“No one makes Mack do anything,” he assured her. “It’s his choice.”
“Have you told him how you feel?” Her voice was lower than before.
Jeff wiped the condensation off his tea glass, unable to look her in the eye. “I have, yeah.”
“Lately?”
He lifted his gaze, met her concerned stare. “Yes. It’s not enough,” he admitted, the words widening the hole in his chest.
Kennedy’s hand covered his. “I thought for sure you two would work things out. You were happy together once.”
Yes, they were.
“I can’t believe you’re not fighting for him.”
Oh, he’d been fighting, all right. But with every failed battle, he was losing hope that he could win the war.
“I’m so sorry, Dad.”
Matthew stood, threw his arms around Jeff’s neck. “Me, too, Pawpaw. So sorry.”
He couldn’t help it, he smiled, patting Matthew’s arm, though deep down, his heart was breaking just a little more.
Chapter Seven
Sunday, January 26, 2020
Though Mack generally worked seven days aweek, he’d been taking Sundays off as of late. With Rafe willing to fill in at the bar, it had worked out.
It should’ve been a reprieve, a chance to sit back, unwind, breathe easier, but Mack generally found himself wired for sound. Tonight was no exception. Unable to relax, he was pacing the small, square living room, the tiny, elongated kitchen, anything to keep from picking up the stack of papers he’d been delivered during last night’s shift. He’d managed to wait until closing before he opened them, and at that point, he had wished he hadn’t bothered.
Pausing in his pursuit to flatten all the spots in the floor, he stared down at the cover letter. His gaze slid from the logo in the top corner, past his name and address, down to the subject line: OFFER TO PURCHASE MOONSHINERS.
He wished Jeff was there so he could talk to someone about this. As it was, he had no one. Daniel had made sure of that, his disapproval the guiding light for his every move. While this news would’ve likely put his son over the moon, Mack couldn’t bring himself to call his son. Not yet. Not until he’d come to terms with it.
Of course, he knew that was never going to happen.
Mack resumed pacing, his gaze shifting to the clock on the wall. One twenty-three p.m. Church was officially out, and most of the parishioners were likely back in their homes, settling down to their Sunday lunch as they did every week. The diner would be crowded because the people of Coyote Ridge loved to congregate in public, and though Mack had never been one of those people, he realized it settled him to know that it was still taking place around him. In the small town he’d grown up in, spent his life in. The town he couldn’t imagine moving away from.
His cell phone rang, the vibration making it buzz on the Formica countertop. With a resigned sigh, he glanced down at it, frowned.
He considered letting it go to voicemail but caved before it could.
“Hello,” he greeted the caller.
“Michael? It’s Chris.”
There was a smile in the Realtor’s voice.
“I’m calling with some good news. We got an offer on your house, and I’m happy to say it’s far better than I was expecting. I was wondering if it would be possible to meet with you. I’d like to go over it with you face-to-face. Would three o’clock work?”
“No,” he said abruptly, then took a deep breath. “Sorry, I’ve got an errand to run this afternoon. But you can come by the bar tomorrow night.”
“Uh … all right. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then. Let’s make it six o’clock.”
“I’ll be there,” he assured Chris, then disconnected.
With his phone still in his hand, Mack grabbed the stack of papers, along with his wallet and his keys, then stormed out of the house, not bothering to grab a coat or lock the door behind him.
