"We're just friends." There was that damn word again.
His mother laughed—a real laugh, the kind he hadn't heard from her in weeks. It dissolved into a cough, and he reached for her automatically, steadying the bowl in her hands until the fit passed.
"Sorry," she said, catching her breath. "It's just—the look on your face when you say that. Just friends." She shook her head, still smiling. "You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."
He didn't argue. There was no point arguing with Linda Mallor when she'd made up her mind about something. Never had been.
“Why don’t you turn on the news?” his mother suggested.
“Sure.” He pointed the remote at the television, and the first thing that popped up was Stacey Wilkerson. God, he really didn’t like that woman. She wasn’t a very good reporter. She preferred gossip and spinning stories for sensationalism to digging her teeth into something real.
“Turn it up.” His mother lifted her spoon, then blew on the liquid and took a small bite.
“You want to watch Stacey?”
“I want to hear the story about Garrett Dutton. He’s running for State Senate,” his mother said. “He used to be a US Marshal, and he knew your father.”
That caught his attention. “He doesn’t look old enough to have been a marshal when Dad was set to testify.” Trent had only been fourteen when his father left Mallor’s Landing after witnessing a politician and an executive from Gulf Coast Energy Partners pass papers they shouldn’t have. And then he witnessed a murder. A few months later, while under the protection of the US Marshals office, specifically, a man named Aaron Slade, Jack Mallor died in a freak car accident, changing Trent’s life forever.
“I don’t know the details, but I believe he was fresh out of training.” His mom took another small bite. At least she was eating. “I only met him once. When he came to pay his respects.”
“I don’t remember him at Dad’s funeral.”
“It was a few months later. When you were away at football camp. I guess he’d been on another detail and couldn’t come to your father’s service. It was nice of him, but I’m not sure I’m gonna vote for him.” She set her bowl aside. “If I’m still around?—”
“Why don’t you like him as a candidate?” Trent had promised his mom he’d be realistic about her condition, but he just didn’t want to hear it now that they were so close to the end.
“He supports the mining of limestone. Says we need to do more and would be willing to do it in the Glades.”
Trent stared at the television for a few moments, listening to Stacey ramble about Dutton, and it was obvious she was in his corner. Well, Trent wasn’t. The mining of limestone was a controversial topic because of the environmental damage it caused, even though it was considered necessary for construction materials.
“I’ve heard enough.” He turned down the volume and set his bowl aside. “Dutton sounds like a slick politician, and Stacey looks like a woman on a mission to get him elected… or on the hunt for a husband.”
“As long as she stays away from you.” His mom patted his leg. “Trent, dear,” she said, and the way in which her tone dropped made him go still. "I need to ask you something."
“Anything.”
"Are you happy here? Running Mallor's Landing?"
The question caught him off guard. "What do you mean?"
"I mean exactly what I said." She turned to look at him fully, her eyes—still sharp despite everything else that was failing—searching his face. "You've spent your whole life on this property. Running the business, taking care of the habitat, keeping everything going after your father—" She stopped, swallowed. "After your father died. You were just a boy, and you stepped up. Became the man of the house before you'd even finished being a child."
"Someone had to."
"That's not what I asked." She reached over and took his hand, her fingers thin and cool against his skin. "Do you feel trapped here? If you wanted to leave—to experience something else, somewhere else—I'd understand. I'd be okay with it."
"Mom—"
"I have a buyer." She said it quickly, like she'd been holding the words in her mouth and they'd finally spilled out. "Someone interested in purchasing Mallor's Landing."
Trent went very still. "What?"
"It came in last week. I wasn't sure if I should mention it, but..." She gestured toward the end table beside the couch. "The letter's in the drawer."
He set down his bowl and retrieved the envelope, his movements mechanical. The paper inside was thick and expensive, the kind lawyers used. He scanned the contents, his jaw tightening with every line.
The offer was good. More than good—it was generous—a little over fair market value for a property like this, with all its complications and restrictions.
