He eyed her. He had the same shade of blue eyes as Ty, but she’d never seen anything nearing warmth in them. Even when Ty had done well on the field. A mercenary glint, maybe, but not warmth or pride or love.
“Looking for my son.”
“He isn’t here.” Which wasn’t a lie. He was downstairs. That wasn’t technicallyhere.
“Now, you don’t want to go lying to me,” Bruce said, eyes cold, mouth flat. He moved closer to where she stood, wagging his finger. “I don’t tolerate liars. It’s all over town he’s working for you.” He said it with a sneer, like there was something shameful and tawdry about him working here.
Lara stayed exactly where she was, even as Mr. Wagner approached. She clasped her hands together so they wouldn’t visibly shake, but she held Mr. Wagner’s gaze with a cool one of her own.
“He isn’t here,” she repeated. “And I’d like you to leave.”
“Public place.”
“No, it isn’t,” Laura replied, maybe a little primly. “It’s a museum open to the public if they follow certain rules.”
“What laws am I breaking?” He smirked. The smell of liquor pervasive the closer he got.
“It doesn’t matter. This is my museum. I have the right to refuse anyone. I am refusing you, Mr. Wagner. Now, I’d like you to leave.”
The smirk turned into a sneer. She didn’t miss the way his body tensed, the way his hand curled into a fist at his sides—something that was no doubt meant to intimidate even if he didn’t raise it.
But she wouldn’t be intimidated, and if he wanted to hit her? “I’m not a little boy. You hit me, I call the police, and I press charges. We can work up a trespassing charge too, if you don’t leave now.”
Even though her hands shook,everythingshook, she wasn’t about to back down. Maybe she even kind of hoped hewouldhit her, so she’d have the chance to do just that. Call the cops. Press changes. Give himsometaste of retribution.
“Dad.”
Lara closed her eyes against the wave of pain—oh how she wished she could have gotten rid of Bruce before Ty had come upstairs.
For a moment, Ty was frozen. Not in fear, but in a wild, blinding fury that no doubt came from the man standing in front of Lara.
“There you are,” Bruce said, sending Lara a disgusted look. It was enough to get Ty’s feet moving. He stepped in front of Lara,moved for his dad. “Here I am.” He didn’t look at Lara. Couldn’t. “Let’s have a talk outside.”
“What about all those apron strings tying you to this one?”
Ty ignored the barb. He knew how to ignore everything his father shot at him these days. It didn’t even really hurt any more. He’d become numb to it.
But he knew it hurt Lara, and it worried her. So he ushered his dad out the front door, and since Bruce was clearly drunk, it didn’t take much force to propel him outside.
Maybe this wasn’t better since people were walking down to the beach or up to the main drag, but it was still better than the look of anguish on Lara’s face.
He led his dad down the side of the building toward the beach. Maybe if he kept walking…he could just walk into the sea. Swim out to that guy standing on a rock out in the water.
Instead, he stopped in the back area of the museum, where the trailhead to the lighthouse started with a big plaque. It wasn’t private, but it gave the illusion of space from the general public.
When he finally came to a stop, he turned and looked down at his father. Age and drink had done a number on his face. Puffy and red-eyed. He was a little stooped these days, and Ty thought there should be some satisfaction in seeing Dad’s choices catch up with his body, but Ty just felt…tainted. Contaminated by his father’s presence.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, not even sounding angry. Just exhausted.
“Well, since you’re too good to come out to the trailer, I had to track you down, didn’t I? I want to know the plan. Winter is the time to plant the seeds for spring. You can’t just bum around the Townsends. You have to?—”
“I’m not trying out for anything else. I’m nearly thirty years old, Dad. It’s over. I’ve let it go. Now it’s your turn to let it go. I’m not a baseball player. The end.”
“You’re just accepting failure?” Dad demanded. His cheeks were already red, probably from the drinking, but they got redder. “You want that to be the hallmark of your life? Quitting?”
A few years ago, that question would have crushed him. Because being aquitterwas so incongruous to how he felt. He was a hard worker who saw things through. Quitting was for men like his father.
But somewhere in the last few years he’d begun to see thatletting gowasn’t the same as quitting. Quitting was giving up on something because it was too hard. Letting go was moving on from something that didn’t serve you anymore.
