Faith’s plan was to eat with them and then hit the road, but her stomach clenched and she didn’t think she’d be able to keep anything down. Still, she should try. Their last remaining child was leaving home. Surely they’d want some time together first, to talk about her new adventure and wish her luck. They must be giving her time to finish packing.
When she stepped into the kitchen, her parents were standing by the small oak table, their backs to her. Faith glanced at the stove. The casserole dish, which had been used to bake chicken and vegetables, was empty.
Mom had only made enough for two.
Her chest grew tight, and she tried to inhale a deep breath, yet tears burned her eyes anyway. Tears. She hadn’t cried in ages. Such a useless action.
Mortified, she took in the familiar kitchen to level her emotions. White pine cupboards, green tile counters, checkered laminate floor, fruit bowl next to the wine rack. Faith never drank wine. Maybe she should start.
When she felt more in control, she cleared her throat and walked over to the table. The years had been kind to her mother. Her wavy brown hair, which once trailed down her back, was cut in a bob and interlaced with gray, giving her a distinguished look. Because she’d been a stickler for healthy eating, her lean, lithe frame resembled that of someone much younger. Until you looked in her eyes.
Her dad turned to look at her, by all accounts seeming confused. He had stormy hazel eyes, just like Hope’s, and thick white hair that had once been chestnut, like Faith’s. He, too, had remained in fit shape, though his shoulders sagged as often as his smile.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you. I . . . just wanted to say good-bye.”
It dawned on her, too late, that he’d thought she left already. Without a good-bye? Without a hug and kiss and I’ll miss you? If she’d been more rational, she would have remembered they didn’t hug or kiss in her family. Not anymore.
“Should I make you a sandwich for the road?” Her mother didn’t meet her gaze, but her tone was as formal and polite as always. Like she was speaking to a member of the choir instead of her daughter. “I got a pound of that shaved turkey you like.”
Faith didn’t care for turkey. That had been Hope’s favorite. “Thank you, but I’ll be okay. I had a late lunch.”
“Well, drive safely,” Dad said. He opened his arms to offer her an awkward hug and wound up patting her on the back instead. “Bye for now. Call us when you get there. Don’t forget to wear sunscreen. UV rays on the beach can be brutal.”
She wouldn’t know. She’d never been to the beach.
“Yes, do drive safely.” Mom’s focus returned to her meal as they both sat down. “Good-bye, Faith.”
She opened her mouth to say . . . something, but the words wedged in her throat when she realized that’s all she’d get. But what had she expected? A total personality change?
Slowly, she nodded her head.
A hot ball of pain burned in her stomach. She had walked through each room of the house before entering the kitchen, as if her brain knew this was a semipermanent good-bye, even if her heart held out hope. She’d wanted to take in the details of home so she could remember it, store away the visual in her mind’s memory box. It was a silly, fruitless notion. There was no imprint of her here.
“I love you,” she whispered, because she did. She’d loved them with the same childish heart that had dreamed of a way out. Or a way in.
“Back atcha,” Dad called.
Mom hummed her response, a cross between agreement and dismissal.
Without further ado, she walked down the hall and gathered her luggage by the front door. One suitcase held her books, a lovely escape she thoroughly enjoyed, and the other her clothes. There were two boxes of therapy materials in her car, and another box with cosmetics. Still, after twenty-seven years, there should be more to pack. More to a life than this.
Anxiety clawed at her throat. She could still tell Mia she couldn’t accept the offer. She hadn’t signed a contract. Maybe she could get her old job back at St. Ambrose. A comfortable, albeit lonely, existence here had to be better than what was out there. What did she know about being out in the world? Failure loomed. Humiliation at every turn.
She surprised herself by opening the door, then paused. She strode over to the mantel, grabbed the picture of her and Hope, and left.
chapter
two
After dinner, Lacey and Jake had taken Alec on a tour of their new home. He was impressed. The original Covington beach house, just next door, where Mia and Cole resided, was right up there with the homes of crowned royalty. Lacey’s home was slightly more subdued, but still demonstrated the wealth she’d been born into. Because Lacey and Cole had broken up the estate, the lot she built on wasn’t overly wide, so she’d designed up.
Three floors of magazine-quality interior design. There were pale hardwood floors throughout. Each room was painted in a different shade of coastal pastels. The greens, browns, blues, and grays served as both masculine and feminine accents. Much more inviting than Alec’s gruesome apartment.
The main level had a living room with deep-cushioned corduroy couches, a floor-to-ceiling white brick fireplace, and black stained tables. The kitchen appliances were stainless steel, the counters white marble, and the cabinets mahogany. A long, polished kitchen table along the wall held a small stack of newspapers and a bowl of keys. He pictured Lacey and Jake drinking coffee together there in the mornings. A small library and half bath finished things off.
The second level held four bedrooms, all with an accompanying bath, but the third floor rocked him back on his heels. There were wall-to-wall windows facing east, with a wondrous view of the ocean. Lacey had clearly set it up as her studio. Acrylic paint tubes, canvases, and brushes lay scattered over several tables. More than ten easels dotted the space. A small sink occupied a corner, along with a recliner that had seen much better days.
Alec raised his brows at the chair. “You still have that thing?”
Lacey wrapped her arms around Jake’s waist, her soft blond hair long enough to brush Jake’s hand as he held her arm in place. Her blue eyes lit with mischief. “He watches me paint from that chair.”
“Can’t get rid of Black Beard,” Jake said unapologetically. “It’s a staple.”
“It’s probably held together by staples.” Alec grinned. Jake had bought the recliner for his first apartment eight years ago. It should’ve been junked eight years ago. The fact that Lacey let him keep it said a lot about her.
They made their way back downstairs and onto the front porch, where Lacey and Jake sat side by side. The only thing not picture perfect was Lacey’s yard. There were several large holes in the lawn and various pieces of equipment lying around.
“What’s your plan for the landscape?”
Lacey settled into the crook of his brother’s arm and set the swing in motion. “Jake’s going to line the driveway with palms and Myrica. The base of the porch here will have mountain laurels. Since the mimosa grove separates Cole and Mia’s property from ours, we decided on dogwood trees where the holes are dug. We’ll line the side of the house and path around to the beach with wild oats and sea grass.”
Growing up with a father who owned a landscaping business, he knew what each of those plants was and could picture how the estate would look when finished. He approved. Alec also noted how Lacey always used the term “we” when referring to anything regarding the house. She’d already accounted for and accepted his brother in her life and home. It wasn’t hers, but theirs.
Some of his tension eased. They really did seem happy. Lacey was always touching Jake’s arm or shoulder or hand, and Jake never went more than thirty seconds without a smile or a glance at her. The princess and the gardener. Huh.