Page 37 of Going Deep (Odyssey #3)

G inger was up early, determined to finish her packing.

Her eyes felt gritty, her mind foggy. She’d been up until after two the previous night, sorting through her belongings and lugging boxes down the stairs.

Aside from her clothes and books, she didn’t have much she wanted to bring with her back to Chicago , and most of it would fit easily into her car.

Except her bed. She really, really liked her bed.

She’d paid more than she could afford at the time for the best mattress available, and the four-poster tester bed had been buried in too many layers of peeling paint to count when she’d found it at an estate sale just outside of Cleveland .

It had cost her more to rent a truck to get it home than she’d paid for it, and she’d nearly suffocated on paint stripper fumes getting it down to the bare wood.

But it had been worth the potential brain damage to see the gorgeous cherry wood emerge, and after staining and sealing it, she’d bribed her brother-in-law to help her put it together.

She hadn’t thought to rent a truck to get it back to Chicago , but her brother-in-law, always susceptible to a bribe, had agreed to come over before he started his shift to help her disassemble and move it to the garage in exchange for a case of beer.

And for a pair of Cubs tickets and crash space in her guest room for him and a buddy, to drive it to Chicago next weekend in said buddy’s truck.

Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she plodded down the stairs to the kitchen. It was barely seven o’clock, so the kitchen was quiet but for the popping and hissing from the ancient coffee pot, and the quiet puttering as her mom made breakfast.

Ginger couldn’t help but smile as she came into the room. “ Morning , Mama .”

Geraldine Dowling turned with a smile, eyes the same blue as her daughter’s twinkling in welcome. “ You’re up early, baby. You want some breakfast? I made plenty.”

Ginger eyed the scrambled eggs and toast and shook her head. “ No , thanks.”

Geraldine turned off the stove and scooped the eggs onto a waiting plate. Her face, soft with age, lined with laughter and life, was thoughtful as she studied her daughter. “ Your anxiety’s kicking up, is it? I know how you stop eating when that happens.”

Ginger smiled. “ It’s fine, Mama . I’ve just got my heart set on a mocha latte and a cranberry scone from the coffee shop.”

“Hmmm.” Geraldine sat at the round table tucked under the window. “ How’s the packing going?”

“Good. I’ve got a lot of stuff I’m not taking, so I thought I’d give Georgie and Ginny first pick of anything they want before I haul it to Goodwill .”

Geraldine sipped her coffee. “ I’m sure they’ll find something to fight over.”

Ginger laughed. Her sisters, ages seventeen and fourteen, were at each other’s throats more often than not. “ Sorry .”

Geraldine waved a hand. “ Oh , I’m used to it. You and Grace were the same at that age.”

Ginger snorted. “ That’s because she was a brat.”

Geraldine’s eyes laughed over her coffee cup. “ I’m sure she’d say the same thing about you.”

Ginger moved to the peg by the door and took down her purse. “ I was hoping I’d have time to see her before I head back. She’s got to be getting pretty big by now.”

“To hear her tell it, she’s as big as a house and couldn’t possibly get any bigger. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was wrong.”

Ginger shook her head. “ She’s only seven months along. You don’t think she knows there’s more coming?”

“I think she’s convinced herself there isn’t.” Geraldine’s lips quirked into a smile. “ Denial is an essential skill of motherhood.”

Ginger snorted out a laugh. “ Do you want anything while I’m out?”

“I want you to tell me what’s made you sad, Ginger -bread.”

The childhood nickname made Ginger’s throat thicken with unexpected tears. “ I’m fine, Mama . Nothing to worry about.”

“Worry is another essential skill of motherhood,” Geraldine said and rose to her feet. She crossed the small kitchen to wrap her arms around her daughter. “ Baby . I know your heart is broken.”

Ginger closed her eyes and breathed in her mother’s scent. Lemon balm and rosemary. “ How do you know?”

“Essential skills of motherhood.” Geraldine rubbed her cheek against Ginger’s in a familiar gesture of comfort. “ Did he hurt you?”

Ginger had to work to speak around the lump in her throat. “ Yeah , he did.”

“Well.” Geraldine squeezed hard. “ Fuck him.”

Ginger sputtered, laughter spilling out along with the tears. “ Thanks , Mama .”

“You’re welcome.” Geraldine pulled back to brush at Ginger’s wet cheeks, then dropped her hands. “ Well , I better finish my breakfast if I don’t want to be late for work.”

Ginger stepped back as her mother resumed her seat at the table. “ And I better get going if I’m going to get my latte and scone before Jake gets here to help me take down the bed.”

She stepped to the back door, then paused, glancing over her shoulder. “ Mama ?”

Geraldine paused, fork in hand, brow quirked in question.

“I love you.” Ginger flushed at the surprise on her mother’s face. “ I don’t say that to you enough.”

Pleasure pinked Geraldine’s cheeks and sparkled in her eyes. “ I’m always happy to hear it. But don’t think I’m forgiving you for leaving me.”

Ginger laughed at the teasing tone. “ I wouldn’t dream of it. If you have to leave before I get back, I’ve got my key.”

She let the screen door slam behind her and headed down the sidewalk for the three-block walk to the local coffeehouse.

She ordered her latte, nibbled on the scone while she waited for it, and checked her phone.

She responded to a text message from her sister Grace and sent another off to Anna and Lola .

She’d promised her friends she’d text them at least once a day to let them know how she was doing.

Their return texts were cheerful and innocuous, the three of them avoiding the elephant in the room by mutual agreement.

Not that she needed reminders to think of Michael . The damn man was in her dreams every night, and she woke up missing him.

She wondered how long it would take for that to stop.

She walked slowly back to the house, eating her scone and sipping her latte.

The day was already uncomfortably hot, the light rain that had come and gone overnight adding a sticky humidity to the air.

By the time she’d made the walk back to the house, she had a line of damp down her back, and her hair was clinging to the back of her neck.

She climbed the three steps to the kitchen door, noting that her mother hadn’t left for work yet as the interior door still stood open. She shifted her cup so she could grasp the handle.

“Mama, you really are going to be late,” she called out as the screen door slammed behind her, then froze.

Geraldine still sat at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee steaming in her hands. And across from her, his long length folded into the delicate cane-backed chair, was Michael .

He rose slowly, his eyes shadowed. “ Hello , Ginger .”

“Michael.” Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, her lips oddly numb. “ What are you doing here?”

He took a step toward her, and she flinched. He stopped, his eyes going carefully blank. “ I came to see you.”

“Oh.” Her hungry eyes drank in the sight of him.

He had a layer of thick stubble on his jaw, like he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and his eyes were red-rimmed, like he hadn’t slept.

His t-shirt was wrinkled, with a stain down the front, and the jeans she recognized as his favorites looked like he’d picked them up off the floor. “ Why ?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

The silence grew thick, the tension in the room building until it was almost palpable. The scrape of a chair made both of them start.

Geraldine smiled serenely and carried her coffee cup to the sink.

“ Well . I’m going to be late.” She walked to Ginger , brushing her lips over her daughter’s cheek.

“ He drove all night,” she whispered, “but don’t let him off the hook too easy.

” She pulled back to wink, then continued out the kitchen door.

The slam of the screen door echoed in the small room, and Michael cleared his throat. “ Can we talk?”

He looked so good, was all she could think, even with stained, wrinkled clothes and bloodshot eyes. Damn him, why did he have to look so good? A nasty little spurt of anger reared up through the pain. “ Why would you want to talk to me? I’ll probably just lie.”

He flinched. “ I guess I deserved that.”

She was already regretting having said it. “ Michael , I don’t think?—”

“Give me ten minutes, and then if you want me to go, I will. Please ,” he said, and with that one word knocked her completely off kilter.

He never said please.

She wanted to say no. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to say no, to get away. She didn’t want more pain, and this would surely hurt. But her sense of fair play kept the word from leaving her lips.

“Ten minutes,” she repeated. “ Then you leave.”

He nodded. “ I promise.”

“I don’t want you to touch me.” If he touched her, she’d be lost.

His eyes went bleak, but he nodded. “ If that’s what you want.”

She hesitated, searching his face, then nodded. “ Okay .”

He exhaled. “ Thank you.”

She pointed to the room behind him. “ Go into the living room and have a seat.”

She waited until he complied before releasing a shaky breath. She started forward, then realized she still held her latte and scone. And the scone was crumpled to mush.

With a grimace, she tossed what was left of the pastry in the garbage and quickly washed her hands, then picked up her coffee and followed him down the short hall to the tidy living room.

He was standing in the center of the room, frowning at the stack of boxes waiting by the front door. “ Is someone moving?”

“I am.”

“To where?”

She stared at him. Was he kidding? “ To Chicago .”

“You’re coming back?”