Redemption Road: Jackson Falls Book 5 (Jackson Falls Series) Read online

  “Maybe that’s part of the problem. Uncle Buster was so sweet, and so—”

  “Invisible?”

  “—ineffectual, and Hilda so clearly wore the pants in the family. Something royally screwed Teddy up.”

  “Maybe it was all those drugs he did as a teenager.”

  “Teddy did drugs?”

  “Jesus, Casey, don’t be so naïve. Teddy smoked dope like there was no tomorrow. God only knows what else he did.”

  Casey raised her eyebrows. “I am not naïve. And you know this because?”

  “I know it because I used to smoke dope with him.”

  Her sister let out a monumental sigh. “You realize that’s not the answer I was hoping for.”

  “Too late to do anything about it now. Don’t worry, I haven’t touched that stuff in years. And don’t tell me you never—”

  Casey shook her head vehemently. “Never.”

  “Seriously. Ever?”

  “That’s what I just told you.”

  “How the hell did you manage to survive all those years in the music industry without at least trying drugs? They must have been all around you, all the time.”

  “I just never had any interest. And I had strict household rules. Nobody used drugs on my property. Not if I knew anything about it.”

  “Wow. Only you could say that and mean it. My sister, little miss goody-two-shoes.”

  “I am not a goody-two-shoes. I am, however, enjoying the irony of knowing that Teddy, who did a ton of illegal drugs when he was a kid, is now a cop, arresting other people’s kids for doing illegal drugs. There’s something in me that likes the circularity of that.”

  “Circle of life, baby.”

  “So you’ll do this? You’ll go with me to visit Aunt Hilda?”

  “What do you think, Emma?” She juggled the baby on her hip. “Should Auntie go to visit that mean old woman?”

  “Colleen…”

  “Fine. It doesn’t sound like I have a choice. So, yes, I’ll go with you. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  Harley

  The last time he’d cut his hair to please a woman, Nixon had been in the White House, and his momma (Harley’s, not Nixon’s) had lined up all three Atkins boys in the kitchen the first Saturday night of every month. While she looked on with approval, Big Earl took out the clippers and gave them all buzz cuts, assembly-line style, starting with the oldest and working his way down the line to the youngest. Funny, he hadn’t thought of that in years. When he’d been living in New York, he’d gone every other Tuesday to a chic Midtown salon to make sure he fit the part of the up-and-coming young associate in a respected law firm. Since he’d left that life behind and moved here to be, of all damned things, a dairy farmer, he hadn’t given much thought to his appearance. After all, his herd of Holsteins didn’t notice his daily grooming—or lack thereof—and it was highly unlikely that Billy Bradley gave a damn whether or not his hair was a gnarly mess when he showed up, half-asleep, in the milking parlor at four-thirty every morning. He cleaned up acceptably for social occasions. Considering the dearth of young, single women in Jackson Falls, it wasn’t as though he was looking to impress anyone. Most of the women he saw at the IGA were backwoods mamas in polyester pants.

  But after Colleen Berkowitz told him to cut his hair, he’d looked in the mirror, really looked at himself for the first time in months, and realized how closely he resembled a barbarian.

  Not, he reminded himself, that he cared what Colleen Berkowitz thought. But even in a rural enclave such as this one, a man had to be presentable. As he pulled away from Shelly’s Cut-n-Curl, the closest thing to a barbershop in this cultural wasteland, he caught a glimpse of himself in his rearview mirror. He had to admit that the cut looked great. Short and neat, his dark hair parted on the side and slicked back to reveal the widow’s peak he’d inherited from his Grandmother Atkins. There was nothing here for the Ice Princess to criticize.

  The ancient wall phone in the kitchen was ringing when he came into the house. He caught it in mid-ring, propped the receiver between shoulder and ear so he could remove his coat, and said, “Meadowbrook Farm.”

  “Mr. Atkins?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Paulette Thibodeau, the school nurse from Jackson Middle School.”

  Panic, preposterous in its swiftness and intensity, rose like a flash fire. “Has something happened to Annabel?”

  “Everything’s fine, but Annabel had an incident this morning. She started her period while she was in math class. She didn’t know what was happening, and when she saw the blood, she panicked and ran to my office.”

  A sharp pain sprang to life behind his right temple. “Shit,” he muttered.

  “I would have assumed that by this time, her mother would have talked to her about this.” The woman’s voice held a clear note of censure. He should recognize it. He’d used that same tone often enough in the courtroom.

  Flatly, he said, “Her mother’s not in the picture.”

  “I see.” But it was clear that she didn’t. “And you haven’t had this conversation with your daughter?”

  “I—no. It never occurred to me.” He mentally kicked himself for sounding like a chauvinistic, insensitive idiot. It wasn’t as though he didn’t know how this stuff worked. He’d studied biology in college. He’d been married for more than a decade. But he was a man. Menstruation wasn’t the kind of thing he gave any thought to. And if he had given it any thought, he, too, would have assumed that at some point, Amy would have discussed the topic with their daughter.

  “She’s twelve years old, Mr. Atkins.”

  He didn’t know how to respond to that, bit back the retort he wanted to make. “I realize that,” he said instead, not wanting to create an adversarial relationship with this woman who was only trying to do her job.

  “I explained that it’s perfectly normal, and I got her fixed up with something. The rest is up to you. She’s lying down in my office right now. I’ve given her permission to leave school for the day. Can you come pick her up?”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Jackson Consolidated Middle School, built a decade ago, sat on a plot of land at a diagonal to the high school. Both schools drew students from several area towns. At this time of day, right after lunch period, the corridors were deserted, the kids undoubtedly fighting to stay awake after filling up on too many carbs and too little nutrition. Harley strode through the lobby, marched up to the front desk, and asked for Mrs. Thibodeau’s office. He was directed down a small hallway to a wooden door with a sign that read SCHOOL NURSE. He knocked once, then opened the door without waiting for a response. A middle-aged woman, attractive in a tightly-coiled, antiseptic way, looked up from behind the desk. He cleared his throat and said, “Mrs. Thibodeau?”

  “Mr. Atkins.” Her nostrils flared, and the way she was looking at him made him feel like he’d been summoned to the principal’s office for bad behavior. “Right this way.”

  The nurse opened an inner door, and there, on a narrow cot, lay his daughter, her back to him, her face to the window, where the morning sun had been blocked by ancient, heavy brown shades.

  “Annabel,” Mrs. Thibodeau said, in a gentle tone that was the polar opposite of the way she’d spoken to him. “Your dad’s here.”

  Annabel rolled over, stared at him dully, then got up, put on her coat and picked up her backpack. Without speaking, she marched past him and out the door. He and the nurse exchanged glances.

  “Thank you,” he said, and hustled to catch up with his daughter.

  “You okay?” he said, once they were in the truck and safely buckled in. Silence. He tried again. “Look, this is a perfectly normal thing. Every woman goes through it.” More stony silence. He could feel sweat gathering under his arms. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  After that, he gave up. Pushing her would only make the situation worse. He knew she was mortified, and why shouldn’t she be? It
didn’t matter that his wife’s defection had forced him to be both father and mother. No twelve-year-old girl wanted to discuss such an intimate topic with her father.

  When they got home, Annabel stormed up the stairs to her bedroom and slammed the door. With a heavy sigh, Harley followed. He rapped softly on her door. No response. He tried the knob and found it locked. “Annabel,” he said.

  “Go away.”

  “Let me in. I just want to talk to you.”

  “No.” After a moment, her stereo came on, and he gave up. He’d thought the brassiere debacle was bad, but this was ten times worse. He was in so far over his head with this situation that there was no way he’d ever shovel himself out. A mere man, he couldn’t possibly understand what his daughter was going through. There was only one solution to his dilemma: He needed a woman.

  Back downstairs, he took out the phone book and looked up the number. Dialed the phone. It rang once, twice. Halfway through the third ring, he heard a click, and that soft, lilting voice said, “Two Dreamers Records. How can I help you?”

  He could think of a number of things she could do to help him, but now wasn’t the time to bring them up. “It’s Harley,” he said. “I realize you’re in the middle of your work day, but I have a situation here with Annabel, and—” He paused, rubbed his temple. “I could really use some help.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation before she said, her voice rife with concern, “Is Annabel okay?”

  “Yeah. She’s fine. Well, she’s fine physically. It’s woman stuff. I’ll explain when you get here. That is, if—”

  And Colleen Berkowitz said, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Colleen

  It was brutally cold in this godforsaken wilderness. As she ran from the car to the house, braving the winds that swept up off the river and slammed into her with such force she could barely breathe, she wondered why she hadn’t just stayed in Florida. Then she remembered. She’d been left penniless by those vile, spoiled brats Irv had sired, and her only refuge was this shithole town. Home, sweet home. She stood on the porch, debated knocking, then decided she had just as much right to be here as he did. More, probably; she’d lived most of her life in this house. He’d only been here for a few months. She stamped the snow off her boots and walked in without knocking.

  Upstairs, there was music playing. At least she thought it was music. With that funky dance beat, it was difficult to tell. The dog looked up from her cozy bed beneath the kitchen table. Recognizing her, Ginger wagged, bounced to her feet and raced across the kitchen, jumping on Colleen with such force she was nearly knocked on her ass.

  “Ginger, down!” a man’s voice boomed out. The dog reluctantly complied, skulking back under the table, while Colleen tried to pull herself together, straightening her clothes and surreptitiously checking for broken bones. “Damn that dog,” he said, striding across the kitchen to her. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, and then she looked up and saw him, and her mouth fell open. He was a vision in jeans and a blue Oxford shirt, neatly trimmed dark hair parted on the side in a razor-sharp line, concerned eyes the color of the Gulf Coast waters in summer, sculpted cheekbones and just enough of a widow’s peak to give him a slightly devilish appearance.

  Of their own accord, her knees went weak.

  Good God. Had she never really looked at this man before?

  Trying to pull herself together, Colleen opened her mouth. Wet her lips. Said the first words that came to mind. “You cut your hair.”

  “You told me to. Contrary to what my former employers think, I am capable of following instructions.”

  She felt herself flushing crimson as all those hormones that had been lying dormant sprang to full-fledged, furious life. She cast about for something to say, but the words just rolled on past her like miniature, roller-skating gremlins. She reached out and captured one, pulled it close enough to read it.

  “Annabel,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound like a complete idiot.

  “She’s upstairs,” he said, “having withdrawn from all human interaction. I’m hoping you can make some headway.”

  She took a breath to still her trembling, nodded, and unzipped her coat. “What happened?”

  “She started her period. In class. And apparently, Amy never discussed it with her. She saw all the blood and went running to the school nurse. Presumably with the assumption that she was dying.”

  “Oh, no. That poor kid. I believe I’m not impressed with your ex-wife. Let me give it some thought. Hmm. No, I’m definitely not impressed with her. What the hell is wrong with that woman?”

  “Sex. That’s what’s wrong with her. That was her downfall. Not with me, of course. Sex with other people.”

  “She ought to be lynched.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me.”

  She’d recovered enough to take off the coat, to bend and unzip her boots. She handed him the coat, left the boots standing neatly by the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Déjà vu. The banister still felt the same, worn smooth by generations of Bradley hands. The stairs still squeaked on the seventh tread. The wallpaper in the upstairs hall was the same, nodding yellow-and-white daisies on a white background. Light and airy, Mama had said when she hung that paper, standing on an old, paint-splattered wooden ladder. How old had Colleen been the year that Mama hung the wallpaper? Nine? Ten? Life had still been happy then. There’d still been love between them, laughter around the supper table. They’d still been a family. That was before Bill got married, before Travis left home, before Casey eloped with a handsome, blue-eyed stranger.

  Before it all came crashing down on top of her.

  She followed the music to the last door on the left. Her old room. There was a certain rightness to it, one she didn’t dare to explore too closely. Colleen paused, knocked lightly on the door. No answer. She knocked again. “Annabel,” she said. “It’s Mrs. Berkowitz. Can I come in?”

  There was no response. But after a moment, she heard a fumbling at the lock, and the door opened. “You can come in,” Annabel said. “But not my dad.”

  ***

  “Mrs. Thibodeau tried to give me some ‘Congratulations, now you’re a woman’ crap.” Annabel scowled. “That’s all it is. Crap.”

  “Utter bullshit,” Colleen agreed. “Can I try a taste of your cherry vanilla?”

  Annabel slid her bowl across the table. Colleen scooped a spoonful and ate it. Closing her eyes in ecstasy, she said, “I think I just died and went to heaven. You want to try mine?”

  “Sure.” Annabel studied Colleen’s banana split with her lips pursed and her brow knotted, looking so much like Harley that it was hard not to stare. The girl carefully scooped up a generous spoonful of vanilla soft-serve, pineapple topping, and fudge sauce. “Thank you,” she said.

  “My pleasure.” After a lengthy discussion about female issues, they’d made an emergency trip to the local pharmacy for supplies. Then she’d remembered that the Jackson Diner served ice cream. Nothing could bond two women better than ice cream.

  Annabel propped her chin on her hand and looked thoughtful. “It really sucks to be a girl,” she said.

  “Sometimes, it does,” Colleen said. “But not always. Sometimes, it’s a pretty sweet thing.”

  “Does this mean I have to start doing girl stuff? Because I don’t want to do girl stuff. I want to keep on playing basketball and field hockey. I don’t want to have to wear pantyhose and makeup. And dresses. I hate dresses.”

  She well understood Annabel’s concern. Growing up on a farm with two older brothers, she and Casey had both been tomboys. “It doesn’t mean anything of the kind,” she said. “You don’t have to start doing girl stuff until you’re ready. Maybe you’ll never be ready. That’s your prerogative.”

  “And boys. I just don’t care. They’re so juvenile.”

  “At your age, they are.” Colleen broke off a sliver of banana with her spoon and ate it. “To be hones
t, some of them never outgrow being little boys. But the good ones do. And when you find a good one, and you’re ready, then you’ll be glad you’re a girl.”

  “Was your husband a good one?”

  “Yes.” She smiled, thinking of Irv. “He was.”

  “It must be hard, being widowed. Probably a lot like being divorced. That was so hard on my dad, because he wasn’t the one who wanted the divorce. But he’s doing better now. It was good for him to get away from New York.”

  Was this kid really twelve years old? Colleen didn’t believe she’d been this mature at twelve. Then again, she’d led a sheltered life up to that point. She’d never been out in the world. Her childhood had been idyllic. Nothing bad had happened to her yet.

  “I’ve been widowed,” she said, “and I’ve been divorced. And you’re right. They both suck. It sucks to wake up every morning and realize you can’t breathe without this person by your side. You just have to get up and put one foot in front of the other. Keep on moving and keep on breathing. That’s about all anyone can do.”

  Annabel nodded with a wisdom beyond her years. “I think that’s what Dad did. And he’s so busy with the farm that I don’t think he has much time to think about my mother.”

  Colleen nodded. “Keeping busy helps. It doesn’t make the pain go away, but it helps when you can focus on something else, even if it’s only for ten minutes at a time. That’s how you survive that kind of loss. Ten minutes at a time. Listen, Annabel…give your dad a break. He’s been through a lot. So have you. The two of you need each other. Don’t push him away.”

  Annabel idly stirred the lumpy, congealed mess that was all she had left of her ice cream. “I know. But it’s so humiliating. I mean, he’s my dad. He’s not supposed to know about stuff like this.”

  “Honey, he’s a grown man. He already knows about stuff like this. It’s not something to be ashamed of. I know this isn’t something that matters to you at this point, but later on it will. If women didn’t have periods, we wouldn’t be able to have babies. That’s a simplistic explanation, but it’s also true. So you see, it’s actually a miracle.”