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Though she clearly remembered turning the bolt, she hurried to check, to twist the knob to be sure the door held fast. She pulled aside the curtain in one of the long windows bordering the heavy door. A cat lounged on the hood of her neighbor’s car. Claire scanned the cars in the other driveways, her stomach tight with anticipation, though nothing seemed out of place. A door slammed up the street and she heard the muffled sound of an engine roaring to life.
She inhaled slowly, trying to stem the racing of her heart as she hurried to the back door to check that bolt, as well. Satisfied that dead bolt remained drawn, she paused to pick up one of the cabinet drawer fronts that had fallen off in the night. The builders of this house hadn’t cared for quality when they’d installed the wooden fronts on the plastic drawers back in the early seventies.
She tucked the drawer front into the gap between her refrigerator and the wall, along with the other two that had previously broken away from the cracking plastic. The missing fronts made her bottom cabinets resemble a child’s toothless grin, with the gaping holes revealing the contents of her junk drawer, her silverware and now all her cooking utensils. Grey would have one more thing to complain about. She’d have to figure out how to repair them or work new cabinets into their budget.
As she headed to the living room to check the sliding glass doors, she grabbed her phone from her purse on the entry table. She made a quick note about shopping for new cabinets on her to-do list. Swiping her thumb along the screen, she scanned the long list of notes.
Confirm Sunday with Becca.
Add oil.
Call car place about noise.
Research winter break programs.
She frowned as she checked the bar that secured the sliding glass doors. What did add oil mean? To a recipe? To the car? Her memory wasn’t what it used to be. If she didn’t write everything down, she’d lose half the thoughts in her head, but sometimes she couldn’t interpret her own notes.
While the splash of the shower echoed in the bathroom and the music and TV blared, Claire methodically continued her check of each room, each window and each point of entry. Then she rechecked each room, behind each door, inside each closet. Not until she’d completed the circuit did she breathe a sigh of relief.
They were fine. They were safe, and that was all that mattered. She forced herself to take slow, deep breaths, silently repeating her mantra.
I am safe. I am strong. No one can hurt me.
Still, the thudding of her heart contradicted her as she turned to finish getting ready.
* * *
LUCAS WILLIAMS, owner of The Coffee Stop, frowned as he reviewed the employee schedule spread across his monitor and his gaze fixed on Friday’s date. September twenty-eighth. Had it been two years already?
Ken, a retiree who worked most mornings, leaned through his open office door. “Do we have any more coffee sleeves?”
“I have some on order. They should come in this afternoon, but there should be one more case.” He moved past the older man. “Here, I can grab them faster than I can tell you where they are.”
A few moments later, as Lucas headed toward the front, box in hand, Ken spoke up. “I can take those. You’ve got better things to do, boss.”
“I’ve got it.” Lucas nodded toward the counter. “You’ve got customers.”
As Ken hurried away, Lucas smiled at the kid trailing behind the petite brunette who stopped in every morning. She and her son shared the same wide brown eyes. Double-shot Americano, two pumps of vanilla, room for cream and the kid always had a banana-strawberry smoothie.
“Hey, mister,” the kid whispered and motioned Lucas over, while he glanced nervously at his mother, who was placing their order at the other end of the counter.
Lucas was curious as he set down the carton of sleeves and turned toward the boy. Curious, and a little cautious. Kids weren’t his thing. “Can I help you, little man?”
The boy scrunched his face. “I hate when my mom calls me that.”
Lucas shrugged. “Okay, how about just young man?”
“Grey,” the kid said. “That’s my name. You can call me that.”
“Grey it is. I’m Lucas. What can I get for you? Your usual smoothie?”
“How much is that?” The kid pointed to a wall display of espresso machines. “The one on the right. In the green box.”
“Ah, good choice.” Lucas reached for the machine.
“Don’t. She’ll see.” The youngster glanced again at his mother, who’d moved along to the pickup area.
She stood with her arms tightly crossed, her gaze darting over her shoulder at intervals. Ken dropped a metal filter and she jumped, hands splayed, eyes wide. Lucas had seen that look and that reaction before—in Iraq and Afghanistan, and later with Toby. He hoped this woman wasn’t like Toby, harboring some horrible trauma.
“It’s a surprise.” The boy drew Lucas’s attention back to the espresso machine.
“You want to get that for your mom?”
“Maybe if we have one at home, we won’t have to rush out every morning. Not that we don’t enjoy frequenting your shop...” The boy grinned, nervously. “But maybe sometimes we could have breakfast at home, instead. Just the two of us.”
His wistful tone tugged at something deep inside Lucas, called to the part of him he’d retired when he’d finished his last tour with the marines and walked from his medevac days. The boy’s eyes were almost pleading, as though he were grasping at a lifeline. Lucas glanced around for a reason to excuse himself, to retreat from that haunted look in the child’s eyes. It reminded him too much of himself at that age—lost and looking for an anchor.
The boy shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”
“Pun intended?” Lucas grinned, though he felt anything but lighthearted.
As if September twenty-eighth wasn’t enough to deal with, the thought that this poor kid believed an espresso machine would solve his troubles added to his weariness. Lucas glanced again at the kid’s mom. The kid wanted more time with her, a quiet breakfast, at least. That seemed a reasonable request. What kind of mother wouldn’t give her kid that? Was she a workaholic or did she suffer from some other affliction?
She looked healthy enough. Even Lucas wasn’t so dead he didn’t notice the shape of her body, the tone of her muscles. The woman was physically fit, if nothing else, but that in itself could be a symptom. His buddy Toby had been fanatical about working out. After Iraq, he’d stepped up his daredevil activities, jumping from planes, scaling impossible cliffs, diving from that seventy-foot rock. He’d needed the endorphins just to feel normal.
But even that hadn’t helped in the end.
Was the kid’s mother just going through the motions? She spent plenty of time in Lucas’s coffee shop, always on the phone or her laptop, conducting her business from the comfort of his overstuffed chairs. Something in her overly vigilant attitude made it seem she wasn’t ever at ease, though.
He’d gotten to know a good many of his customers, chatting with them on a regular basis, but Grey’s mom always kept to herself. No matter how involved she was with whatever she was doing, she remained on edge, contained.
No, he guessed she wasn’t comfortable, at least not here. Was she uptight at home, too?
The kid cleared his throat, drawing Lucas’s attention again to the espresso machines. “How much?” he asked.
“Well, that’s top-of-the-line.” Lucas tilted his head to the left, indicating another machine. “That one isn’t as pricey, but does the basics. It’s eighty bucks.”
“Eighty?” The boy bit his lip. “Do you have...some kind of...payment plan?”
“Not really, but I know the owner. I think we can work something out, probably even get you a discount,” Lucas said. Though why he felt compelled to help the kid, he didn’t know.
“Really?” Relief filled those brown eyes.
“Grey?” The kid’s mother moved toward them, espresso and smoothie in hand. Her gaze skimmed over Lucas, than quickly away. “We’ve got to go, honey.”
“Okay.” Grey took his smoothie and turned to leave with his mom, but then he ran back to Lucas. He stuck out his hand, held Lucas’s gaze and kept his voice low. “We’ll take care of the details next time.”
Lucas hesitated for half a second as his stomach tightened over the hope in the kid’s eyes. He had no business getting into some secret deal with the boy. A stupid espresso machine wasn’t going to do shit to solve the kid’s problems.
As the boy’s mother took a nervous step toward them, Lucas shook the small hand, feeling he was committing to so much more than helping Grey surprise her for her birthday or whatever, but knowing he couldn’t turn back now. “Deal.”
A smile split the boy’s face, sending a sense of guilt spiraling through Lucas. Why did he feel like he was promising something he couldn’t deliver?
* * *
GREY SIGHED as Paul Cooper plopped into the seat beside him later that afternoon. He’d been stoked about the espresso machine for most of the day, but Paul had a way of bringing him down.
“So, what does your dad do?” Paul paused only long enough for Grey to frown. “Mine is an attorney. He goes to court. He helps people. Does your dad help people?” Again, the breath of a pause before he continued. “I don’t get to see him as much as I’d like, but he brings me really cool stuff when he visits. Last week he took me to see the Falcons. It was so cool. Where do you go with your dad?”
Paul swatted at a stray fly that had found its way into the classroom. “He’s coming to see me next weekend and I get to spend the summer with him,” he said. “He has a place on the beach. Do you like the beach?”
Now he stopped and stared, waiting for Grey’s response. Grey stared back, his stomach tightening. He used to like the beach, but Mom said she didn’t believe in vacations anymore. Too much relaxing and peace and quiet.
He shrugged, saying, “The beach is cool.”
“My dad said if I wanted I could live with him at the beach all the time, but my mom said no way. It’s in Tybee, which is still Georgia, but Momma says it’s too far. Does your dad live with you, or are your parents divorced?” Again, the stare, while Paul waited, his eyes round.
My dad’s dead.
Grey gritted his teeth. He should just say it. It wasn’t true, but it could be. For all he knew his dad had kicked the bucket in the years since they’d last heard from him. If he told Paul his dad was dead then Paul would quit asking all these stupid questions. Grey opened his mouth, but the words refused to form.
The bell rang over the intercom, dismissing them for the day and giving Grey a welcome excuse to escape. He rose to gather his books. “It’s Wednesday. My aunt’s coming to get me. She freaks if I’m not up front when she pulls up.”
Paul nodded and said, “Tell your dad to take you to a Falcons game. Mine let me have a hot dog and popcorn and cotton candy and this ginormous soda. My mom never lets me have that stuff.”
“Yeah.” Turning quickly, Grey headed for the door.
Hurrying, he reached the front of the school in record time. Aunt Becca really did freak if she had to wait. As usual, she was one of the first cars in the pickup line. He slipped into the backseat beside his cousin, Amanda, who sat in her booster seat. Aunt Becca said he wasn’t big enough yet to ride up front. She’d lectured his mom on the danger of air bags lots of times, but Grey preferred sitting up front when he was in his mom’s car.
“Hi, honey,” Aunt Becca said and glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “How was school?”
Grey shrugged. “It was school.”
“Why is it dark under your eyes? You look like a raccoon.” Amanda peered at him through circles she made of her fingers.
“Amanda, that’s not nice,” his aunt said. Again, she glanced at him in the mirror. “You do look tired, Grey.”
Grey shrugged and sank into the seat as they pulled away from the curb. “I’m fine.”
“Can we go see Daddy at his work?” Amanda asked.
“Not today, sweetie. Daddy’s busy. We’ll go another time.”
Frowning, Amanda turned to look out her window. After a while, Grey glanced up to find her staring at him again, her eyebrows furrowed. He straightened. “What?”
“Where’s your daddy? How come I’ve never seen him?”
Crap. What was it with everyone today? “I don’t have a dad. He’s dead.”
The words came out sharper than he’d intended. Amanda’s eyes widened and her lip trembled. Grey glanced at his aunt, who’d turned in her seat to see him this time. Something like pity flashed in her eyes as she quickly shifted again when the light changed.
“He’s not dead,” she said. “He’s just not around.”
“He might as well be dead. He could be and we’d never know it.” Grey stared at the back of his aunt’s head.
She sat stiffly. “Honey, maybe we can talk about that later.”
“How come he isn’t around?” Amanda sounded scared, but she shouldn’t have been. Her dad wasn’t going anywhere.
“I don’t know. I guess he just doesn’t like us.” Grey couldn’t keep the bitterness from his tone.
His aunt shook her head. “The man’s an idiot. Sweetie, what did Miss Penny say about your counting tree today?”
“Is Daddy going away?” Amanda’s voice rose anxiously.
His aunt stopped at another red light and swiveled again in the seat, addressing her daughter. “No, Daddy’s staying with us,” she said. “We’ll call him when we get home and you can say hi.”
Amanda’s chin quivered, but she nodded as she settled into her booster seat. Grey stared out the window. Why didn’t his father want anything to do with him?
Sidewalks, driveways and manicured lawns flashed by, all part of the great suburb of Roswell, Georgia. Grey pressed his lips together. One thing was for sure. If his dad were a part of their life now, he’d hate it as much as Grey did.
The hum of the engine soon lulled Amanda into sleep. Grey relaxed as the classical music on the radio settled peacefully over him. Aunt Becca hummed softly. This is what his mom needed.
They’d had this before—normal—no rushing from place to place, cramming every activity they could into a day. Maybe Mom had never been a fan of classical music, but she’d at least listened to less acid rock and at a lower volume. They’d enjoyed periods of quiet. If she could experience this kind of peace again, there was no way she’d ever want to go back to running nonstop.
If only he could get her to slow down for a moment. A thrill of excitement ran through him. The espresso machine should do the trick. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? He’d surprise her with the machine on her birthday. Instead of running out every morning, they could have breakfast at home, quiet breakfasts that could set the tone for the day.
What a plan, and the coffee-shop guy—Lucas—was going to let him pay over time. He might have to snag a few more chores at his aunt’s and at home, but with his allowance, he should be able to do it. He settled back in the seat, content with his plan.
* * *
“I DID LIKE you said and I’ve been running nonstop all week.” Peg, one of Claire’s kickboxing students, puffed out a tired breath later that afternoon.
“Good, and you haven’t thought about the divorce?” Claire asked.
Her heart thrummed to the beat of the music in the background. She’d been looking forward to this lesson all day. She could only sit and work for so long before she craved physical activity. She’d be able to get a run in, too, later, while Grey stayed with his friend.
She’d dropped her son at school that morning, and then returned to the coffee shop. Her day had been filled with reviewing shipping bids and pulling together contracts. She rolled her shoulders, ready to get moving.
“Well, I haven’t given myself the chance.” The woman laughed, the sound like a nervous hiccup.
“Claire, want me to get them started with some warm-ups?” Bill, Claire’s sparring assistant, shoved his hands into protective pads.
She nodded, and then joined in. Nervous energy cranked through her. Too much caffeine and too little sleep was never a good combination, but was all she ran on most days.
Her body loosened with the repetitive movements. She’d trained long and hard for the past year, earning her black belt in record time. Now, she taught kickboxing two days a week on top of her day job, while Grey had soccer practice after school, or went to her sister’s.
After the warm-ups, Claire nodded to Peg. “Ready for some sparring?”
