At least as far as his son was concerned. He’d have to remember to thank Principal Hawkins for encouraging Ryan. It had made a difference.
After Ryan left, Marcus had rattled around in the house until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He wondered for the millionth time why he’d let his thirteen-year-old son talk him into buying the place.
Still, it was starting to feel like his, and in reality, Marcus didn’t really care where he lived. Home was an abstract concept for him.
He did like the fact that the coffee shop, as well as several other stores and services, were within walking distance. He’d gotten into the habit of walking to the shop a couple of nights a week, even a couple of mornings. It was a nice change.
As he waited for the barista to make his drink, his phone rang. He thumbed the screen to see who was calling. Not Ryan, please. He wanted his son to be having fun, not checking in with his dad.
His sister Anne’s number filled the display. “Hey, sis.” He was always cautious when his sister called. He loved her, but she wasn’t the type to call and chat. She always had news, was always on a mission.
“Hey, yourself. Thought I’d check and see if you’ve heard from the folks,” she said.
Yep, that was Anne, and there was the preplanned topic of discussion. “When you say, heard from them, what exactly do you mean?”
“Did they tell you what they have in mind?” She was impatient, which was also normal. He was used to being treated like a younger, less competent brother.
“No. Last I heard, Dad was still overseas, and Mom was heading to another fundraiser.” The story of his parents’ life.
“Then consider yourself warned. They’re heading your way.”
“What do you mean, my way?”
“Dad’s home. Has been for a couple weeks. Last night at dinner, he announced that he was taking Mom to Texas to check on you two. They already bought airline tickets.”
Marcus groaned. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Well, you’d better make time. At least I saved you from one of their surprise visits.”
Marcus closed his eyes, trying to gather his patience. James Skylar did whatever he damned well pleased. He’d show up on some relative’s doorstep and announce he was there to visit for a few days. How many times had they done that when Marcus was a kid? And the big intimidating man that James was—he wasn’t someone people could ignore. They sure as heck didn’t close a door in his face. He’d probably break it down.
Not that that had ever happened. Most of the relatives had actually seemed happy to see him.
Marcus wasn’t like his relatives. “When are they getting here?” he asked, resignation in his voice.
“Not sure. Soon, I’d guess. You know Dad. He found the cheapest, most inconvenient-for-you flight.” She laughed.
“Thanks for the heads-up.” There was a long silence. “How’s life with you?”
Anne was silent, as well. Marcus knew better than to read anything into it. Anne wasn’t a big talker, and she thought out what she was going to say. “Good. Busy, just like you. I’m actually looking forward to their being gone for a bit, sorry.”
Marcus smiled. “You’re not sorry.”
“No, you’re right. Since Dad’s been home, he’s—”
“Difficult?”
“That about covers it. He’s talking retirement. Seriously. Mom might shove him out of the plane somewhere over Kansas if he isn’t careful.”
“How did their marriage ever survive this long?” Marcus recalled the angry words that were frequent in his childhood.
“Dad being gone so much is probably the only thing that saved them. All bets are off now.”
“Yeah.” He looked around, realizing the barista had set his drink on the counter. He grabbed it and headed to find an empty table. “Will you survive? What about Lance?” His brother-in-law usually did fairly well with their parents. Mom loved him.
Anne sighed on the other end of the line. “Even his patience is thin.”
That wasn’t good. Lance was the most laid-back, tolerant person Marcus had ever met.
“And you sent them to me?”
Anne laughed. “Hey, I didn’t send them. This was all Dad’s idea. I didn’t do much to dissuade them.” She went silent again. “Mom’s worried about you, you know.”
Not like he hadn’t given her cause in the past. “I know. I’m doing fine. Really.”
“Would you even tell us if you weren’t okay?” Anne whispered.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay. Ryan’ll tell me.”
“Smug doesn’t become you.” He liked it, though. This persona he recognized. “Anne?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t go all big sister, okay? I love you anyway.”
Emotion wasn’t something his family had ever been comfortable with, and he felt that discomfort come through the phone now. He didn’t care. He’d learned its value.
“Gotta go. Keep me posted. Love you, too.” The last came out in a hasty whisper as she disconnected the call.
Marcus pocketed his phone. Pleased with himself for setting his sister on edge in a good way, he set his backpack on a small table in the corner. The knot of pressure between his shoulder blades intensified. If his parents were coming to visit, he couldn’t waste any time tonight.
Turning to sit, he noticed a woman seated near the window. She looked vaguely familiar. He frowned, watching her as he absently opened his backpack. She was reading a hardcover book that was most definitely fiction. Her long golden hair kept tumbling down, and every so often, she’d fling it back over her shoulder.
Was that—? Just as he sat, she looked up. Their eyes met. Recognition dawned in her eyes. She smiled.
“Marcus, right?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah. You’re—”
“Addie Hawkins. Ryan’s principal.”
“I thought I recognized you.” It was nice to satisfy that nagging itch of not being able to identify someone.
“That’s okay if you didn’t.” She laughed. “I’m out of my natural habitat. Even the students who see me every day do a double take in public.”
He didn’t think the double take was from recognition. She really was lovely. He halted that train of thought. “Sorry to interrupt your reading.” He nodded toward her book, and she turned the page to continue.
The fact that there was no ring on her left hand didn’t escape his notice. The fact that he noticed shocked him. He hadn’t noticed that on anyone else in ages. He shook his head. That wasn’t why he was here.
He set his own book on the table. Not fiction, though. This book was also part of the reason he’d come here. He didn’t want to read it at home. Alone. In a big lonely house. This was an old book, the spine thin, worn. Not from many hands touching it in a library or bookstore. No, this was a hand-created work, done as a labor of love—a memoir by a man who’d served in Vietnam at the same time his father had. There was a big difference, though.
This man had been a foot soldier, a private on the ground. His father had been high above, watching from