Name five things you hear.His own panicked breathing, a rooster crowing in the yard, his sister crooning in the kitchen, a clank like a spoon in a cup, the creak of the board beneath his feet—the same one he’d fallen victim to in his youth.
Name five things you see.Cracks in the plaster on the foyer wall, the unpainted oak of his parents’ bedroom door, the antique glass doorknob, the metal skeleton key Daytona jammed into the lock about twenty years ago and couldn’t get out. The photos hanging on the wall.
Name five things you feel.His wildly thudding heart, his fist clenched tight, the beginnings of a stress headache, the ever so slight pull from his healing incision, sweat beads sliding down his face. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. No, not sweat. Tears.
The voice he never dared dream to hear again shouted, “Well, you planning on staying out there forever or getting your ass in here?”
Oh shit. Show time.
Chapter Twenty-six
Lucky turned the knob, eased the oak door open, and stepped inside. No hiding the tremor in his hands and legs.
A patchwork quilt covered the iron-framed bed, and the lamp sported a lop-sided, hand-crocheted shade—one of Charlotte’s earlier works.
Great-grandfather’s clock sat on the mantel, likely placed there by the man himself after he’d built the house. The faint hint of tobacco lingered—not from smoking, but from a man who’d spent his whole life planting and harvesting the stuff.
His father cleared his throat.
The man seated in a chair by the window appeared older than his years. His illness had taken a toll. The same furrow often found on Lucky’s face formed a permanent trench between his father’s eyes, and hair once the same color as Lucky’s bore a smattering of white.
Daddy gripped the arms of the rocking chair, fingers stained and work worn. “Your sister says I wouldn’t be sitting here now if it wasn’t for you.”
Lucky stayed quiet. So far so good, and talking might break the winning streak.
“Why?” How’d Daddy manage to pour so much suspicion into one word?
“Why what?”
Curious eyes met Lucky’s own. “Why did you let them cut you open? For me.”
“You’re my Daddy. I couldn’t let you die.”
“Nice to know family still means something to you.”
What? Daddy turned his back, not Lucky. “It always did. I don’t know what it means to you, but I talked to a lot of dial tones.” He hadn’t really expected open arms, but he hadn’t expected hostility either.
“And my son let me believe he died.”
“I spent the last twelve plus years eating Christmas dinner alone.” And the last one he’d eaten in a greasy spoon restaurant, but not alone. Never alone again. Not with Bo in his life.
“And there was an empty chair around the family table.”
“I’d of been in that chair if you’d’ve let me.” Ah, hell. Lucky never should have come here. What did he expect from a man who’d turned his back? Stubborn mule never admitted to being wrong or even listened to another’s point of view.
Bo might comment about the apple not falling far from the tree.
What now?
Neither said a word, sizing each other up from a few feet and a thousand miles away. His father spoke first. “You look pretty good for a dead man.”
Lucky flushed all the way up to his ears. “I’m sorry ‘bout that, but honestly, at the time, I didn’t figure you’d care.”
“What kind of father do you take me for?”
Lucky clenched and unclenched his fist. “That kind who hangs up whenever his son calls. Every time I called, you slammed the phone down. Victor dead, me facing years in prison. I needed you.”
“I thought you’d hurt Daytona.”
