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But what about me?
Raine shook her head. “You keep telling yourself that.”
Gloria carefully folded the cloth in her hand and set it on the countertop. “You’re never going to forgive me.”
“Is that what this is about? Your need to be forgiven?”
Unbelievable.
Raine shoved past her mother and paused near the short hall that led to the bedrooms at the back of the house. “You’ll never change. Your being here isn’t about me. It’s not about whether or not I look like shit or that I feel a hundred times worse than I look. It’s not about Jesse dying and leaving
me alone. Or about Jake, or wanting to know when I ate last. It’s not about the fact that my life disappeared and I’ve never felt so lost or so useless.” Gibson rested his butt on her feet and she scooped him into her arms. “Those are the things that a real mother would worry about.”
“Raine.” Her mother’s voice broke.
“I can’t do this with you, Gloria. You’re only here to ease your conscience, and I can’t help you with that.” Raine took a second, afraid that she’d break down as the pressure inside her built. “In order to forgive you, I’d have to care, and I’m sorry but I just”—she shrugged—“I just don’t.”
Gloria’s face whitened.
The hole inside Raine yawned open, and she knew she needed to disappear before her mother figured out what a big fat liar she was. “You can let yourself out.”
She escaped down the hall, shut herself in the bathroom, and let Gibson down. For several long moments she leaned against the door, eyes closed, breathing erratically, until slowly she straightened and turned on the tap in the bathtub.
It filled with hot, steaming water, and after locking the door, Raine slipped beneath the soothing surface and emptied her mind. Everything drifted away except the silky hot liquid that melted her bones and massaged sore, tight muscles. Nearly an hour later she wrapped herself in a thick, bright pink, terry robe and made her way down the hall back toward her kitchen.
Outside the rain and wind still pounded her home, and inside her soul the conflicting emotions she’d warred with her entire life still raged.
Raine glanced into her kitchen. The lights were on low, casting warmth over the cool, shiny surface of stainless steel and granite. A plate sat in the center of her island, boasting a triple-decker sandwich wrapped in plastic and a note.
There’s chili in the microwave. Homemade from Dante’s Grill.
Mom.
She stared at the sandwich until it blurred, and she sniffled loudly as one solitary tear wove its way down her cheek. With Gibson running around her feet, she settled into one of the pub chairs and, though she wasn’t hungry, reached for the plate.
Chapter 4
The smell of turkey greeted Jake as he made his way downstairs. It was barely six in the morning, yet he’d been up for hours. Sleep and Jake Edwards were pretty much at odds these days. Hell, most nights he dreaded closing his eyes, because he couldn’t deal with the images burned into the back of his brain. It was why he worked out like a dog, pushing his body to the point of exhaustion in the hope that when he finally relented and hit the sack, his mind would shut off too.
But even then it was a gamble. How many nights had he been ripped from sleep, drenched in sweat with the smell of fear in his nostrils and the taste of agony on his tongue?
With a sigh, he ran his hand over the rough stubble along his jaw. As an Army Ranger, his mind and body had been honed into a weapon that worked with little or no sleep, yet sometimes, he’d have given his left arm for one undisturbed night in the sack. For some small measure of peace.
“Not today,” he muttered.
Outside, the early November morning still darkened the large bay windows in the dining room. The sun came late to these parts of Michigan at this time of year, and with storm clouds still lingering, it was darker than usual.
Jake cleared the bottom step out of habit and avoided the squeak with ease, a rare smile claiming his mouth as he did so. How many times had he and Jesse come home way too late or way too drunk and struggled to avoid the loose bottom step as well as the second one from the top?
He shook his head. More times than he could remember.
There was a soft glow from the kitchen and he paused, watching his mother work. She was surrounded by mixing bowls and a host of ingredients, her dark hair pulled off her face with a clip, and a smudge of flour on her nose. She worked carefully, methodically, with the same ease she put into everything, as she kneaded the dough and stretched it out across the large wood surface.
There were new lines around her mouth and eyes, carved deeper into her flesh than he’d have liked, and he supposed he had a hand in them as well. On top of his brother’s death, there was his father’s illness to deal with. The prostate cancer had been caught early, but still, it was a worry. In a crap year that had seen him disappoint many, his mother was the one person he wished he’d been stronger for.
Liar. There was also Raine…
She looked up suddenly and smiled. “Coffee’s on, honey.”
