Something Like Family Read online

  It occurred to him that perhaps he’d started collecting junk as a tribute to Millie. He’d never thought of it before. But that first night he’d left the house—because the memories and the sadness were too much—he’d found the auction barn. It’d been like a church calling an old sinner home. It was a lighthouse hailing a lost ship. He’d stepped inside, and when the first lot of things that no one wanted was taken out a back door, he’d asked what would happen to the items. The guy beside him told him they’d be tossed into a garbage truck and hauled to the dump.

  The chair squeaked as he moved, readjusting his old bones on the broken-down cushion. Beside the windowsill sat a drinking glass, its contents long gone, but a ring of calcium and other minerals etching the lower quarter of the glass.

  All these years. All these long years, and they had a grandson out there, alive. “I hope he’ll like me.” Tuck was surprised by the desperation in his voice. “Wish you were here instead of me. You’d know what to do.” Millie always knew what to do.

  If he tried hard enough, he could see her standing there in the corner, blue paint on her cheek, admonishment on her lips. Tuck Wayne, what have you done to my sitting room?

  “Nothing, Millie. Left it just the way it was.”

  So I see. It’s incomplete, Tuck. You could have at least finished painting it.

  “No. As long as it’s like this, you’ll keep coming back to get after me.”

  Stubborn old man.

  “Our grandson is coming, Millie. I know in my heart he’s going to.”

  Then finish the room.

  Tuck leaned forward in the chair waiting for Millie to say more. But she was gone. When the squares of sunshine through the window turned into long strips of shadow, he left and closed the door behind him. Tuck used the new doorknob he’d purchased and installed. The key to the lock hung from a chain on his neck—not unlike the dog tags he’d worn so long ago. Before going downstairs, he removed the chain, the shiny key between his fingers. Instead of finishing the room, Tuck locked the door.

  Tampa, Florida

  If anyone had told Rave he’d be knocking on the hotel room door of an attorney two days after the announcement that he had a long-lost relative, he’d have said they were crazy. But here he was.

  Phil Ratzlaff, the attorney, now dressed in khaki pants and a T-shirt, looked surprised to see him. A smile grew on his face, and he motioned for Rave to come in while he dabbed at his mouth with a paper napkin. The room smelled like Chinese takeout. He spied the greasy bag on the edge of a small table. “Mr. Yong’s?”

  “Yes. My cardiologist is going to kill me, but Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, I’m eating this at least once a day while I’m here.”

  Rave hovered just inside the doorway. His stomach roiled. Too much beer—he’d had to buy it himself since his roommates made no mention of his birthday, and then with the fiasco at the café, he felt like everything in his gut was attempting a reappearance. Plus, he hadn’t eaten much since yesterday, but what was there wasn’t happy.

  The attorney pointed a pair of chopsticks at him. “You OK? You look a little green around the gills.”

  “Yeah. I guess being fired doesn’t agree with me.”

  The attorney had started to eat but replaced the small, square box on the table. Concern edged his eyes. “You were fired?”

  Rave tossed a nod behind him. “Just now.”

  The man slid a set of glasses onto his nose. “Was there justification for the dismissal?”

  “He thinks so. The guy I beat up the other night came to him with a complaint. In the end, Marco decided I wasn’t good for business.”

  Phil Ratzlaff folded his arms over his chest and used an index finger to brush at his own cheek. “Is that where you got the black eye?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m sorry about your job.” He looked at Rave over the top of his dark-rimmed glasses. “Have you changed your mind about Tuck’s offer?”

  Rave dropped into a nearby chair. He was tired. So tired of everything. And the fact that Ashley was keeping Daniel from him cut him to the root of his being. Daniel was the only bright spot in his world. “I just . . . have questions.”

  “Fire away.” Ratzlaff went back to feasting on Mr. Yong’s orange chicken.

  Rave could tell the man was trying to make him feel comfortable, keep things friendly, social.

  Ratzlaff paused at the small fridge. “Beer?”

  “No.” He’d spew for sure. “I’ll take a water.” He was dehydrated after work and his party for one. And everything was rolling around in his stomach like he’d ridden the Mad Tea Party Tea Cups at Disney. He’d been there once. Lived in Florida, not more than an hour away and had only been to Disney World once. But most of his friends had never been, so he felt privileged. His mom had scored some tickets. Or maybe stolen them.

  You could be a kid at Disney. A kid all day long, not wondering if there’d be a place to sleep that night or if there’d be food. There was an abundance of food everywhere, it seemed. You only had to walk to the table as people left and sit down. They’d stayed at a cheap hotel down the road from the park. It had been one of the best days of his life with his mom. Except the Tea Cups. Those made him puke.

  “Why is he doing this? What does he get out of it?”

  Ratzlaff shrugged one shoulder. “He gets to know you. You favor him, Rave. That blond hair. ʼCourse his is white now, but I’ve known him for a long time. He had your same personality at your age. I was just a kid back then.”

  “Is he like rich or something?”

  Rave knew the instant Ratzlaff went on alert. It was there, in his light-brown eyes. He chuckled. “No. He’s not rich.”

  “Rich enough to send his attorney to get me. And unless you happened across my name on Facebook—which I know you didn’t, ʼcause I’m not on there—he hired someone else to find me.”

  “How do you know he didn’t hire me to find you?” This was becoming a battle of wills.

  “Big-shot attorney. Two hundred dollars an hour. Nah. Private investigators can be locked in for not much more than that a day. How long were you looking for me?”

  “A couple weeks. And I’d do well to make two hundred an hour. Rave, your grandfather is my friend as well as my client. You might say I’m protective.”

  Rave snickered. “So, the dude sent to collect me is now warning me not to take advantage of the old man?”

  Ratzlaff raised his hands and dropped them. “Guilty as charged. Tuck’s a good man.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “It’s true.”

  Rave rubbed his hands on his jeans. “Maybe.” He stood to leave.

  “No more questions?” Ratzlaff followed him to the door.

  “For now.” Rave stepped out into the hot, windy night. Across the palm-tree-lined road, he could see the lights of the café. Less than a mile from here, the salt breezes of the Gulf of Mexico rushed the shoreline.

  Behind him, he heard Ratzlaff counting. “Three, four, five.” He held a wad of cash out to Rave.

  “What’s that?”

  “Tuck asked me to give it to you. No strings. He said that if you decide to come, that’d be more than enough for a plane ticket or gas in your car. But regardless, he wanted you to have it. Do with it what you want. Of course, he’s hoping you’ll come. At least for a while.”

  Rave chuckled. Right. He was hardly family pride material. He was a young man more concerned with survival than making something of himself. Not that he wouldn’t like to be more than he was. But life was already hard, and there was little time to chase dreams. “Yeah, if he meets me, he might change his mind.”

  Ratzlaff reached out and placed a hand on Rave’s shoulder. He would have moved away, but the stack of cash was between them, and it was too much to resist.

  “I know how things must have been for you when your mom was around. I know you’ve been on your own since you were sixteen or seventeen, and she abandoned you here. And fr
om the state it sounds like she was in, I understand why you assume she’s dead. Fact is, son, if you could change anything for her, wouldn’t you go back and do it?”

  “I’m not like my mother.” But the comparison burned.

  “I’m counting on that.” Ratzlaff handed him the hundreds and closed the door of his room.

  It was more money than Rave had seen in a while. He fanned the bills, realizing that with them there was another one of Ratzlaff’s business cards and a slip of paper with an address. “Barton, Tennessee.” Rave shoved it all in his pocket and drove straight to Walmart. He bought Daniel the Ninja bicycle he’d asked for last Christmas. They’d pooled enough cash to get him a secondhand Schwinn, but Rave had nearly taken the entire thing apart to repair all the rust spots and fix the broken spokes. It was a nightmare. But Daniel had been happy.

  After wheeling the Ninja to the front, he hit the food aisles and bought Daniel every kind of food he loved, from cheddar potato chips to fresh carrots. That kid could eat carrots until his skin turned orange. He bought him the newest superhero movie and a card. He wrote inside, “Sorry for everything, Ash. Take care of Daniel. Please make sure he knows I still love him.”

  After loading the groceries into his car, he laid the bike on its side and rubbed it against the asphalt until it scuffed the paint. Daniel would never notice or care. But the damage would keep Ashley from returning the bike for cash. As much as he’d always cared for her, Ashley had a way of working the angles. Working people. He loved her, but sometimes he wondered if she was missing a sensitivity card.

  Then, he drove to her place in the hopes he’d get to say one last good-bye.

  But less than an hour later, he was on the road, heading out of town and fighting back the tears. Ashley had refused to let him see Daniel.

  CHAPTER 3

  Barton, Tennessee

  “Here, Tuck, let me get you a fresh cup.” Becca Johnson took his mug into the kitchen of Sustenance, the local coffee shop, and dumped the cold brew in the empty side of the sink. She’d been watching Tuck for a few minutes as he’d stared into the cup but had only taken a couple of sips. Not like him to let his coffee get cold. Tuck preferred his coffee hot. Trini liked her coffee scalding, and Mrs. Fletcher—who always took time to drop into the coffee shop on Fridays—liked her coffee lukewarm. Becca took notice of these kinds of things.

  Tuck reminded her of her late grandfather, and that made Becca miss the man who’d taught her how to climb trees and whittle, how to make sarsaparilla tea and the best grilled cheese sandwiches in the world. Sometimes she felt so much older than she was. Like she’d lived two lifetimes. Sometimes she felt like a twenty-something. But not as often as she probably should.

  Alexandra, Becca’s boss, watched her dump the mug. She was hunched over the steaming, soapy water on the other side of the sink scrubbing dishes. “Hey?”

  Becca chuckled. Alexandra took it as a personal insult when people didn’t appreciate her coffee. “Tuck. Not sure he’s feeling well. He doesn’t seem himself.”

  Alexandra brushed her upper arm over her sweat-glistening forehead. Clumps of suds ran toward her elbow. “Well, since it’s Tuck. By the way, have you decided if you’re going to the concert with me?”

  Becca drew in a long breath. “I appreciate the invitation. Honestly. But, no, I don’t think so.”

  Alexandra propped her hip on the stainless steel sink. “It’s going to be awesome.”

  Becca smiled. Nodded—pleasantly, noncommittally.

  “Becca. You’re in your early twenties, but I can’t drag you away from the coffee shop long enough to have some fun. It’s unholy.”

  Becca laughed. Of all the people she knew, concert-going, ripped-jeans-and-T-shirt-wearing, forty-year-old, self-proclaimed rebel Alexandra was not the likeliest authority on what was holy. “I’ll think about it.”

  Alexandra fancied herself an outsider. Even though she’d been in Barton for nearly seven years and not only did she know everyone, she knew their business. Except Tuck. He kept to himself. It wasn’t that Tuck was standoffish. He just didn’t share his private life. “Go take care of Tuck. If he’s not feeling well, maybe you can brighten his day.”

  Becca returned to his table with the mug filled to its rim with fresh, hot coffee, Alexandra’s blend called Life’s Too Short, Drink Good Coffee.

  “Thank you, Becca,” Tuck said, rubbing a hand over the springy hairs on his head.

  “You want cream?” Why she found it impossible to leave him alone, she couldn’t say. But there was something different about Tuck today. A far-off loneliness hunched his shoulders, and a pinched frown corrugated his brow.

  “Nah. Cream’s for sissies. But thanks for the offer.” He gave her a smile, along with the kind of dead-on look that hinted at a bit of respect. Probably because she helped Trini with housework on Sundays and because Tuck and Trini were friends. Becca liked older people. She always had. She’d been close to her grandparents while they were living, and now that they were gone, she’d surrogated those relationships. Trini was her stand-in grandma. Tuck . . . well, he’d be good grandpa material if he ever opened up.

  Just as she was turning to leave his table, he caught her by the wrist. The motion seemed to startle him as much as her, and when she offered a tentative “Yes?” he released her.

  Tuck’s gaze went from her face to the store window. Outside, downtown Barton was busy with shops and people and dogs on leashes. Tuck’s voice was soft when he asked, “Do you believe in second chances?”

  Such a strange question for a seventy-something man to ask a twenty-something girl. Becca pulled out the seat across from him and sank into it. “I want to believe in second chances. If there aren’t any, how are we ever supposed to learn? So, yes, I do.”

  Tuck’s contemplative eyes roamed the street beyond the window. He nodded gently. “I do, too. Believe in them, that is.”

  Maybe that was why she was drawn to Tuck. They were both people desperate for a second chance. It wasn’t that Becca didn’t like her life. She did. She loved Sustenance, loved being the smiling face that greeted the patrons, loved knowing she was helping her family. But sometimes she wondered if there was a “for Becca” aspect of her life. Something that was hers and hers alone. So much was outward-based. Sometimes she longed for that one thing that was inward. Still, Becca felt honored that Tuck had shared something personal. He’d chosen her, and that made her heart happy. Even if she didn’t have a clue what they were talking about. She reached behind her to a counter where a container of freshly made whipped cream sat. She held it over his mug.

  “Don’t ruin it,” Tuck warned.

  “Trust me.” With that, she squeezed the handle and crowned Tuck’s coffee.

  He scowled and took a drink. Bushy brows shot up, and then his throat made a deep, growling sound. “That’s pretty good.”

  Becca replaced the container. “Not just for sissies.” That was all the conversation that passed between her and Tuck.

  Later that night, as she and Alexandra worked to clean the coffee shop, Becca propped her arm on the top of the mop. “Have you ever met someone that you were strangely drawn to?”

  Alexandra brushed a hand through the spikes of her pixie haircut. “Every time I meet a hot single guy.”

  Becca waved a hand in her direction. “No. Not like that. Someone you feel like you’re supposed to watch out for?”

  Alexandra’s cheek slanted into a wry grin. “Besides you?”

  Becca went back to mopping.

  “Don’t pout. Who do you think you’re supposed to watch out for?”

  Being asked the direct question made Becca uncomfortable. But she was in it now. “Tuck.”

  Alexandra moved across the coffee shop to face her. “Then he’s got a great guardian angel. Now go change clothes. We’re going to the concert.”

  All day Tuck had fought the summer flies that slipped into the house each time he left the door open and the screen door propped. When the las
t of the sunrays disappeared beyond the mountainside, he closed the door. Once, when he and Millie left the front open after dark, an owl flew into their house. Right through the front door and landed on the mantel, pretty as a picture, and ready to call the place home. With broom in hand, they’d finally shooed it out. After that, Tuck didn’t leave the front door open after dark. Today he’d cleared and cleaned and was ready for a quiet evening when he heard the knock on the door. He rose slowly because everyone who stopped by knew it took him a few seconds to get his body in gear.

  Tuck opened the door to find a young man on the other side. The sandy hair and dark eyes were unmistakably Wayne blood. Tuck tried to breathe, but there was no air. His grandson. This was his grandson. His hands fidgeted at his sides because he didn’t want to scare the boy, and though Tuck wasn’t a hugger, he itched to reach out—just to make sure the boy was really there. It was late. Maybe he’d fallen asleep in the recliner, and this was just a dream. He’d been exhausted after spending the bulk of his energy working and clearing a path in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Tuck smacked his hands across his craggy face and felt the sting. Definitely awake. “You . . . you came.” The young man on the other side of the door—almost a reflection of Tuck himself at a younger age—rejuvenated Tuck’s entire being. The exhaustion slipped away, draining like water through a sieve. Excitement surged into him. How to begin? What to say? He steadied himself by clasping a fidgety hand on the door frame. “I’m Tuck.”

  The boy chewed his cheek. “Rave.”

  “Come in. Please, come in. I have some stew in the icebox. Made it last night. You must be hungry.” He continued to study the planes of the young face before him.