Stef Ann Holm by Lucy Back (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

He slowly pulled it off the fridge and studied her features, swallowing tightly.

Glancing over his shoulder, he wondered where she was. Had she done this? And why?

The countertop was filled with more stuff. A large chunk of white granite rock. He had a ton of those rocks on his property; he’d paid dearly to get most of them excavated when he’d put in his hot tub. There was writing on the rock. He checked it out.

“This rock was picked by Mackenzie Taylor.”

Then she had dated it.

Leaning closer, Drew found an old photograph of himself as a boy, standing out in the baseball field of Alhambra. He wore his peewee outfit, a bat resting on his slender shoulders. He stood with a cocky tilt to his hips. Hell, he must have been all of eight.

Unbidden, a smile curved his mouth.

The picture frame that housed it had rows of elbow macaroni glued around the perimeter.

Where had she found this black-and-white photograph taken with his dad’s old camera? Drew wouldn’t know, unless it had been shoved into the very first baseball rule book he’d been given. That might have been it. He kept that book, among others, in his trophy case, never revisiting the pages.

Another box of tissue was over by the toaster—the toaster that he kept in a utility drawer. He only took it out when he needed it, not wanting crumbs on the counter. He noticed the blender, the mixer, the cutting board and napkin holder were now all in plain view.

What was up with the flowery boxes of Kleenex?

Turning back to the baseballs, he got more than a little torqued up to see them in that fruit bowl. His blood pressure rose, his pulse thudding in his ears, and he was reminded of his headache. Those were signed official balls and not to be messed with. Each had its own plastic case and stand. They were priceless. And to be thrown in a bowl like this—

“Mackenzie?” he called out, stymied by the changes. “Mackenzie, are you home?”

He told himself not to get pissed, not to let the frustration of the day erupt to where he felt himself losing control. But looking around this house, at the stuff that had been moved and put out of place, he wasn’t happy about it.

“Mackenzie?”

He walked down the hallway toward her room and knocked on the closed door. When she didn’t answer, he opened it.

She sat on the bed, her iPod earbuds in place. Looking up, she raised her brows as if to ask: What?

He motioned for her to pull the plug on her music. She slowly removed the earpieces, wet her lips and waited.

“What in the hell happened to the house?” he asked, damning himself for using profanity. But he was really trying his best to keep it together here. “It’s all screwed up.”

“I made a few changes. I noticed you don’t keep a lot of your personal things out.”

“Yes, I do,” he countered sharply, then gritted his teeth.

He remained rooted in the doorway, gazing at his daughter as if she were a stranger. The idea hit him full-blown and hard: he realized she was a stranger. She’d been here for two months and he didn’t know her any better today than he had when he picked her up at the airport.

“No, you don’t. You keep stuff hidden away, put on a shelf or inside a cabinet, and you don’t use it. I thought you might like the house this way.”

“I don’t need a picture of Roger Lewis on my mantel.”

“He’s your friend. So is Opal and everyone in town. They all like you—I thought you might want to remind yourself you have friends who’d like to come over for a party, maybe.”

Roger Lewis and Clyde Cooper over here for a party? Off-duty, those two guys sat around eating beer nuts and bullshitting about lame things. Why in the hell would he want their pictures up, much less have them over?

He had no response, didn’t know what exactly to say. Wasn’t it obvious he preferred it one way? If he’d wanted the things out, he would have put them out. But he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so he let it go. He simply didn’t have an answer right at this time, and so he stalled.

He asked, “What’s with all the Kleenex?”

Her response was spoken so softly, he almost thought he didn’t hear her correctly. “In case you have to cry.”

A long moment passed before he said, “I don’t cry.”

Mackenzie’s chin lowered, her mouth a thin line as she looked at her iPod and scrolled through the pictures. She ignored him.

The seconds ticked off, slowly and hard. One, two, three, four. Then ten, fifteen. He’d never known just how long a second measured out until now.

“Are you mad at me?” she finally asked, her hazel eyes lifting to his and locking on to his face. Waiting. Wondering.

He was royally torqued, but he wouldn’t let her know that. “It’s not that I’m mad…I just like my house a certain way. But I’ll take care of it. I can put the stuff away.”

“Get out,” she snapped, and his brows shot up.

“Mackenzie?”

She scrambled off the bed, went to the door and took it by its edge. Her cheeks grew red, her breath came out in a whoosh and she flicked her hair from her shoulders. “Get out of my room! I’m calling Aunt Lynette. I want to go home. I hate it here. I hate you!”

The door was slammed in his face before he could say another word.

Twenty-Three

“Pull over, Spin! You assured me you remembered how to drive a car!” Jacquie grabbed on to the dash of the Jaguar as Spin took a sharp corner, tire rubber burning.

The hundred-and-three-year-old woman sat in the driver’s seat, spindly and tall, her gnarled fingers gripping the steering wheel. “I do remember.”

“It doesn’t seem like it!”

Spin signaled for a right turn, but made a left onto Cherry Hill and onto the highway