“I don’t understand you. I don’t understand why you’re so hateful. Why are you this way?”
“He’s blackmailing me,” he shouted, banging his fist on the table, every syllable dripping with fury. “That stupid bastard is blackmailing me and he will not win.”
I winced, the violent volume of his oath made me stiffen.
My father used to use the belt on us when we were kids, but my momma made him stop when I was ten. He hadn’t raised a hand to me since, but the madness in his gaze gave me reason to suspect he might try.
“Do you want to be with a man like that?” He stood and charged toward me, forcing me to take several stumbling steps backward. “Huh? A man who would blackmail your own father? You say I’m controlling? I’m nothing, nothing in comparison to that evil son of a bitch.”
I crossed my arms, holding myself, inching away from him. “What do you mean? How is he blackmailing you?”
“That’s not important.” He covered his mouth with a shaking hand, wiping his lips. Something about the movement struck me as panicked. “Can’t you see? I’m trying to save you.”
“I don’t need to be saved.” I backed up another step, so ready to leave. So ready to be done with this. “I’ve never needed to be saved.”
“Oh yeah? Then what do you think you need, Jennifer?”
“Nothing you can give me.”
He flinched, standing straighter. My father struggled for words, finally saying softly, “Your momma and I, we love you. How can that mean so little to you, after everything we’ve done?”
I stared at him and, for the first time, I felt like I was really seeing him. He didn’t love me. He used the word love like a weapon, as a means of control, as a way to ensure my blind obedience. He made it ugly.
He didn’t love me.
He loved the money I made for the bakery.
He loved the comfortable lifestyle my momma had built.
He loved his stature and reputation.
Cletus’s words came back to me from so many weeks ago: Your father is ugly, and I’m not just talking about his exterior.
He was right. He was so right. I was done with him and his ugliness.
“Goodbye,” I said simply, meaning it.
My father must have heard the truth in my farewell because he blinked at me, rocking back on his feet, dumbfounded. His mouth opened and closed, like he was too shocked to respond.
Taking advantage of his astonishment, I left quickly. But I barely held on to my tears long enough to stroll out of the kitchen, run to the front door, and sprint down the driveway.
I started to cry on the main road when I realized I’d left my shoes behind.
And all the letters from my pen pals.
And my mother.
And the only home I’d ever known.
CHAPTER 26
“And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.”
― Byron
Cletus
I was going to miss the quiet of this house. Memories, both good and bad, were loudest late at night, when everyone was asleep but me.
Presently, I was sitting in my grandmother Oliver’s favorite chair next to a fire, covered by her favorite quilt, and reading her favorite book, the second volume of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Complete Sherlock Holmes. The woman loved mysteries, and she loved rereading the same ones time and time again. Even when she knew what was going to happen, she liked finding new clues, said it made her more observant.
If everything went according to plan, Jennifer and I would be moving into Claire’s farmhouse just after Thanksgiving, and everything was going according to plan. My time in this old house with these old memories was drawing to a close.
It was the end of an era.
It’s true. As a rule, I didn’t like change. My Jennifer continuously surprised me, and her surprises were a thing of beauty. She’d forced me to re-evaluate my priorities and she’d pushed me beyond the contented circle of my comfort zone. She’d changed me.
For the first time in my life, change was synonymous with hope and anticipation. I looked forward to it. And that was revolutionary.
But for now, drinking my grandmother’s recipe for moonshine and reacquainting myself with the Red-Headed League, I let the past speak—both good and bad—and enjoyed my quiet time.
“Why do you wear that thing?”
I lifted just my eyes from the page of my book and glared at Beau, the interrupter. “You’ll have to be more specific. Are you referring to my smoking jacket or my expression of concentration?”
“The smoking jacket.” Beau set a bag of what appeared to be groceries by the console and shut the front door. He was still in his work clothes.
Still in his work clothes past midnight AND his hair is wet from a shower. Ah ha! The chase is afoot.
“It’s cozy. And the lapels are velvet. You know how I like the feel of velvet.” Setting my book down, I pointedly stared at his coveralls. “And why are you still in your work clothes?”
Beau glanced at himself. “I—uh—went to a friend’s house.”