Page 5 of Homebody (The Long Road Home #21)

Chapter Five

T he ride home from Albany airport was… memorable.

His mother began by asking a dozen rapid-fire questions the moment after he’d tossed his bag into the trunk and settled into the backseat of the car.

Now, halfway through the long drive home, she’d gone silent, completely absorbed in her cell phone and, judging by the sounds he heard, her text app. Interesting for a woman who just today had declared that she hated texting.

His mom being her usual chatterbox was expected. Annoying at times, but tolerable. But his mother silent, especially given the fact he hadn’t been home in close to a year, was downright frightening.

What was she up to?

“Mom. Who are you texting?” Dean asked slowly, his voice deep with suspicion.

“What? Me? No one.” His mother’s hurried answer didn’t make him any less suspicious. Particularly the high-pitched tone in which she’d delivered it.

“Mom,” he repeated, low and with warning. “I see you typing. I heard the whoosh of the text you just sent.”

Ding.

He lifted a brow. “And there’s the notification for the reply coming from the no one you’re not texting.”

In the driver’s seat, his dad kept his mouth closed, his lips literally pressed together tightly as he pointedly did not speak.

After forty years of marriage Dad wasn’t stupid. He knew it was safest to not comment on his mother’s actions most times.

“Seriously, Dean. Why are you making a big deal over a couple of texts? It’s just the girls from the salon today. I’m not allowed to have friends? And you didn’t even notice or say anything about my hair. I just got it done.”

There was nothing like being reprimanded while stuck sitting in the back seat of his parents’ car to make him feel twelve years old again instead of thirty-two.

His chin dropped to his chest. Maybe he was being paranoid.

“I’m sorry. And you’re wrong. I did notice. Right when I first saw you at the airport. Your hair looks really nice. I should have said something then, right away. It’s just after finally landing after traveling all day, I was anxious to get my bag and get out of there and home.”

“It’s okay, sweetie. I know it wasn’t fun, being delayed and not getting here until so late. You must be hungry and tired.”

“A little,” he answered, noticing how hungry he actually was now that she’d mentioned it.

“Nothing a dozen wings and a nice cold beer at the Muddy River Inn won’t cure,” she said cheerfully. “We’re going to head directly there. We don’t need to stop home for anything, do we?” She looked toward his father, who shot her a sideways glance and shook his head while lifting one shoulder.

So now his mother, who always casually commented on the number of beers he took out of the fridge because she was worried about him over-indulging , was suggesting he get a nice cold one?

He wasn’t imagining it. She was behaving strangely.

He mentally reviewed her recent questions, both in texts to him and in person, searching now for the subtext and anything that connected the seemingly unrelated topics.

What time would he be landing… That one was most likely innocent. They were his ride home, after all.

But the rest…

Would he like to go to the MRI for dinner tonight…

Were they going directly there now instead of later after going home first…

Was he dating anyone…

A common thread, thin but definitely there, began to emerge. And he didn’t like what he was seeing. Dammit.

“Does it matter when we get to the bar?” he asked, testing his theory.

“Uh, no. Of course not. It’s not like I made a reservation or anything.

Wouldn’t that be funny? They don’t even take reservations.

” Her laugh that followed had a nervous edge to it.

“I was just thinking, you know, the earlier the better because the later crowd can get so loud. Always playing that darn juke box. And I know you must be hungry. I sure am.”

Her hurried list of excuses didn’t ease his mind.

“You’re right. It can get loud there at night. Maybe we should just call in a take-out order. Pick up some wings to-go,” he suggested. “Dad could run in and grab the bag and then we head home and have a nice quiet meal there. Alone.”

He watched for her reaction and she didn’t disappoint.

“What? No. We should eat there.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Well, because, you know, now that I think about it, I believe there’s no beer at the house. Right, dear?” His mother shot his father a sideways stare, causing the man to focus singly on the road ahead as he grunted a non-committal response.

“We could pick up some beer at the gas station in town,” Dean suggested, shooting down what he more than suspected was a fake problem.

She always had beer in the house for his dad. And she particularly went shopping and stocked up on everything and anything Dean liked when he came home for a visit.

“We could,” she said. “But the fries are never as crispy after they’ve been in the take-out containers. The condensation makes them all soggy. And the food isn’t as hot by the time we get home…”

The lady doth protest too much…

“Mom, is this a blind date?” he accused.

His question visibly threw her. She opened her mouth and closed it again without speaking.

Dean shook his head. It was so clear he could no longer deny it. “There’s somebody waiting at the bar for us, isn’t there? Waiting for me . Dammit, Mom. I swear to God, if you’re trying to fix me up with some?—”

“Dean Duncan Sinclair, don’t you swear at your mother.” Finally contributing to the conversation, his father jumped in with the firm voice he rarely used. The deep scary disciplinarian tone that had sent fear through younger Dean and still caused a visceral reaction now in him as an adult.

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—” Dean drew in and let out a breath, resigned. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, Mom.”

Yup. Just like when he was a kid.

“And for your information, I just thought we could have a pleasant meal out together as a family for your first night home in a year. There’s no one waiting there for you. That’s just ridiculous.” His mother denied it even as her phone emitted one more well-timed ding.

After another quick sideways glance at his father, his mother was back on her cell, texting her friends again.

Something was definitely going on. In spite of her denials. In spite of the latent guilt sitting heavy in his stomach for accusing her of something she might possibly—but not likely—be innocent of.

For better or worse, when they arrived at the bar he’d know one way or another.