Page 286 of Summer Heat
I paste on an expression of nonchalance. “I’ll speak to him when I’m done here.”
Without another word, Rosita shows herself out. Steady beeps fill the space she left behind, clinical reminders of my father’s tenuous hold on life.
Swallowing hard, I take his hand. This hand rocked me to sleep and tossed a softball. Now it seems cold and frail. I can feel every vein beneath the paper skin.
Tears rise up, but I fight them back. “Oh, Daddy.”
I really need my biggest supporter right now. I need someone to tell me everything will be all right. There’s no one left to do that. The only thing that will help now is a phone call from one of the city’s crime lords. A rich man with money enough to buy a woman for the night.
His eyelids are shot through with blue-green veins. They open slowly, revealing the flat gaze he’s had ever since the conviction. “Avery?”
“I’m here. Do you need anything? Are you hungry?”
He closes his eyes again. “I’m tired.”
He’s asleep most of the time. “I know, Daddy.”
“You’re a good girl,” he says faintly, his eyelids fluttering.
My throat feels thick. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“My little jumping jack.”
His voice fades to nothing by the end, but I know what he said. He used to call me that when I was little, boundless as little girls can be. He taught me chess to help me focus. And then he found time to play a game with me every week, no matter what. He worked nights and weekends, but he always made time to sit across the chessboard from me.
In the beeping quiet that follows, I know he’s asleep again. I only get a few minutes with him a day. The rest of the time the medicine keeps him under, but without it he’s in intense pain. He has always been a man of vitality, of action. Multiple broken bones and a harrowing night in the dark alley where they left him aged him twenty years. This is all he has left—the security of this room and the pain medicine. I can’t take those away.
“Everything will be okay,” I say out loud because I have to believe that. I have to believe that I’m doing this for a reason. Have to believe that it will be enough.
There’s no one left to save us except me.
CHAPTER THREE
I have three memories of my mother, and one of them takes place in the back parlor. She was a beautiful debutante, the perfect society wife. Only in the privacy of the back parlor did she ever sit on the floor to play Candy Land with me.
My footsteps echo in the hallway, made empty by my desperate need for money. Darkened rectangles decorate the wooden floor, patches where a rug or piece of furniture sat for a decade or two. Between the sale of our furniture and cashing in my college fund, I’ve kept us afloat for another month, but that will run out soon. The nurse who visits my father once a day, the doctor who replenishes his supply of pain medication. They all want money, both for their expertise and to keep their stories out of the city’s gossip chain. What’s left of my father’s dignity is worth that much.
The door to the back parlor is open. Landon Moore sits on the lumpy couch, his vest impeccable, one oxford-clad foot slung over his leg. He has a full head of silver hair, a beard and mustache, and striking blue eyes. He reminds me of those old English gentlemen, minus the accent.
Part of me hates that he’s encroached on the only thing I have left of my father. The practical part of me knows there aren’t any other sofas in the house. No furniture. There’s nothing left. Panic rises in my chest.
He’s here to help you, I remind myself.
“Uncle Landon,” I manage. “It’s so good to see you.”
He stands, his expression somber. “My dear girl. What a trying time this must be for you.”
For reasons I can’t explain, my lower lip trembles. His sympathy is harder to bear than the challenge in Gabriel Miller’s chiseled face. I can’t afford to feel sorry for myself. I can’t afford to break down, not when I don’t know if I’d be able to put myself back together again.
“I’m fine,” I assure him. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Oh but I do, especially with your father out of commission. How is his health?”
His pallid skin, his weakened movements. The excruciating pain I can see in his eyes between doses. “He’s improving every day. I’m just so grateful that he’s healing.”
“Good, good.” He gestures to the sofa—my mother’s sofa. “Come sit down with me. I must speak with you.”
The front parlor was carefully constructed to provide decorum, to allow space. I could have sat in the beautiful Scottish armchairs with a small oak table between us. I could have maintained the smile on my face.
