I leave, so neither of us has to endure any more emotional turmoil for the evening. I’m grateful that Remy’s not in the living room when I come out. Neither is Mom. The boys are playingaNintendogame while Alice and Dean are now snoring in the recliner. No one needs to be any wiser about my heart-to-heart with Dad. I assume he’ll appreciate that as much as I do.
I head upstairs to my old room, swiping at my face in the hopes that any sign of tears will be gone before I have to face Remy. Except, he’s not in the room where we dropped our bags earlier. One guess says he’s with Mom somewhere, so at least I know he’s in good hands.
Slipping into the attached bathroom, I close the door behind me and turn on the shower. I strip out of my clothes and step under the hot spray, letting it rain down on my face. In less than a minute, my skin is pleasantly numb from the scalding water. It melts away the tension and the last of the adrenaline rush I had from confronting Dad. I watch the suds swirl down the drain, imagining they’re taking with them the years of animosity I’ve carried. My limbs are heavy, but I feel clean and rejuvenated, body and soul.
CHAPTER 23
Remy
If I sit here any longer, waiting for Chris to come out of his father’s den, I might have a nervous breakdown. Alice and Dean are fast asleep in the recliner like two overworked, overtired parents who deserve a nap. Gale is passed out on her back, sporting her brand-new Christmas bandana from ‘Grandma’ and possibly chasing a squirrel in her dreams. Rose disappeared into the kitchen a little while ago, and the boys are transfixed by a new game one of them got for Christmas—a football game, imagine that. That leaves just me and my thoughts.
Ugh, I can’t do this.
Shoving off the couch, I amble back through the dining room. Maybe burning off my restlessness will keep me from worrying that any semblance of peace Chris has found over the past two months won’t be shattered by whatever is happening behind that closed door. I already called my parents earlier and sent a message to Jamie. I could go up to Chris’ room to wait for him there, but that won’t keep me from wondering how his chat with ‘daddy’ is going either. Or keep me close enough by to hear if it comes to blows.
It wouldn’t go that far, would it?
Not the image I needed right now.
The sound of dishes clanking on the other side of the kitchen door catches my attention. I think I just found a distraction thatwill keep me near the potential war zone in the other room. Swiping two dirty mugs off the dining table, I take them with me. Rose is elbow deep in soapy water at the sink, doing a mother’s labor of love.
“Oh, did you find more for me?” she asks, gracing me with an appreciative smile.
How the woman can manage to sound cheery about that further solidifies the picture of patience and exuberance I saw from her over the evening. Smiling, I set them down on the counter and then move to the other side of the sink and grab a hand towel.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. You’re our guest,” she scolds.
“You made dinner. It’s the least I can do. Besides, Chris and I do dishes together all the time. It wouldn’t be fair if I dry for him and not his mother.”
“You’re so sweet,” she says softly, affectionately, not just a throwaway comment.
But is your husband?I want to ask.
Chris hasn’t mentioned much about him other than Vince may not approve of his current career choice. If he could have seen his son the other day at the college, he’d have known he was meant to use his voice.
It takes me a second, but I locate the cabinet where Rose keeps the dinner plates. I set the ones I dried inside and turn back to my duty station. Her forearms are resting on the edge of the sink, head hung, eyes closed. Did she…fall asleep standing up? Is she sick?
“Rose…are you all right?”
I hear her before I put two and two together—a sniffle. Her lower lip quivers. The sponge in her hand splashes into the water. Just as I lay my hand on her shoulder, she practically throws herself at me. Arms going tight around my waist, she hugs me and sobs against my chest.
I am officially terrified, a thousand-pound weight dropping into my stomach. Did something happen to Chris? What is going on?
“Rose?”
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” she sniffles, straightening up. Swiping her eyes, she takes a second to compose herself. “Do you knowhow longit’s been since I’ve seen my son smile?”
The question stuns me. It sounds rhetorical, emphasized by the watery appreciative look on her face. She reaches out and gives my hand a squeeze, whispering, “Thank you.”
I thought I knew how much Chris loved me, but the weight of it settles on me more now, hearing her words. And nowImight be on the verge of crying. Clearing my throat, I squeeze her hand in return.
“No thanks needed. I like making him smile, and I should be thanking your good parenting; he makes me smile, too.”
The loving look she gives me is as powerful as if she were my own mother, and I’m grateful to know Chris has her in his corner. We finish up the dishes, and she hugs me again, wishing me a good night.
I find the same scene in the living room when I return. The door to the den is still closed, so I give up and head upstairs. Inside Chris’ bedroom, damp heat and the scent of shower gel hit me. Light from the bathroom spills out, but it’s interrupted when Chris steps out, a towel wrapped around his waist. His gaze seems far off as he rubs the muscle in his shoulder before spotting me.
There are tired lines around his eyes, but he’s still as handsome as ever, flashing me an exhausted smile. He put on a good face at dinner, laughing with me and the rest of his family, but I didn’t miss the way his expression shuttered when it became apparent that Vince had little to contribute to the conversations.
