with more care than necessary. “Steven stopped by on Sunday. He invited us to dinner.”
Her jaw dropped. “And you waited three days to tell me?”
He shrugged. “We’ve been busy. It’s not like we have much opportunity to talk alone in the evenings.”
They had enough for him to share that piece of news—but she let his excuse pass.
“Does that mean you two had a cordial conversation?” After a year of almost total radio silence, that would be a miracle—and the answer to countless prayers.
“I wouldn’t go that far—but it ended on a civil note.”
She leaned a hip against the counter. “What did you tell him about dinner?”
“That I’d talk with you and get back to him. What do you think?” He angled away to scrape a plate.
She waited until he had to face her or risk scrubbing the glaze off the ceramic. “I think I’d like to know what you two talked about—and why you let him in.”
“I didn’t let him in.” He dipped his chin and went back to loading the cutlery. “He barged in.”
Yeah, she could see that. Steven’s patience with the whole situation had to be wearing thin. If he didn’t care so much about his kid brother, he’d have left long ago.
A fact her husband refused to acknowledge.
“Yet you talked to him.”
“He did most of the talking.”
“You must have listened if you agreed to a family dinner.”
“I didn’t make any commitments. I only said I’d discuss it with you.”
“How did you get from him barging in to a dinner invitation?”
She listened as he gave her what was no doubt an abbreviated—and edited—version of the exchange.
“In the end, he promised to butt out of my life if I let him be part of our family.”
“And you agreed to that?”
“If he keeps his end of the bargain.”
“Steven’s the honorable type. He won’t go back on his word.”
“Yeah.” Patrick shoved a plate in the dishwasher with more force than necessary. “Heroes have a boatload of stellar qualities.”
They were back to that—the childhood resentment Patrick couldn’t shake and which was totally unwarranted, as far as she could tell. Steven wasn’t the sort to lord anything over a younger sibling.
But being constantly compared to a high-achieving older brother by teachers, coaches, and other authority figures took a toll on an impressionable child—one even loving parents couldn’t totally mitigate.
“Heroes come in all shapes and sizes, Patrick. You don’t have to have a chest full of combat medals or a roomful of trophies to prove you’re brave or admirable or courageous.”
“Right.” His jaw hardened into a stubborn line.
Her usual argument to try and convince him he was as worthy as his big brother wasn’t any more effective now than it had been on previous attempts.
Time to switch gears.
Cindy gripped the edge of the counter behind her and chose her words with care. “I’m happy he came over, and that you two reached a truce. Although I’m a little surprised he’s willing to compromise.” Surely a difficult challenge for a hard-driving, results-oriented man like Steven. “But I imagine he’s been kind of lonely this past year.”
“And that’s my fault?” Patrick scowled at her across the dirty plates in the dishwasher.
“I didn’t say that. There’s blame on both sides. You both have strong wills. But it’s sad to let stubbornness disrupt families. We’re the only relatives he has.”
“He doesn’t have to be lonely. Hope Harbor is full of pleasant people. He could have made friends, found a niche.”
“He didn’t come here for that. He came here for you. Because he cares.”
“So he claims.” Patrick slammed the dishwasher closed, and she flinched. “But I’m not letting him run my life.”
“Patrick.” She moved closer and touched his face, gentling her tone. “No one’s trying to run your life. We’re trying to save it.”
“Why does everybody think I need saving?” Red splotches mottled his complexion. “I have a steady job, two fantastic kids, and a beautiful wife who loves me. Or she used to.”
“You know I still do. But some days . . . it’s hard.” She swallowed past the tightness in her throat. “The nights you come home after you’ve had too much to drink, I . . . it scares me sometimes.” Her last syllable hitched.
Some of the color leeched from his skin. “I’ve never laid a hand on you or the kids.”
“That’s not what I mean.” She knuckled away the moisture misting her vision. “I worry about you when you’re—” She bit back the term drunk. It would only exacerbate his tension. “When booze muddles your thinking. I worry about what will happen as the kids get older and begin to realize their dad drinks too much. I worry about you getting a DUI—or having an accident and hurting yourself or someone else. I worry about our marriage if this continues.”
“You always knew I liked to have a few drinks. I never hid that from you.”
“I know—and I can handle you stopping at the bar for a drink or two with your buddies at the end of the week. But it’s gone far beyond that.”
“I have it under control, Cindy.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Could you stop tomorrow? Cold turkey?”
“If I wanted to.”
“What about if I wanted you to?”
The question slipped out before she could stop it, and her stomach twisted.
Asking him to stop completely was a giant step toward an ultimatum—one that could have serious, life-changing consequences for all of them.
The very reason she’d never issued one.
Patrick crossed his arms. “My drinking has never caused trouble for anyone in this house. Have I neglected you or the kids? Missed work? Created a public scene?”
“No—but I’m afraid any of those could happen if the situation continues to escalate.”
“I told you I’ve got it under control. Why can’t you trust me—like you trust Steven?”
“This isn’t about him. It’s about you.” She clenched her fists until her fingernails dug into her palms. “I know you think you have it under control—but that’s a typical attitude of people with addictions.”
There.
She’d said the A-word.
“I don’t have an addiction.” Patrick’s denial came through gritted teeth.
Yes, he did.
But until he was willing to admit it, seek help, the merry-go-round would continue—and no amount of badgering from her or Steven would change that. It would only fuel his anger. All the reading she’d done about the subject was clear on that point.
“Would you consider going to an AA meeting? Talk to the people there, see if that might give you a different perspective? It’s anonymous, and you can find one up in Coos Bay, where no one will know you.”
He glared at her. “How often do I have to tell you? I don’t need help. Steven’s, yours, or AA’s. I’ve got this.”
“Would you attend one meeting? For me? Just to listen?”
“You’re beginning to sound like Steven—and I don’t want to fight with you like I fight with him.”
His warning was clear.
They were on a collision course with an even bigger argument if she didn’t back off.
Meaning their discussion on this topic would end as usual.
In a stalemate.
But at least there was one positive development. If Steven became part of their life, he’d be on hand to bolster her efforts and provide moral support.
And with him on the scene, perhaps exerting subtle influence—along with massive amounts of prayer from her end—maybe Patrick would come around.
If he didn’t?
Cindy eradicated that thought. She wasn’t going there.
Yet.
Dishcloth in hand, she moved to the table and wiped it down. “Instead of Steven taking us out to eat, why don’t we invite him here for Sunday dinner? He can’t be getting rich doing fishing charters, and I’m not a bad cook.” She flashed Patrick a stiff smile.
He didn’t return it.
“Between your job and keeping us fed, you spend half your life in kitchens as it is. Let him take us out if he wants to.”
“I’m not opposed to a restaurant meal, but he probably doesn’t get much home cooking, and I have a pork tenderloin in the freezer. It could be more relaxing to eat here.”
Not by much, though. The tension between the two brothers wasn’t going to dissipate overnight, even if progress had been made.
“Fine.” Patrick pulled out his keys. “I’ll text him.” He started toward the back door.
“Where are you going?”
He stopped on the threshold, posture taut, tone defiant. “I want some fresh air.”
No, he wanted a drink.
He was going to the bar by the mill—and one scotch would lead to more . . . unless she gave him a reason to come back before the drinking got out of hand.
“I was hoping you’d read Jonah a bedtime story. That always makes his day.”
Patrick hesitated. Scanned his watch. “I can be back in an hour.”
A significant amount of liquor could be consumed in an hour—but less than if he stayed out two or three.
It was the best she was going to get.
“I’ll tell him. Be careful.”
“I’m not going far.” He grasped the edge of the door as his suddenly weary gaze searched hers from across the room. “I don’t want the drinking issue to come between us, Cindy. You—and the kids—mean everything to me.”
Pressure built again in her throat. “I don’t want it to, either, but I’m afraid it will unless . . .” Her voice broke, and she swallowed. “I keep thinking about your dad, and how it ended with him.”
A flicker of pain shot through his eyes. “I’m not my dad, Cindy.”
But he was, in many respects. Not only in appearance, but in mannerisms and disposition. Even their jobs at Fisher Lumber were similar.
Pointing all that out, however, would accomplish nothing. Patrick had to recognize the similarities himself.
Including the weakness he shared with his father.
So she said nothing.
Shoulders slumping, Patrick turned away. “I’ll be back soon.”
He closed the door behind him with a quiet click, his anger gone.
Yet in its place was a more dangerous emotion.
Despair.
Which usually led to more alcohol.
Cindy crossed to the kitchen table, sank into a chair, and rubbed her eyes.
Deep inside, Patrick had to know he was on the road to destruction. He was a smart man, and you could only play the denial game so long. In time, God willing, he’d accept the reality that he and alcohol didn’t mix and leave booze behind.
There was just one problem with that scenario.
The clock was ticking.
And unless he reached that realization soon, he could find himself out of time—and in deep, deep trouble.
6
She was back.
Sighing, Pete Wallace peered through the tiny crack in the blinds as the young woman from next door rang his bell for the second time.
