A Brand New Ending (Page 15)

Outside his door, Ophelia cocked her head and listened to the frantic tapping of the keys. He’d been completely engrossed for the last three days. Occasionally, he stumbled out, looking a bit confused, and left the inn. He would return an hour later with a variety of food and drink—especially coffee—and disappear back into the room.

Oh yeah, he was in the zone.

She remembered the same exact look years ago, except back then when he emerged it was always to drag her into bed. He’d silence her pleas to talk with his wicked lips and talented tongue until orgasms became more important than speech.

She steeled her shoulders and walked down the stairs. Distance was crucial. At least he’d stopped testing their agreement by constantly asking to talk, citing an important thing he desperately needed to tell her. Each time, she’d blasted him with an icy stare and walked away.

Damned if she was going to give him an opportunity to try and bond with her.

Of course, his hurt expression only made her more pissed.

Why did she care about his feelings? He was the one who forced his presence back into her life. Hell, she was glad he was back to his old workaholic routine, isolating himself and refusing to engage with anything that didn’t have to do with his career.

Or anyone.

Cursing softly under her breath, she swore it didn’t matter any longer.

It was good to be reminded of how he truly was. She was determined to treat him like a guest who’d requested complete privacy and no interruptions to his vacation.

But he’s not any guest, her inner voice whispered. He still affects you. Crack open the door, and he’ll push right through.

“Nope, not this time,” she shot back.

Liar. His presence alone is beginning to change you. You think about him all the time. You haven’t slept since he arrived.

“Shush. I have no time for you.”

God, her habit of talking to herself had to stop.

The doorbell interrupted her crazed, one-sided conversation. She assumed it was probably FedEx with the cleaning supply delivery. She went through so much she bought in bulk.

She yanked the door open and stared in shock at the person on her doorstep.

“Hello, Ophelia.”

He was old. Battered-looking. Years of hard drinking and hate had done their job well. His decline was evident in the harsh lines of his face, slightly bloated cheeks, and stooped posture. His gray hair was much thinner, but still present. But within those familiar forest-green eyes a light gleamed—one she’d never glimpsed from the angry man who’d raised the man she’d loved.

How long had it been since she’d seen Kyle’s father? Over a year?

He lived down the road, but other than the occasional run to one of the local stores, he kept to himself. His once-productive farm had fallen into disarray after Kyle left. Just another thing Patrick Kimpton could hate his son for.

“Patrick. This is a surprise.” She hesitated, caught between her good manners and the instinct to send him away. Manners won. “Umm, do you want to come in?”

“Thanks.” He moved slowly, reaching out to grip the railing and guide himself inside.

She’d remembered him as much taller and more intimidating, with a deep, angry voice and a whipcord strength that came from working the land. Now, he seemed almost frail.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“That’d be good.”

“Black?”

“No other way.”

“Have a seat.”

He followed her into the kitchen and waited while she poured the coffee. When she leaned over to give him the mug, she noticed there was no stink of alcohol on his breath or tremble in his hand.

Good. She really didn’t need him drunk when Kyle was upstairs.

She settled in the chair next to him. “So what can I do for you?”

“I’d like to see my son.”

She blinked, studying him closely. As far as she knew, Kyle hadn’t seen him since he’d left for California a decade ago. His father had made no attempt to ever get in touch with him. Their father-son relationship was so damaged and broken, even Ophelia had finally given up trying to get them to communicate.

When she got back home years ago, she’d tried to check in on Patrick regularly—along with her mother, who’d show up with dinner—and had offered to help on the farm. Ophelia had been afraid that, with Kyle permanently gone, something bad would happen to Patrick.

And something did.

He refused to let them help him, becoming a recluse with a goal of drinking himself to death. Ethan had tried contacting AA and Al-Anon, but there was one message that came back every time: Patrick had to want to get better to stop drinking.

He’d made it clear he didn’t. Eventually, Ophelia and her mom stopped checking on him. She and Harper had rescued the leftover horses, chickens, and other animals from his farm. In the end there was only empty, endless acreage, ghostly barns, and a terrible silence.

Now that Patrick was sitting in her kitchen, looking and sounding nothing like she remembered, a surge of sympathy overtook her. She’d burned with rage toward Kyle’s father and the way he treated his son, but blood was blood, and her Irish genes kept her stubbornly hoping they’d be able to salvage some sort of relationship. That one day Patrick would see his mistakes and offer to make things right. But Kyle swore he’d never talk to his father again.

“Has Kyle contacted you?” she asked gently.

He gave a quick shake of his head. “Didn’t expect it. I know he hates me. Just want to look him in the eye and say a few things that are overdue.”

“I’ll go ask him, but I’m not sure he’ll want to talk, Patrick. Maybe with some time? He just got into town a couple of weeks ago.”

“How long will he be here?”

“Three months.” She studied him. He wore an old mustard sweatshirt and faded jeans. His usually stocky body looked thin. The way he cupped his mug and tended to shake his right foot was so similar to Kyle’s own mannerisms. “How are you doing?”

She expected his gaze to drop, or for him to change the subject. Instead, he lifted his head and looked her straight in the eye. “Better. Not gonna give you a bunch of bull about how getting sober has changed my life. Don’t expect forgiveness, either, but I’m here to ask for it.”

“Did you go to rehab?”

He nodded. “Been clean almost a year and got a part-time job helping over at the Nelsons’ farm. Been working on making my amends, but Kyle hasn’t taken my calls. I just heard today he was in town, so I drove right over.”

Yes, gossip would fly fast in Gardiner, as in any small town. Like Ethan, Kyle was the prodigal son who left to do big things. In fact, she was surprised there hadn’t been a long line of visitors pretending to check in with her this week, simply eager to see Kyle.

“Does he know you went to rehab?”

“Nah. I left a few messages, but I knew he wouldn’t listen to them. Don’t blame him. Thought about going out to California, but I don’t have the money yet. I’m saving.”

Her heart suddenly ached for what could have been. Even though Patrick had caused so much pain, she hoped Kyle would at least hear him out.

“He’s in his room, writing. I’ll go get him.”

She climbed the stairs and stood at his door, her nerves tightening. Dragging in a breath, she knocked.

Nothing. The mad clack of the keyboard was the only sound.