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Right. Because he had no choice. Not only had Darlene given him the gears the other day, but his brother was hounding him. There was no sense in putting this off any longer. He slid from the truck and headed inside.
He hung up his coat and followed the low hum of voices to the great room off the kitchen. The space was huge and airy and wide open, giving him an unfettered view of the few guests left. Their neighbours the Edwards were chatting with Darlene, while John sat in a leather chair beside them. Hudson was near the fireplace, head bent, listening to Rebecca. The soft swell of her belly showed a burgeoning growth, and Hudson’s hand rested there, protectively, possessively. It was a good l
ook for his brother, and Wyatt was happy he’d finally figured out Rebecca Draper was the only woman he was ever going to be happy with. It had taken ten years, but then no one had ever claimed the Blackwell men were smart when it came to their personal lives.
He glanced around. There was no one else. Guess that was what happened when you were several hours late for a party.
The remains of the meal were tidied up in the kitchen, and soft music played in the background. Darlene glanced up just then, and he saw the disappointment in her eyes. She was gracious and quickly hid it, and it made him feel like shit.
“Nice of you to join us.” Hudson straightened and walked over, followed by Rebecca. He offered his hand, which Wyatt shook. “Beer?” his brother asked.
“I know where they are.” Wyatt kept his tone light and flashed a smile at Rebecca. “You look amazing.”
“I feel amazing,” she murmured, linking her arm through Hudson’s. “A little nauseous in the mornings, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“Where’s Liam?”
“He played shinny at the arena and then a sleepover at his buddy’s.”
“That’s good,” Wyatt replied with a wink and a hug. “This would have been boring as hell for the kid.”
He made his way over to Darlene and his father, passing a long table filled with balloons, cards, and presents. Crap. He hadn’t even bothered to pick up a card. Another fail to add to the long list of them when it came to his father.
He greeted the Edwards warmly. Like his own family, they were about as close to Crystal Lake royalty as you could get, and he’d known them his whole life. Marnie and Steven looked happy, healthy, and robust.
The contrast to his father was striking, and it was then he noticed the pallor in John’s cheeks, the sickly tint beneath his flesh. It caught him unaware, and he found himself staring.
“We were just leaving,” Steven said, slapping Wyatt’s shoulder in the way that men did. “But I’m glad we were able to see you, Wyatt. Everyone’s talking about our very own NASCAR champion and looking forward to your return to the track.” He paused. “Any idea when that’s gonna happen? My son Jake and I thought we’d do a weekend trip when you start back up.”
“Not at the moment.” He took his eyes off his father and attempted a smile.
“Of course,” Steven replied. “That was some bad business, that accident.”
“Yeah,” Wyatt murmured. He said his good-byes and headed for the kitchen, rooting around in the fridge for a beer that wasn’t imported. Jesus. Since when had his father decided that good old American brew wasn’t up to snuff? He finally found a Bud and popped the can open before returning to the family room.
Darlene had walked the Edwards back to foyer, along with Hudson and Rebecca, leaving him alone with his father. Silence fell between them, awkward and big and uncomfortable as hell. Wyatt glanced back, hoping to see his brother or Rebecca…or someone, but they were all still gathered in the foyer.
“Sorry I missed dinner,” he said, turning back to his father. “I got held up.”
John shrugged. “You know how Darlene is about these things. Birthdays and such. They’re important to her. She’s the one you need to apologize to, not me.” The subtle reprimand hit home. Probably because his father was right, mostly because it came from John.
Wyatt took another pull from his beer. This was gonna be a fun one.
“A lot of people come?”
John nodded. “A fair amount. Apparently it’s a big deal to hit seventy when most folks had you dead and buried months earlier.”
That was a joke, and Wyatt almost said as much. John Blackwell would outlive them all. People that stubborn usually did. And yet, there was something about the pinched look in his eyes, the way his thin fingers clung to the edge of the chair. Wyatt thought back to something Regan had told him days ago.
“You guys aren’t going to Florida.”
“Nope.” John glanced up at him. “We thought we’d sit it out this year.”
“Any particular reason why?”
His father didn’t look away. In fact, he leaned forward. “I prefer to die at home. No way will I go in Florida. Too hot.”
“I don’t think that really matters when you’re dead. The heat and all.”
