Hearts at Seaside (Sweet with Heat: Seaside Summers Book 3) Page 9

  Pete pushed to his feet and headed back to the truck. “I’m here, Pop.”

  “I can’t find her, Pete. She’s gone.”

  His chest constricted. Alcohol brought his father’s longing for his mother to the forefront in the most painful of ways. “I know, Pop. I’m on my way.” He turned the truck around and headed toward his father’s house.

  Like a child afraid of the boogeyman, Pete had come to fear the sight of his father’s dark house. He longed for days gone by, when his parents’ home was lit up with life, and visiting meant an evening of a home-cooked meal and laughter.

  He mounted the stairs of his childhood Cape-style home. Joey’s nails tapped out a beat beside him on the porch decking. Pete had refinished the porch last summer in an effort to get his father to focus on something other than the loss of his wife. When he was just a boy, his father had taught him how to channel the ache and ire of his emotions into physical labor, but somehow his father had lost sense of that ability after his wife passed away.

  He closed the door behind him, and the silence of the old house pressed in on him. There was no need for him to call out to his father or to wander the house looking for him. He knew he’d find him in the same upholstered chair, an empty bottle beside him, a glass on the end table, and a single reading light casting an eerie yellow glow over his mother’s sewing table.

  The worn wood floors creaked beneath his heavy boots. Pete glanced into the dark living and dining rooms as he passed. They were, as always, neat and orderly with no hints of the nightmare that consumed his father after dark. He passed his parents’ bedroom and went through the kitchen, picking up an empty bottle from the counter and tossing it in the trash without allowing himself to think about what it meant. Dwelling on his father’s problem only made it harder to deal with.

  His mother’s sewing room looked just as it had two years earlier, when she’d died of an aneurysm while sewing a button on one of his father’s shirts. Pete had tried to get his father to sell the house, but Neil was a stubborn man, and he insisted on remaining in the house, forming yet another layer of guilt for Pete to wear. He’d secretly been relieved that his father didn’t want to sell the house. Every room held fond memories for him, too. Memories not just of a mother who’d doted on her children but had also scolded them with a stern look, followed up by a pat on the head and a hug. Oh, Peter. You know I love you, but you can’t do those things. Those things covered everything he’d ever done, from racing down the middle of the road on his bike to skipping school. He smiled at the memories. His mother had tried hard to raise them well, and she’d done a darn good job, only Pete got all of his father’s stubbornness and all of his mother’s softness, rendering him unprepared and, he worried, unable to fix his father’s troubles.

  He crouched by his father’s side. Neil’s jaw was agape, and his arms hung limply off the sides of the chair. Pete loved him so much he ached, and it killed him to know that his father’s love for his mother was what led him down this awful path. He lifted the black-and-white framed photo of his parents’ wedding day from his father’s lap and ran his fingers over their images. His mother had worn her hair short later in life, but in the photo, at twenty-four, the age his sister, Sky, was now, she’d worn her dark hair almost to her waist. In the picture, her hair was pulled over one shoulder, her wedding veil perched on the crown of her head. Her head was tilted back, a smile gracing her full lips and radiating in her big, round eyes. His father was looking at her with love in his eyes that danced off the photograph and tugged at Pete’s heart. He looked young and virile in his dark suit, with his hair slicked back.

  Pete set the picture on the end table and assessed his father. Alcohol was stealing all signs of the man he’d been. His father looked broken. Done.

  “Pop. Come on, Pop.” Pete nudged his arm.

  Joey licked his father’s fingers.

  Neil grumbled and shrugged away from Joey.

  Over the months, Pete had tried to pinpoint the most difficult thing about his father’s drinking. The first few times he’d found him, he’d thought the hardest part was getting him into the bedroom and settling him in for the night. Other times he’d thought it was living the lie, knowing that the people who knew his father had no idea the torture he endured after dark. But recently, he’d come to believe that the worst part of his father’s disease—and he had to remind himself often that his father did in fact have a disease—was his own inability to right his father’s course.

  That thought was what coated him in guilt. He wasn’t sure if his thoughts were selfish or not. Now wasn’t the time to ponder it as he hoisted his father’s body from the chair, wrapped his arm over his shoulder, and secured his strong arm around his body, taking his full weight as he brought Neil through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bedroom.

  His father’s head lolled back. “Good boy. Bea? Where’s Bea?”

  Pete laid him on the bed, removed his father’s shoes, and placed them by the closet.

  “Bea?”

  “She’s not here, Pop.” He moved his father toward the center of the bed and placed two body pillows against his father’s sides. He’d purchased the pillows last year, when he finally realized that the reason his father was falling out of bed was that he was reaching for his mother. The pillows did the trick. They seemed to fool him into feeling like she was nearby. Neil hated blankets, but Pete always felt better if he had them just in case he got chilly. He pulled the blankets up to his father’s waist and then lowered himself into the rocking chair in the corner of the room.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his father’s breathing. This is what his life had become—a cycle of work, fearing his father’s calls, and fearing the day the calls stopped and his father’s breathing silenced forever.

  Joey stretched on the hardwood floor by his feet and yawned. Pete reached down and ran his fingers over Joey’s head. He’d never thought of himself as lonely until he’d taken Joey into his life. Caring for her made Pete realize how much time he spent alone. He enjoyed taking care of Joey. Who wouldn’t enjoy unconditional love from an adorable puppy? Pete knew that, to some extent, Joey filled a gap in his life that his father had left behind. He and his father had been close before his mother died. His father had taught him how to restore boats, how to sail, and how to play football. He’d taught each of Pete’s siblings different things. He catered to their likes and dislikes. Matty, three years younger than Pete, was into academics, and his father would bring home nonfiction books that kept Matt enthralled for days. Hunter and Grayson, now twenty-nine and twenty-six, were into hunting, fishing, and of all things, steel and metalwork. His father had taken them to Plymouth to learn from a steelworker there. Sky loved anything music and arts related. He smiled at the memory of his father cursing as he built a small art studio in the backyard. The eight-by-ten structure that Sky was forever disappearing into, and that he and each of his brothers had snuck girls into throughout their teenage years, still stood in the backyard.

  Pete had always been protective of his siblings, which was something his father was proud of. He’d learned from the best. Neil had always been their family’s fierce protector. Not that there was much to shield them from in the small town of Brewster, Massachusetts, but as Pete grew older, he realized that his father had protected them from the silent troubles of life. Years when the store wasn’t doing well and they barely had enough money for groceries and when his mother had surgery when they were young and he’d told them that she was going away to take a class for a few days. He hadn’t ever wanted his children to worry about things they couldn’t control, which was probably why Pete protected Sky from their father’s drinking.

  If only their father felt compelled to protect them now, from his own demise. If only that need could be strong enough to make him change.

  If only.

  His phone vibrated, pulling him from his troubled thoughts. He withdrew it from his pocket and saw his broth
er Matt’s name flash on the screen.

  “Hey, Matty,” he said quietly.

  “Pete, how’s it going? How’s Pop?” Matt lived in New Jersey, and out of all of his brothers, Matt was the most reasonable and open to talking about their father.

  “Funny you should ask. I’m here with him now.” Pete went into the living room so as not to wake Neil. Joey walked sleepily beside him, then plopped onto the living room floor.

  “Can you talk, or should I call back?” Matt knew the score with their father, as each of their siblings did, with the exception of Sky. They were all willing to help pay for rehab, and they’d gone to bat to try to convince their father to get help, to no avail. Pete knew they felt guilty that he was the only one who lived close enough to care for his father, and Matt called often, as if it might help. Only Grayson seemed to have a chip on his shoulder over his father’s alcoholism, and at times, his frustrations shot like spears directly at Pete, but Pete could handle it. He even understood it. There were times he’d like to shake some sense into his father. If Pete were the type of person to lash out, he’d probably do so at one of his brothers, too, just as Grayson lashed out at him. Because in the Lacroux family, unconditional love was a given, even when it hurt.

  “He’s flat-out. I can talk.” He paced the small living room. The walls held a trail of family pictures, depicting the fun they’d had over the years. The couch and rocking chair were the same ones that had been there when Pete was young. No frivolities here, either, other than the curtains on the two front windows, handmade by his mother a few years before she died. The house wasn’t fancy, but it was home.

  “How are you holding up?” Matt’s voice was deep and empathetic. He was the most careful of Pete’s siblings, always weighing risk to benefit of whatever he did. Pete pictured him sitting behind the desk in his study, wearing a pair of trousers and a dress shirt open at the collar. He had the same wet-sand-color hair as their father and deep-set eyes with lashes so long and thick they looked fake.

  “Pretty good. Can’t complain.”

  “Dude, I’m not Grayson. I’m not going to give you a hard time about not getting him into rehab. It sucks having to be there and pick up after Pop. You don’t have to minimize it. The man needs help, and you’re a saint for sticking around.”

  Pete exhaled loudly. “I’m anything but a saint, and Grayson should give me a hard time. Pop does need help.”

  “True, but cut yourself some slack. He’s a stubborn old goat. One day he’s going to wake up and realize what he’s doing, and we all know that we owe you, Pete.”

  Matt spoke as if Pete were doing a miraculous thing by caring for their father. But Pete didn’t feel like he was doing even half the job he should. He made a mental note to push his father once again the next time he saw him. He couldn’t make progress if he didn’t try.

  “You don’t owe me anything. If you were here, you’d do the same thing. What’s going on with you, Matt?”

  “Not much. Mom’s birthday is next weekend, and I know how hard that is for Dad. Are you ready for that? Do you want me to fly into town for the weekend?”

  “No, the less disruption the better. If last year is any indication, he’ll drink himself into a stupor and sleep, pretty much like every night.”

  Matt sighed. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know. By the way, Sky was talking about coming out next summer to stay with Pop. You okay with that?”

  Their younger sister was always making plans, but the summer to Sky could mean eight weeks or three days. Sky was eight years younger than Pete. When he’d left for college, she was just a kid, and after graduation, when he’d gotten his own place to live, Sky had been only twelve years old. It had been forever since they’d lived in the same house, but Pete had kept a close eye on her throughout the years. He’d protected Sky from his father’s drinking for two years, and if he had his way, he’d protect her from it until it was no longer an issue—if that time ever came.

  “She’s all over the map. I’ll just be good and sure to get Pop straightened out before then. It’s a year away, so who knows how many times she’ll change her mind between now and then.”

  Matt laughed. “Yeah, she said she’s thinking of making a go of things in Provincetown. Heaven only knows what that means. Tattoo artist, art, music, animals. P-town has everything she loves.” Matt sighed. “Boy, it would be nice to be twenty-four again.”

  “No kidding. I’d love to see her, so whatever she decides is fine, but she’ll stay with me, not Pop. She’ll go ape over Joey.”

  “Yeah, you might want to rethink letting her come out. She might never leave. How’s the boat coming along?”

  Talking with Matt was a nice distraction from both his father and Jenna. “It’s coming along. I don’t have much time to work on it, though.”

  “I know. Sorry Pop falls on your shoulders, Pete. We can try another intervention to get him into rehab. I don’t know why you fight that so hard.”

  “Sometimes I don’t, either.” But he did—the fallout after their last intervention had nearly irreparably severed their relationships with their father. Pete couldn’t begin to fathom the shape his father would be in if he were left to his own devices without someone to get him into a safe place at night. Pete’s biggest worry was that his father might just continue drinking until he killed himself.

  He pushed the thoughts away and finished explaining. “When he’s sober, he fights the idea of rehab tooth and nail, and when he’s not, there’s no talking. Another intervention will make him feel like it’s all of us against him again.”

  “With him, Pete. With him.”

  “Yeah, I get it. If you guys want to do that, be my guest, but don’t leave me with the mess. Someone has to commit to staying in town so when he flips out and doesn’t end up in rehab, one of you can be here to deal with it. Short of that, I’m going to keep talking to him when it feels right to do it and hope he comes around.”

  “I hear ya. I’ve got to run, but, Pete, remember, you’ve got to have a life, too, and taking care of Pop is no life.”

  Pete rubbed his temples. “I’ve got him covered, Matty. Thanks. Good to talk to you.”

  For a long time after his call with Matt, Pete sat in the living room thinking about his father and his siblings, and finally, himself. It didn’t take him long to realize the answer to his earlier question about staking claim to Jenna. Pete would never turn his back on his father, and Jenna deserved a better life than being tied to an alcoholic’s son. He had no choice but to remain in the friend zone.

  He wasn’t sure that was even an option anymore.

  Chapter Eight

  BY SATURDAY MORNING Jenna was fit to be tied. She hadn’t seen Pete since he’d stormed out of the library, and she’d spent Thursday and Friday vacillating between calling him to explain and feeling like what she did was none of his business. She’d pouted and whined and tried burying her feelings in sweets, but nothing calmed her nerves. Even talking it out with Bella, Amy, and Leanna hadn’t helped her figure out what she should do, or if she should do anything at all. Her phone vibrated and Charlie’s name appeared on the screen.

  “Ugh.” Something was seriously wrong with her. Charlie was strong and sexy, interesting, and, probably by any other woman’s standards, a really good kisser. Most women would swoon over his looks and fall in love with his attentive nature—any woman except Jenna, that is. He’d called her several times while he was out of town, and Jenna had tried to remain focused on those calls, but her mind had drifted to Pete. She knew that was a horrible sign, and she should have uninvited him on the boat trip, but she wasn’t good at breaking up, and doing it over the phone seemed rude.

  She answered his call, hoping he might cancel their plans.

  “Hi, Charlie.”

  “Hey. I just wanted to let you know that I might be five minutes late to the marina, but I’ll be there. Don’t worry.”

  Did he have to be so considerate? “Okay, no problem. If you can�
��t make it, just let me know so I can tell Dane.”

  “I wouldn’t let you down like that. I’ll be there.”

  Of course you will.

  After their call, she plopped onto the couch and closed her eyes. Why can’t I just feel something for him? Then this would be easier.

  Darn Bella for being right. Pete was the man she loved, and probably the only man she ever would.

  “Knock-knock,” Bella said as she walked through the door wearing a blue sundress over her bathing suit. She narrowed her eyes and pointed at Jenna. “Let’s see…You’ve got on your least-favorite bikini, your favorite cutoffs, and your favorite earrings. But your face tells me that the yellow bikini was worn for a reason and the other stuff was an afterthought. Does that mean you didn’t break up with Charlie?”

  Jenna met her gaze but didn’t say a word. She knew she didn’t have to.

  “Jenna! You promised you were going to do it last night.” Bella sat beside her on the couch. “What are you thinking?”

  “I was thinking that it would suck to be broken up with over the phone.”

  “The man thinks you want to scale him like a mountain,” Bella reminded her.

  “Climb him like scaffolding,” Jenna corrected her.

  “Whatever. What happens after the boat trip when he’s ready to do you and you’re ready to dump him?” Bella exhaled loudly. “And what happens when you’re stuck on the boat with both Pete and Charlie?”

  Jenna shot upright. “What?”

  “Leanna told me this morning that Pete’s going. I didn’t remember him saying he was that night at the Beachcomber, but apparently, he and Dane swapped numbers to talk about boats and…” She shrugged.

  “Bella, this is terrible. I can’t go. How can I even face Pete? It’s him I want to climb like scaffolding, and he stomped away when he saw me sucking face with Charlie.” Jenna paced. “This is bad. Very, very bad.”

  “You could call Charlie and cancel. Tell him you’re sick or something.”