Ethan pulled in a breath to call his grandfather back, but the slump of Harlan’s shoulders made Ethan swallow his words. He decided to let the man get a good night’s rest. News of Delaney Hart’s mission was something Ethan could tell Pops tomorrow.
He waited as his grandfather worked his way up the stairs and stepped into the house, providing a path with the truck’s headlights. Pops’s painfully slow movement tonight made discomfort rise in Ethan’s belly and a million what-ifs gnaw at the back of his mind.
“Soon, Pops,” he murmured as his grandfather disappeared inside. “You can rest soon.”
The living room light flipped on. One light in a sprawling farmhouse that had, in Ethan’s youth, been a hub of activity and happiness and more love than he’d been able to absorb.
Now, in the wake of his grandmother’s death and Ethan’s worst mistake, Pops lived alone, all but abandoned in the middle of acres and acres of land he farmed with unstable, seasonal hired help.
Ethan swung a U-turn and started back toward town along the quiet, dark country road. But instead of the calming effect the setting normally had on him, Ethan’s thoughts twisted through his mind, crisscrossing and turning until they returned to the original thought, just to start over again, like a crazy figure eight.
He stepped in the door of his parents’ home in the hills of Wildwood right about the time his family was starting dessert.
“There he is.”
His mother’s voice reached him in the foyer, where he unlaced and toed off his work boots before walking through the living area to the dining room. Judging by the other voices, his uncle and cousin Adam were also here. Which meant Aunt Ellen was here. Ethan winced internally before his mother came around the corner with bright eyes and a welcoming smile.
“I was just wondering if you were going to make it.”
“Hey, Mom.”
He gave her a hug and let her take his arm as he walked her back to her chair. As soon as he turned the corner into the dining room, he was hit with four pairs of eyes. His father, brother, uncle, and cousin all managed some form of hello. But the fifth person at the table, his aunt Ellen, was focused on making patterns in the whipped cream of her strawberry shortcake with a fork.
And here we go.
Ethan heaved a sigh, working to make it sound relieved rather than troubled. “The gang’s all here.”
“Hey, Ethan.” Uncle Wayne stood and reached across the table to shake Ethan’s hand. “Bring any of your newest creations with you?”
“Hi, Wayne. No, sorry. I didn’t know you and Aunt Ellen would be here. Next time.”
Wayne nodded. “It’s about time you started up your own brewery, kid. Say the word, and I’ll back you.”
Ethan smiled for his uncle, but if manipulation was something he wanted to get rid of in his life, Wayne and Jack were people that had to stay out of his business. “Nice offer. Thanks.”
Ethan would have to be blind to miss the bruised crescents beneath his uncle’s eyes. And if Wayne looked ragged around the edges, Ellen looked . . . ghostly, in body and spirit. Most people thought Ellen and Ethan’s mother, Beth, were twins at first glance. They both had petite builds, delicate features, the same hazel eyes, and hair that had once been blonde now dyed and highlighted to a silvery gold. But Ellen was markedly pale. And the hollows in her cheeks were clear indications she’d dropped weight she couldn’t afford to lose.
He paused beside Ellen and bent to wrap his free arm around her shoulders in a gentle hug, then kissed her head. “Hey, Auntie.”
She didn’t respond, but she lifted a hand to pat his.
Ethan pulled out his mother’s chair and scooted it in for her as she sat, then pressed a hand to her shoulder and rested his chin on her head. “What’s for dinner?”
“There’s a plate for you in the oven, honey. Fried chicken, spicy roasted green beans with the candied bacon you love, and buttermilk cornbread waffles.”
“Damn, that sounds good.” He straightened and met his father’s gaze across the table. “Sorry I’m late. Dad loaned me out to the Fischers.”
One corner of Jack’s lips twitched in a dry smile, which translated into annoyance with Ethan’s subtle complaint.
He turned into the kitchen, grabbed a hot pad, and pulled his plate from the oven as his father asked, “How’s their pool house coming along?”
“Just fine,” he said, returning to the table. “Definitely not something I needed to look at on a Sunday.”
“Your schedule’s so full. He told me he’d have to wait three weeks for a routine inspection.”
“Jack,” his mother scolded softly. “Ethan deserves a day off, too.”
“He had one. Yesterday.”