The Prodigal's Return (5 page)

Wrestling open the rusted door of her car, she slid inside and stared at the picturesque world on the other side of the windshield. Fought the childish urge to pick up Mandy at Ashley's and drive away from Rivermist and the past that seemed incapable of letting her go.

She'd felt a shining moment of strength when she'd stood up to her father that morning. With a snort, she pulled out onto North Street and headed for the Cain place. Had she really grown up and grown stronger over the last seven years, or had she simply gotten better at faking it?

 

N
OW
E
NTERING
R
IVERMIS
t, G
EORGIA
, the faded sign read in the midday sun. The same faded, beaten-up
sign that had been there for as long as Neal could remember.

He was hands down the most
unwelcome
person to ever enter Rivermist. But somewhere between his apartment and the office that morning, he'd accepted the inevitable. He had to make sure his father was all right. It was time to settle things with the man and this place. So Stephen had taken the Martinez meeting solo after all, and Neal had settled for a soul-searching, two-hour detour down I-75 South.

A part of him hated Nathan for making him care this much again. Another, desperate part needed to see the old man so badly it made no sense. Nothing good could come from letting himself be sucked back into this place. He'd bet his restored '65 Mustang GT Fastback on it—one of the few luxuries he'd indulged in since regaining control of his trust fund.

Neal winced.

He'd been so certain staying away the last three years was the right thing. Most of him still was. But what if…

Damn.

There was no room in his world for
what-ifs
. He'd finally accepted his mistakes and he'd moved on. He'd been determined that as much good as possible would come from Bobby's death, his prison sentence and the lives both had shattered.
What-if
wasn't
going to make that happen. But second thoughts had hounded him the entire drive over.

Medical what-ifs—all likely candidates for a man his father's age—that Doc Harden hadn't confirmed nor denied. What the cranky old doctor
had
said repeatedly was that Neal should get his black-sheep self home and ask his father what was going on in person.

Neal shoved the transmission into Reverse. Gripping the steering wheel, he fantasized about banking into a steep turn and barreling back to Atlanta and the people he actually could help. Then with a curse, he yanked the gearshift back to Neutral and set the hand brake.

Nathan had refused any but the most basic medical intervention for whatever ailed him. Maybe Neal could talk his father into doing more, the doctor had suggested.

Maybe.

The one useless thing Neal despised more than
what-if
.

His life was about cold, hard reality. No more destructive emotions. No grand gestures. No time for wishing things were different or looking back to what had been. Now
maybe
had brought him to a screeching halt on the outskirts of town, unable to keep going for more reasons than just Nathan.

“Jennifer Gardner.”

There. He'd said her name, and it hadn't hurt a bit.

She'd no doubt moved away years ago. Gotten on with a life that could never have included him. She'd have missed him. Mourned for him. But she'd have moved on by now. And that's what he'd wanted for her, why he'd refused to answer the letters she'd written to him in prison. Thirty of them in all. Precious ties to the beautiful girl he'd once loved. Letters still kept in the back of his bedroom closet.

Unopened.

Unread.

Impossible to throw away.

With the discipline that came from years of practice, he refused to let her face materialize in his mind. But as always, the perfection of her crystal-clear laugh haunted him.

What if she was still in Rivermist…

With a curse, he revved the idling Ford engine, hating the rush of helplessness that came with the sound. Only a coward would turn back now, but that's exactly what his instincts told him to do.

Run.

Run just one more time, and leave these people in peace.

Flipping his hometown's welcome sign the bird, he revved the motor again. But he stayed put, same as before. Not able to move forward or head back.
The man he'd become didn't run. He fought until he found a way to get through whatever was facing him.

So why did the reality of finally being back here have him spinning his wheels and going absolutely nowhere?

F
ACING THE
C
AIN
kitchen door and the layer of rust covering its outer screen, Jenn mentally counted backward to her last tetanus shot. A ridiculous excuse for stalling, but now that she was here, she needed time. Just a moment to shut out Traci's bombshell at lunch and refocus on the next Hallmark moment of her day.

The rickety front door had been locked and no one had answered the bell. So she'd snaked around back through the overgrown yard she'd once turned cartwheels in, and the reality of the run-down place, of all that had been left broken for too long, hit home.

Broken.

What a way to describe the chasm yawning between her and this man she'd once loved like a father. The Cain and Gardner families had shared holidays, birthdays and summer barbecues. Winter ski trips. She and Neal had run with the church youth group while their parents chaperoned—a euphemism for keeping the youngsters out of trouble while the
adults acted like kids themselves. Their families had been inseparable, intertwining, planning for a shared future, right up until that night. That awful night.

A blast of wind tugged at her coat and her second thoughts. This wasn't about what they'd had, or what they no longer meant to each other. This was about helping Nathan Cain now. Spending a few minutes letting him know someone still cared. Just a few minutes. Was that too much to ask?

She pulled back the screen and knocked. After the fifth knock, her dread at seeing Nathan again gave way to concern. She tried to peer through the curtains covering the center window. But there was nothing to see but dust and shadows. Then, from out of nowhere, one of the shadows moved toward her.

She screamed, her bags dropping in a heap on top of her foot.

“Ouch!” She leaned on the door and massaged her foot through her tennis shoe.

Okay! She got it. She wasn't welcome here.

Then the lock clicked and the door jerked away. Her balance shifted forward. Squealing, she tipped into a mountain that smelled of stale beer and way too little personal hygiene.

“Damn it,” Nathan Cain grumbled as she righted herself.

He was dressed in the same filthy, torn jeans as the other night. No shirt, no socks, nothing to combat
the morning temperatures. His blond, gray-streaked hair stuck out in more directions than should be possible in a three-dimensional world. And his brown eyes, so dark they were almost black, were swollen and bloodshot. One of his grimy hands lifted to block the afternoon sun.

He still wasn't exactly sober.

“What the hell are you doin' here at the crack of dawn?” groused the man who'd once led Jenn's junior-high Sunday school class. “I've got a good mind to—”

“I—It's one o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Cain.” The stench of him made it difficult to speak. “I—I—”

“I, what?” He gave her a vague perusal, then a twisted smile. “Well, if it isn't little miss Jennifer Gardner. Thought I'd seen the last of you when you sprinted out of here weeks ago.”

“I—I wanted to bring a few things over….” She bent to gather the scattered groceries. “I mean, when I dropped you off, the—the kitchen, it looked so…”

Repulsive?

She stooped and reached for a box of macaroni and cheese. Nathan's hand made it there first. Hers recoiled before she could stop herself.

He crouched beside her and handed her the box.

“What business is it of yours what my kitchen looks like?” he asked in little more than a whisper, as if talking in a normal tone hurt.

“I—I just want to help.” She stood and put the distance she needed between them, a bag of store-bought guilt hanging from each hand. “Just trying to help a friend.”

“Friend?” He straightened, too, his knees cracking, his balance wavering, until all six foot three of him loomed over her. He half collapsed against the door-frame and crossed his arms over his chest. “What gave you the idea I needed help?”

He looked so much like his son even in his rundown state, Jenn caught herself staring.

“I almost ran over you the other night, Mr. Cain. And you didn't— You don't look well.”

“Well, isn't that neighborly of you to notice.” His stare reinforced his sarcasm.

Then an odd sort of confusion slipped through his antagonism. He inched backward into the house, his motions unnaturally slow. Gone was the grace and coordination of the man who'd once given the teenagers in town a run for their money on the basketball court.

“If you'll excuse me,” he said, manners from another time making a brief appearance. “I'm in the middle of something…something important.”

He began closing the door.

“But the groceries.” She shuffled the bags to one hand and laid a palm on the door, knowing that pushing him was a bad idea, but completely unable
to stop. “I was thinking I could cook you something. Eating might help you feel a little better.”

“I feel just fine. And you've got no business here.”

His soulless eyes flicked from her hand to the pitying frown she hadn't swallowed fast enough. She was staring at the closed door before she could say another word. Without a second thought, she turned the knob and pushed the door back open.

Nathan was standing in the middle of the kitchen, a can of beer in his hand. He didn't look a bit surprised at her intrusion. He didn't even look angry. Instead, he tipped the can back, happily on his way to inebriation.

“You've got no business here.” He drained his beer in the time it took him to reach her.

He attempted to shut her out again, but just keeping his hand from slipping off the doorknob seemed to get the better of him. Jenn had plenty of time to scoot farther inside before the door closed. Oblivious, Nathan barreled straight into her.

“Get the hell out of my house!” He jerked away. “Or I'll call the sheriff.”

“No, you won't. The sheriff's probably the only person in town you want to see less than me and my father.”

Mr. Cain had nearly killed Glenn Hamilton, the former sheriff's deputy who'd arrived at this same door eight years ago with a warrant for Neal's arrest.
That was the last time she'd stepped foot in the Cain house. The last time anyone from Rivermist had.

She juggled her shopping bags, searching for an uncluttered flat surface to set them on. Finding none, she spotted a relatively clean patch of linoleum beneath the wall-mounted phone and dropped the groceries to the floor.

“How can you bring yourself to eat in here?” The place was downright revolting.

“That's none of your business. Now get out.” He was no longer yelling, but his eyes had filled with every awful emotion he had a right to feel toward her.

“I can't do that.” Another glance around the room, and her resolve to simply drop off the food, reclaim her daughter and head home for a stimulating evening of worrying her heart out about Traci Carpenter evaporated.

The kitchen table seemed as good a place to start as any. She collected a stack of plates covered with half-eaten food and headed for the sink, moving a pile of empty beer cans to make room to work.

“Are you an alcoholic?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Not yet.” There was a long pause. “But I'm working on it.”

She'd been prying a burnt hamburger off a plate. Dropping it, she whirled to find him guzzling another can of beer.

“That's not funny! You're killing yourself.”

“Not exactly.” He saluted her with his can. “But close enough.”

“What are you saying?” Afraid she already knew the answer, her heart sank.

“I'm saying I want to be left alone.”

“Maybe no one else in this town remembers the man you used to be, but I do. And I can't stand to see you living this way, not when I can help.” She spotted a pyramid of prescription bottles on the counter across the room and headed toward it.

Nathan followed, stumbling precariously close to the stove. He caught himself and struck out again, marching toward Jenn as she read the name of a narcotic pain reliever off one of the labels.

“Put that down.” He yanked the bottle away and threw it across the room. A swipe of his hand sent the rest of the medicine flying. “I still have more money than God. If I wanted things clean, if I wanted a nurse, I'd hire one.”

“You are sick.” She peered closer, through the booze and the bluster. Her pulse pounded. “Is that what the drinking's all about?”

“I'm not sick!” he shouted, his voice sounding clearer by the second. He stretched himself to his full height, then he gifted her with a creaky bow. “I'm dying.”

“Wh-what?”

“I'm dying. And if I want to drink myself into oblivion, or live in a pigsty, or eat off the floor, it's none of your damn business. So kindly take your food and your condescend…condes… Take your pity, and get out of my house!”

Jenn walked back to the sink, choking on her denial. A myriad of images assailed her. The gentle, funny man she'd loved to listen to classical jazz with. The broken man who'd watched his son escorted from the courtroom in handcuffs. The threadbare bum who'd stumbled into her car just two weeks ago, calling for his wife's favorite cat.

Nathan Cain was dying.

Alone.

Oh, Neal. Where are you?

She picked up a crud-encrusted plate that had once been pristine bone china and began scraping, ashamed by the quick getaway she'd planned.

A stick of dynamite couldn't budge her now.

“Stop it!” Mr. Cain shoved the dish from her hands. It fell to the countertop and splintered. Shattered pieces tinkled onto the hardwood floor. “Now look what you've done…those are Wanda's favorite dishes…she's gonna holler to bring the house down when she gets home. You're gonna explain it to her, not me.”

He stepped through the broken china on his way to the refrigerator, his mildewed tennis shoes grinding the pieces into the floor.

Jenn picked up the shattered pottery and watched him pull another beer from the nearly-empty fridge, trying to get her head around the idea that the man was expecting his dead wife home any minute.

“Mr. Cain.” She tossed the remains of the plate into the trash, where the bits slid off the teetering pile of waste. “Don't you think—”

“Think what?” He looked her in the eye and popped open the can.

“Why don't I make you a cup of coffee?”

“Coffee's not going to fix what ails me, girl.” He chugged half the beer in one swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And don't think my brain's so addled you can sweet-talk me into your version of turning lemons into lemonade. I know my wife is dead, damn it! I may be drunk, but I'm not an idiot. Not yet anyway.”

“I don't think you're an idiot.” She reached deep for the social worker inside her. For the honesty and detachment that made her so good at her job. She gave the filth around her a pointed stare. “What I think is that this place should be hosed down by a Health Department SWAT team.”

Nathan's glower threatened to fade into a chuckle. Eyes a shade more interested than intoxicated watched her move about the kitchen. She picked up another plate and scraped a half-burnt frozen pizza into the sink.

“Better yet,” she reconsidered, “burning everything and starting over might not be a bad idea.”

The man's hoarse laugh warmed her with the sweet touch of yesterday.

“You always were a pistol, you know that?” He finished his beer and threw the not-quite-empty can toward the trash. It bounced once and hit the floor, dregs of alcohol splattering the grease-stained wall-paper as it rolled to a stop. “Get out.”

“I want to help you. I think in your heart you want to be helped. Otherwise, no matter how much you'd had to drink, you wouldn't have gotten into my car the other night. You wouldn't have let me in here today. And I'm about the last person in this town still willing to put any effort into caring about you.”

“Because you're my
friend,
right?”

“I'd like to be, yes.”

He glared at her, then headed back to the fridge for another beer. Popping it, he slid into one of the kitchen chairs as he drank.

“What are you doing here, Jenn?”

She sat, too, ready to own up to the truth.

“I was a part of Neal going to prison.” Flashes of Neal's heartbreaking smile replayed in her mind. Memories of how they'd learned to love each other, to find passion where there'd been only friendship before. “If it weren't for me, he never would have gotten into that awful fight with Bobby Compton,
and Bobby wouldn't be dead. And you wouldn't have had to watch Neal plead guilty to charges you couldn't stop. You wouldn't have been hiding away here ever since.”

“You responsible for my brain tumor, too?” Not a flicker of emotion colored his face. “Why do you want to buy more trouble? The way I hear it, you've had enough of your own to last you a lifetime.”

“Yes, I have.” The hollowness inside Jenn threatened to consume her. Without missing a beat, she shoved the emotions back and refocused on the job she had to do here. “But we're not talking about me. We're talking about you, sitting in this house, day after day, hating yourself and everyone else in the world. You used to be part of this community. Now no one even knows who you are. No one knows you're sick.”

“I don't care what anybody else knows. I haven't wanted a thing from this town for years.”

“That's good, 'cause I don't see anyone else beating down your door but me.”

“That's true enough,” he said with a wry chuckle. A spark of interest lit his bloodshot eyes.

She hid her smile of relief and played the game. “Let's just say I owe you. If you've got to hate someone for what happened to Neal, why not give yourself a break and hate me for a while. Put me to work, let me help you out around here. You can be
as grumpy and impossible to get along with as you like.”