The Siren (22 page)

He shrugged his shoulders. “You can have my phone switched to your number. I won’t be needing it for a while.”

I frowned. “You’ll need it while you’re still in the States,” I said. “I’ll get a new one when we get home from Texas. I have insurance on it, so it’s not a big deal.”

My dad picked up his sandwich and put it back down again. “I forgot you’re leaving us,” he said, looking at Warren. “I don’t like that at all.”

I kissed Dad’s cheek. “I don’t like it either.”

I pulled up a new group text message on my phone and put in Nathan’s phone number and Adrianne’s.
Here’s a spooky Halloween story for you: Abigail Smith is my biological MOTHER.

Adrianne called first. “You’re kidding me?” she asked without saying hello when I answered the phone.
 

“Nope. Dad figured it out. Get this, she used to work with my parents at the hospital in Florida,” I told her. “And she hasn’t aged a day. Apparently angels don’t age.”

She laughed. “
You
age. I’m going to have to start covering up gray in your hair soon if you don’t cool it with all the intergalactic drama you seem to get yourself into.”

“That’s the freaking truth.” I sighed. “How was physical therapy today?”

My phone beeped with an incoming call. It was Nathan, so I ignored it.
 

“You just found out your biological mother is an angel and you want to hear about me doing leg lifts and squats?” she asked.

“Of course I do. You’re still more important.”

“Physical therapy was fine, but I want to talk about you. What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I think Warren and I are going to try to fly to Texas tomorrow and meet with her. She asked me to come so we can talk in person,” I said.

“The bitch dropped you off outside a hospital as a newborn. She could at least fly to you.”

I laughed. “I hadn’t really thought about it that way. She did offer to buy me a plane ticket.”

My phone beeped again, and again it was Nathan.

I sighed. “Nathan’s blowing up my phone. I’ll call you later.”

She laughed. “Bye, freak.”
 

I swapped calls on my phone. “I was on the other line. You know I’ll call you back,” I told him without a greeting.
 

“You can’t send a message like that and then not answer your phone!” He was shouting. “How did you figure it out?”

“I didn’t. My dad did,” I said. “Her name was Sarah when he knew her. They worked together at the hospital in the eighties. Isn’t that the craziest thing you’ve ever heard?”

“It’s right up there with everything else I’ve ever heard from you, Sloan. How is it possible she’s the same person? She would have been maybe two years old when you were born,” he said.

I sat down on Warren’s lap at the counter. “Nathan, weren’t you the one who originally asked how any of this is possible? Why are you still asking that question?”

“Good point,” he said. “Are you going back down there?”

“We are going to try and go tomorrow. You wanna come with us?” I asked.

“As intriguing as it sounds, some of us have to go to work to pay the bills,” he said.
 

“It’s just for the weekend,” I told him. “We’ll be home in plenty of time for you to go to work on Monday.”

“Three’s a crowd, babe,” he responded.

Warren leaned his mouth close to the microphone. “I heard that. You’re not allowed to call her
babe
, Nate.”

“Hi, Warren,” Nathan said. “Sloan, let me know how it goes.” He raised his voice. “Maybe you can come over when you get back and tell me about it over dinner and a bottle of wine!”

“I’ll bring the dessert!” Warren replied.

I rolled my eyes. “I’ll talk to you later, Nathan.” I laughed and disconnected the call.

The doorbell rang. I pushed myself up and crossed the room, grabbing the giant bag of candy on my way to the front door. When I pulled the door open, a small girl and her even smaller brother were dressed as an angel and a devil respectively. “Trick or treat!” they sang together, holding up their plastic pumpkin buckets.

A chill ran down my spine.

Truly, Halloween would never be the same again.

17.

For the first time—and probably the last time—I was out of bed and getting dressed before Warren the next morning. At four a.m. he walked into the bathroom in his boxer shorts, sleepily rubbing his eyes. I had already showered, dressed, and put on my makeup.
 

He squinted at me. “Did I wake up in the wrong house?”

I brushed my long hair up into a ponytail and wound an elastic band around it. “I couldn’t sleep last night.”

He shook his head and pointed his toothbrush at me. “I think the stress lately is taking its toll on you. Are you cracking up on me?”

I put my arms around his waist as he brushed his teeth. “We are so close to answers, Warren! Aren’t you excited?”

He paused, watching me carefully in the mirror. “I’m more terrified of you right now than I am on normal mornings when you’re hateful and sadistic.”

I hopped up on the edge of the counter and swung my boots off the side as he finished brushing. “I think I should get a reward for beating you out of bed.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t count if you never went to sleep. Besides, I don’t get rewards when I sleep in with you.”

I winked at him. “Yes, you do.”
 

He laughed. “Touché.”
 

I kicked my heels against the cabinet beneath me. “Are you going to pick me up at the office since I’m closer to the airport?”
 

“Yes. Are you sure it won’t be a problem for you to leave at noon?” he asked.
 

“I’m sure. Most everyone leaves early on Fridays anyway.”

He nodded. “Good. We need enough time so I can check my guns at the baggage counter.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why do you need guns this time? This is a social visit, not a man hunt.”

He packed up his travel case. “Babe, you should go ahead and get used to the fact I’m going to be carrying heat no matter where we go. It’s what I do.”

I sighed. “It just seems like a big, unnecessary hassle.”

“Was it worth it when I took Billy Stewart down in the woods?” he asked.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “That was different.”

He reached in the shower and turned the water on steaming hot. “Hope for the best, but have your guns locked and loaded for the worst.” He leaned over and gave me a minty kiss.

I drummed my nails on the counter and smiled as he dropped his shorts and stepped under the water.
 

He wiped the fog off the glass shower door and looked at me. “Should I charge admission for this?”
 

I bit down on my lower lip. “You’d make a killing if you did.” After a moment of enjoying the show, I pushed myself up. “I’m going to go make breakfast.”

He shook his head. “We didn’t remember to pick up cereal at the store yesterday.”

“I’ll cook something then,” I said.

“Oh God. Does your dad have a fire extinguisher handy?”

I laughed. “Shut up!”
 

The house was still and quiet downstairs. Dad was still sleeping. I started a pot of coffee, then yanked open the refrigerator and immediately regretted we hadn’t made a list before going shopping the day before. I wondered what Dad was going to eat while we were gone. I pulled out the carton of eggs and carried it to the stove.
 

The cabinet above the cooktop was where mom kept her small, brown Rubbermaid file box full of her recipes. I was sure the box was older than I was. Inside were hundreds of index cards, most were yellowed with age. I found the breakfast tab and searched for scrambled eggs. I pulled out the entire stack of cards and couldn’t find it anywhere. Frustrated, I slammed the cards back into the section.
 

Then I noticed another tab labeled “For Sloan.” I carried the cards over to the kitchen island and sat down on a barstool. Dad’s bottle of Tennessee Honey was still on the counter and significantly more empty than it had been the day before. I pushed it out of the way and pulled the index cards from the section.
 

My mother’s handwriting, the familiar curve of her S’s and the peculiar cursive style of her E’s, brought tears to my eyes. I stroked the paper with my thumb like I was touching her very hand. The first card was the detailed recipe for sausage gravy with step-by-step instructions she knew I would need. The second was for made-from-scratch biscuits. The third was for her roast beef, and the next one was for her secret-recipe mashed potatoes. There was an asterisk by the ingredient—cream cheese. I dropped my face into my hand and cried.

After a moment, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up at my father’s sympathetic smile. He leaned down and gave me a side hug. “She wrote them down because she knew you were never coming to learn in person. She figured someday you might want to cook for someone else.”

I wiped mascara on my knuckles and covered my dad’s hand with my own. I sniffed and glanced up at him again. “There aren’t any recipes for eggs.”

He nudged me with his arm and smiled. “Come on. Your old man can handle that one without a recipe card.”

He pulled a glass bowl out of the cabinet and picked up the eggs.
 

I snatched the carton right back from him. “I can crack them.”
 

“OK. Go ahead and crack eight into the bowl. Warren strikes me as a man who can eat more than two,” he said with a chuckle.

I smiled over at him. “I think Warren could eat the whole dozen.”
 

“Well, then crack the whole dozen,” he said as he walked to the refrigerator.

As I worked on the eggs, he carried butter and sour cream back to the stove. I shot him a quizzical glance. “Sour cream?”

He nodded. “Your mother swears a tablespoon of sour cream makes them fluffier.”

When I finished cracking the last egg, he put a huge dollop of sour cream into the bowl. He handed me the salt and pepper. “Sprinkle them with just a little.” After I added the seasoning, he handed me a large metal whisk. “Now, whip them around till it’s mixed and frothy.”

He pulled out a large frying pan and put it on the stove. He cut off a hunk of butter and dropped it in the pan.
 

“How much butter are you putting in there?” I asked.

He grinned and winked at me. “The more, the better.”

I wagged a finger at him. “I don’t think doctors are supposed to say that.”
 

He laughed as he turned the stove up to just higher than medium heat. He tapped the temperature dial. “Don’t turn it too high or you’ll burn them. Wait until the butter starts to melt, then swirl it around to coat the bottom. Once it sizzles a tad, pour the eggs in and keep stirring till they’re done.”

Dad poured us two cups of coffee while I followed his directions. I dumped the contents of the bowl on top of the melted butter and grabbed a wooden spoon. When the eggs were solid, he turned off the stove.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.” He kissed my forehead. “Now put some bread in the toaster and we’ll have a real, bona fide breakfast.”

I turned around and Warren was leaning in the doorway to the kitchen smiling. He winked at me before coming over and pouring himself a cup of coffee. “I was prepared to call the fire department,” he said over his shoulder.

“Shut your face,” I said.
 

Dad put a jar of peach preserves on the table along with the butter. “What time does your flight land in Texas?”
 

“Around six,” Warren answered.

I dished out three small plates full of scrambled eggs, giving Warren the largest portion. “Dad, are you sure you’re going to be all right here for the weekend?”

Dad sat down at the table with his newspaper. “Sloan, I really appreciate your concern, but I am a fifty-five-year-old renowned physician. I think I can handle a weekend alone in my own home.”

I flashed him a coy grin. “Two days ago I had to show you where the toilet paper is kept.”
 

He nodded and pushed his reading glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. “And now that I know where it is, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

I kissed the top of his head and sat down next to him.
 

He tasted the eggs and nodded with approval. “They’re perfect.”
 

Warren swallowed a forkful. “Best eggs I’ve ever had,” he agreed.

I laughed and launched a napkin across the table at him.
 

Dad’s expression melted into seriousness. “Sloan, are you holding up all right? You have been hit with a lot of huge, life-changing stressors in a very, very short period of time.”

I sighed and sipped my coffee. “I try not to over-think it, Dad. That’s the only way I’m still functioning. If I stop long enough to consider the whirlwind that has become my life, I’m afraid I would be sucked up in it and spat out somewhere in the stratosphere.”

He pointed his fork at me. “Well, be sure to find some time to relax. That much stress—good or bad—will wreak havoc on your body if you aren’t careful. You might wind up making yourself very sick.”

“I’ll be fine, Dad,” I insisted. “When I get home, life will revert to the same old same old. I’ll go back to work cranking out press releases and preparing the county newsletter, and I’ll be having dinner with you on Mondays. Maybe we can even tag team the cooking duty.”

He smiled. “I would like that.”

* * *

Instead of staying at the Hyatt on the River Walk again, we checked into a hotel closer to Abigail’s neighborhood. I called her from the room once we got settled, and she answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Sloan. I wanted to let you know we’re in town. We’re staying at the Holiday Inn Express near your ministry.”

“Wonderful.” She sounded anything but wonderful herself. “How was your trip?” she asked.

I sat down on the bed. “It was uneventful, which is always good when you’re on an airplane. Are you all right? You don’t sound well.”

“I’m fine. Just a bit of a headache from traveling,” she said. “And I’m swamped trying to get a number of our girls transferred to our home in Houston. Tomorrow, however, I have blocked out the entire day for us. Would you like to come over to my house around lunch?”