Page 16 of Reece & Holden (Gomillion High Reunion #6)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Reece

It’s mid-afternoon on Friday when I make it back to my mom’s house.

I’m tired and drained so all I want to do is rest. The meeting with Chase went well.

Hartley had thoroughly read the report and was able to brief me on a call while I drove from the airport to my house, where I took a quick shower so I’d be fresh for the meeting.

I didn’t lie to Chase, as that creates mistrust in the client relationship, and the property he bought is in a worse state of repair than he thought.

But it’s not quite the crumbling pile of bricks he imagined after reading the report.

Between the surveyor, Hartley’s expertise in buildings, and my calmness and experience, we were able to reassure him that it’ll still support his vision.

But there does need to be some structural work done first. I think I even managed to get him to believe it was a benefit to the country and history for him to take on the property and preserve it, as so many old buildings have been lost because they haven’t had a benefactor.

It’ll be a few weeks before the new plans are drawn up, so I was able to reschedule the contractors and place preorders for some of the materials so the timeline doesn’t slip too much.

I also managed to catch up with Nolan and make sure everything else is running smoothly in the office. But as soon as the crisis was over, the only thought on my mind was getting back to Gomillion, and as I flew over the Atlantic all I could think about was what I plan to do next about Holden.

By Saturday I feel refreshed, and I know I want to see him and take it from there.

I’m hoping he’ll let me invite him out to dinner, it’ll be easier than trying to talk to him in his store, which isn’t fair on him or his customers.

No, somewhere neutral is best, and public so he needn’t feel threatened if being alone with me is a problem.

But first I want to talk to my mom and come clean to her.

I track her down in what she calls her sewing room.

Although my mom does a lot of knitting—mostly blankets, cushions, and even toys rather than clothes—she also sews, making beautiful quilts, some communally but a lot of them on her own, which she gifts or sells for charity.

I haven’t set foot in her sewing room for twenty years, but it doesn’t look much different, maybe a little more storage and a newer sewing machine.

It still has a large table for laying her patterns out on and a couple of comfortable chairs at one end.

She’s sitting in one of them, pinning together small pieces of fabric in different patterns.

“Hi, honey.” She greets me as I enter and sit next to her in the other chair.

“Hi, Mom.”

“You look brighter this morning. You were exhausted last night. Give me a minute and I’ll come and make breakfast.”

“I can make my own breakfast,” I reply, because she doesn’t have to run around after me, and I suffer a look that tells me she knows that but wants to do it. I ignore it and launch into what I want to say instead.

“I want to tell you something and it won’t be easy.”

She looks up from her pinning, concern on her face. “Is it work? You said the meeting went well.”

“No, work is fine. It’s something that happened a long time ago.”

She puts down her sewing, giving me her full attention, and I squirm a little at that.

“Back when you and dad were getting divorced, I didn’t handle it well, pretty badly in fact.

I was confused and angry and I took that out on someone else.

I thought I was different from everyone else and their happy families, so I bullied a kid who really was different.

For a few months I made his life a misery.

I’ve hated myself for it ever since, but I’ve been trying to make it up to him since I came back for the reunion.

It’s one of the reasons I came back. I was a bad person back then. I shouldn’t have listened to my dad.”

Her sharp intake of breath at the mention of my dad is almost a hiss, but she can probably infer the nature of my bullying.

“That man,” is her only response as I go on to tell her more of what I did—the name calling, general shoving, making him drop stuff in the corridors. When I’ve told her I sit back and wait for her response.

“I’m sorry,” she says looking sad. “I should have realized what was happening and that you weren’t coping. I failed you.”

“No, Mom.” I leave my chair and kneel in front of her, reaching for her hands. “None of it was your fault.”

“Why didn’t you come to me when you were struggling, instead of your father?”

“I was never in doubt of your love, Mom, but I thought Dad was leaving because of me. I thought if I was like him, he wouldn’t leave.”

“Oh, baby.” She scoots forward in her chair and envelops me in a tight hug. “It was never about you.”

“I know that now,” I say when she releases me.

She cups my face with her hand. “You might have done bad things, but you are not a bad person, Reece, believe that. Your father on the other hand, he’s a terrible person.”

“Yeah, I know that,” I say quietly. I learned it the hard way.

“It’s good that you want to make it up to them.”

“Well, it’s not going so well at the moment, but I’m going to try again today.”

“You’re a good person, honey, they’ll come around. Can I ask who it is?”

This is the moment I’ve been dreading. I take a deep breath.

“Holden Pearce.”

“Oh, Reece!” The disappointment in her tone is enough to make me feel about an inch tall and I drop my eyes. I know how highly she regards him and with good reason. I slowly look up at her and see something else in her face—shame.

“I’ve been in his store at least once a month since it opened, and to think all that time he was looking at me as the mom of his bully.”

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“No, Reece, it’s Holden you need to say sorry to.” Her tone is almost scolding, but it’s milder than I deserve.

“I have, Mom, and I’m going there now to try again.”

“Good. I felt he was always a little distant toward me and now I know why. Poor guy.”

“Well, so far he hasn’t really accepted my apology.” At that the corners of her mouth twitch, as if in admiration that he’s not giving in easily.

“If you want it enough, he’ll forgive you. He’s a good man.”

“I know, Mom.” I know exactly how good he is. I just hope to make him see there’s good in me too.

I stand and she joins me, giving me another hug.

“You’ll make it right. I know you will.”

“I hope so.”

“You have to. It’s fifty miles to another store even half as good as his.” She’s smiling, but I understand how awkward it will be for her going back into his store now.

First I collect a couple of cinnamon rolls from The Roll.

I’m aware it’s the same tactic I used last Saturday, but it seemed to help a little back then and I didn’t get to eat mine.

When I walk through the door of the store, I can see it is empty of customers.

It’s just Holden and Clara, who seem to be having a heated discussion behind the counter.

I walk over slowly, giving them time to realize I’m here.

I reach them and put the rolls down, and Holden spins to face me, his green eyes dark with anger and disappointment.

“I said I’m sorry,” Clara says and he swings back to face her. “If I could change it, I would. But I can’t. And if I don’t turn up, I’ll lose my job. That’s partly why we’re short staffed as it is.”

“I know, but this weekend . . . Urgh!” Holden exclaims.

“What’s the problem?” I ask and they both turn to face me.

Holden runs a hand through his hair. It’s a sign of frustration but I find it endearing. I drag my eyes from the gesture and concentrate on what he’s saying.

“I-I have a viewing planned for tomorrow. It’s for another store, over in Charlotte.

It’s a six-hour round trip and Clara was c-coming with me to share the driving.

I’ve never driven that far on my own before.

I-I don’t want to do it alone, and I also want her opinion on the store.

But she has to work.” His voice turns to a sigh at the end of his speech.

“I’ve been called in for an extra shift,” Clara explains with an apologetic shrug.

I look between them, an idea forming.

“I could come with you,” I suggest.

No one says anything for a full minute.

“You don’t have to suddenly leave for England again?” His voice holds an icy tone, which I want to unpack at some point but now is not the time.

“No. I’m not doing anything at the moment and I’d be happy to help.”

“I don’t know,” Holden says with a little wariness.

“I think it sounds perfect,” says Clara, smiling because she’s off the hook. “And he brought cinnamon rolls again.” She flashes me a grin. “I’ll make some coffee,” she says, disappearing into the back. I wait for Holden to respond. It’s his decision.

“Okay, if you’re sure,” he says, with a frown that looks like he’s still not wholly convinced, and I don’t blame him.

“Yes, I am. Like I said, I want to help.” Not to mention it’ll be the perfect opportunity for me to talk to him and apologize properly.

“Okay, t-thanks,” he says, his voice still sounding uncertain.