What if he finally put to use those ideas he’d been stockpiling for years and they actually worked? He’d crunched the numbers countless times; he knew the tide was shifting and that making older homes more eco-friendly was the wave of the future. What was he waiting for? Some other architectural outfit to step in and make a success of his ideas?
“What in the hell is wrong with you?” He pushed himself up from where he’d been perched on the cliff and quickly made his way down the side of the foothill. As soon as he got in his car, he pulled up the number for his Realtor in New Orleans, hoping she wasn’t out scouring the day-after Thanksgiving sales.
When she answered on the second ring, Jamal’s chest nearly burst with relief.
“Is the house on Saint Charles Avenue still available?” he asked.
“Yes, it is,” Tiffany said.
“I want it. I’ll be in New Orleans by tonight. Do whatever you can to make the sale happen quickly. I want to be in there as soon as possible.”
He returned to the bed-and-breakfast he’d found in Lake Montezuma and packed his things, booking a return flight home as he shoved his clothes into his bags.
Soon, Jamal was driving south, making his way back to Phoenix. But instead of continuing straight on I-17 toward Sky Harbor International, he took the exit at Camelback Road and headed east toward the suburb of Arcadia.
He was done running away. Phylicia was right. He didn’t want to live with regrets, not when he still had a chance at making things right.
Jamal pulled up to the gates of the home he’d grown up in, modest by the standards of some of the mansions springing up in other parts of the city. He dialed in the key code, a measure of comfort washing over him at the knowledge that the numbers had not changed.
He entered the house using the key he’d kept stuffed in his wallet—the key his mother had insisted he have, even though he hadn’t lived in this house in nearly a decade. She was in the foyer, watering the large, fresh flower arrangement that sat in the middle of a round marble table.
She twisted around and gasped. “Jamal?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“How…why?” She walked up to him. “What are you still doing in Arizona? I thought you left the day after the wedding.”
Shame washed over him. He didn’t want to tell her he’d been here the entire week and had purposely missed Thanksgiving yesterday. It would hurt her too much. Instead, he got right to the point of his unexpected detour.
“Where is he?”
“Jamal, please, no more fighting,” she pleaded.
“I don’t want to fight with him.”
The hope that sprang to her eyes made her look ten years younger, and Jamal was hit with the reality of the toll this rift with his father had taken on the rest of the family.
“He’s in his office,” she said.
Jamal started for the marble stairs that led to the second floor, but his mother stopped him before he could take a step.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for coming back.”
He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “You’re welcome,” he said. “And I promise never to stay away this long again.”
He took the stairs two at a time, stopping short as he came upon the dark wood door of his father’s home office. He gave it two short raps.
“Come in,” came the deep voice from the other side of the door.
Jamal pushed it open and stared at his father. “I think we need to talk,” he said.
“This is nice, isn’t it, Agatha?”
“Yes, it is,” Phil replied. She leaned over and peered at her mother’s canvas. Her rendering of the small gazebo surrounded by flowers was nearly an exact replication of the actual structure that stood before them in the serenity garden on the grounds of Mossy Oaks.
She tilted her head to the side as she gazed at her mother. “I’m so grateful you can still paint.”
“I don’t know for how much longer. I’m getting old. Arthritis may soon set in.” Her mother’s cagey smile warmed Phil’s heart.
