The muffin is good. Really good, actually, and I eat the whole thing before I'm off the boardwalk, licking blueberry off my thumb like some kind of animal. I can't help it. Eight years of MREs and mess hall food will do that to a man.
Emily wasn't wearing a ring, which I noticed twice, and I'm not proud of that. She also couldn't look me in the eye for more than a second without turning away, which tells me she's either furious or terrified or both, and I deserve all of it. Every bit of hostility and anger she can muster up in my direction is well-deserved and earned. I dropped the ball. I just never thought I’d walk back into this town and see her within the first few hours, let alone not married and even more gorgeous than the day I left.
But right now, I can't afford to get hung up on it because I've got a bigger problem waiting for me at the lumberyard, and that problem has a drinking habit and my last name. I can't remember a time I saw my dad drink a single beer, let alone many beers which could accumulate for God only knows howlong until the house looked like a frat party had been hosted the previous night.
Cole and Son's sits on the fringes of the boardwalk just before the commercial zone goes residential, right where it's been since I was a kid. The sign out front needs paint and one of the chain links holding it up is rusted through, but the yard itself is busy. Two flatbed trucks are backed up to the loading dock with a crew of guys strapping lumber down for a job. The salty sea breeze kicks up diesel fumes, and I get a flash of being fourteen, sweeping sawdust in the summer heat while Dad barked orders at everyone within earshot.
Mike Reynolds, job foreman, spots me before I'm through the gate. He drops his clipboard on the hood of the nearest truck and comes at me with his hand out, shaking his head the whole way. The hard hat on his head bobs with each step, and his grin only gets wider the closer he gets to me.
Now this is the welcome I was hoping for.
"No goddamn way."
"Hey, Mike." I reach for him, feeling nostalgia wash over me.
"Jaxon Cole." He grabs my hand and pulls me into a half hug, clapping my back so hard it thumps through my whole torso. But I'm not the scraggly young punk I used to be. "Boy, half this town thinks you're dead. Look at you." He steps back and gives me the once-over. "The Marines did you right."
His assessing gaze makes me puff my chest out a bit. I used to weigh in at a struggling one-thirty-five, and after years of working out and lifting heavy, I think I might be able to bench more than this old man.
"Depends on who you ask." I glance past him toward the office, a squat cinder block box attached to the warehouse. The blinds are shut, but that doesn’t mean much. "Dad around?" Not much has changed around here at all, though I can see they've added several more storage buildings and it looks like a few more trucks in the fleet.
Mike's whole demeanor shifts. He crosses his arms and leans against the truck bed, chewing on something he doesn't want to say. I've seen that look on enough commanding officers to know what he's already thinking. Besides, after Alan's nasty comments and the sight of our home, I figure Mike'll give me an earful.
"He's in there. But Jax, I gotta level with you." He takes off the hard hat and tucks it under his elbow, frowning at me. "After your ma passed, he went downhill fast. He drinks on the job, he's run off half our client list, and he picks fights with anybody who tries to help. I've been keeping the lights on, but I'm not a miracle worker."
"Yeah, I saw the house." I rub the back of my neck instinctively, an old habit I used to have when facing up to some poor choice I'd made. The service knocked that out of me for the most part–standing at attention instead of shying away from consequences. But old habits die hard, and I have a great deal of respect for this man stepping in to help my family like he must have.
"Then you already know…" Mike doesn’t have to say much more about it, though he scratches his chin and sighs. Dad's struggles are public knowledge, more fodder for Alan's future tongue lashings.
"Anything else I need to know?"
"There's a developer out of Wilmington who's been buying up property all over town, and your dad's lot is the last piece he needs for some big waterfront project. Condos, resorts, something like that. He's been pressuring Roger to sell for months. The last time he showed up, he had a lawyer with him."
"Christ… Is it that bad?" I find my eyes sweeping over what looks like a very prosperous business and landing on the old, boring office space Dad never wanted to upgrade. Things at home looked bad, but the company too?
"Bad enough that the vultures are circling." Mike nods toward the office. "You might want to get in there."
Mike wanders off toward the truckers who probably need their POs signed so they can get paid, and I start toward the office. I had no clue the business was struggling like this, though I'm not utterly shocked. I know how close Mom and Dad were, and she's only been gone a little while, not even two full years yet. After seeing the state of the house, I know he's probably depressed, but I've been sending half of my paychecks to him. Where has the money gone?
When I step up to the office door, I hear voices. My dad sounds angry and gruff, maybe a little drunk too, but the other man sounds calm, if not professional.
"—seizure isn't something I want to pursue, Roger, but eminent domain exists for a reason. The council's already approved the preliminary rezoning, and frankly, the longer you wait on this, the less generous I can afford to be."
"You can shove your generosity right up your ass. This yard's been in my family thirty-two years, and no suit from Wilmington's gonna waltz in here and?—"
I push the door open and they both stop talking. The suit is tall, mid-forties, with a golf-course tan and a haircut. He looks like a banker with those shiny shoes and that perfectly straight tie. He's holding a leather portfolio and wearing a watch I couldn't afford in three lifetimes. His eyes land on me, size me up, and move on in about two seconds flat.
Dad looks rough. That's the kindest way I can put it. He's dropped weight he didn't have to spare and the flannel shirt he's wearing hangs off him loosely. There's a half-empty bottle of bourbon on the desk next to a coffee mug and a pile of paperwork that doesn't look like it's been touched in weeks.
"We'll pick this up another time," the suit says, buttoning his jacket. He turns for the door and pauses next to me long enough to look me up and down. "You must be the son."
I step aside and let him walk out without a word, but I watch him cross the yard through the window. He doesn't look back, but I see Mike shouting something at him as he climbs into a pricey sedan and throws a cloud of dust into the air as he drives off.
Dad pours bourbon into the coffee mug and takes a long swig before he even acknowledges me again. I pull up the other chair and sit down across the desk from him, resting my elbows on my knees. I don't even know what to say to him. It's been so long since we've spoken—though not as long as it was since I spoke to Emily. I may not have been able to get home to visit, but I called every Christmas and on Mom's birthday.
"When'd you get in?" he finally asks, but he doesn't look up at me. His hand wraps around his mug as his eyes stare downward in shame.
"Few hours ago." I sit back, crossing one ankle over the other knee, then I grip my leg and hold it in place, sucking in a deep breath to release some of the tension off my chest. Talking to my father has never been easy, though now it feels harder. There's a self-made chasm between us I'm not sure how to fix.
