Page 36 of The Locksmith’s Promise (The Promise Duet #1)

Chapter One

Jenny

I sat on the couch across from her with my face buried in my hands.

Reciting the whole, sorry affair had reduced me to a quivering, blubbery mess. Perched on the edge of the seat cushion, I worked to steady my breathing and find my calm. I worked even harder to repress the memories of what that couch had witnessed over the years.

I shuddered at the thought and fished a tissue out of my pocket.

Threadbare and worn thin, it had been on its last legs for a decade or more. At least it stuck around longer than any of the men in her life.

How cruel could they be?

After this past week, I no longer believed there was a limit.

I still didn’t know why I was here, but the longer I cried, the more convinced I became it was a waste of hope.

It was rare that she and I spoke, rarer still that I visited.

Today, she had summoned me.

I almost hadn’t come.

But there’s a fierce need in the heart of every child that’s near impossible to kill; a deep longing for their mother’s healing touch.

If there was ever a time I needed it, it was now.

I blew out a long, slow breath as I wiped the tears from my face.

Because it didn’t appear to be coming.

“Look at me, Jenny,” she demanded, her voice raspy.

I tipped my head up and took her in.

Is this my future?

Contemplating me, she narrowed her eyes.

After so much time had passed, it was odd to sit across from her in the hell that used to be my whole world.

The lines framing her once pretty mouth, stained from the bleed of her signature hot pink lipstick, deepened as she dragged on her cigarette. Tipping her chin up, she blew the smoke out above her head and dangled the cigarette between two fingers.

I’d seen the pictures of her when she was young, how beautiful she was.

How happy.

I could even remember, if I concentrated, a time when she had nursed hope.

She studied me now just as surely as I studied her. And I wondered, did she find me as wanting?

“There are girls they marry and girls they fuck,” she stated.

I blinked at her use of profanity. If there’d been one thing she’d drummed into my head as a child, it was that ladies do not curse.

That word ensured her my full attention.

Easing her slight frame from the easy chair, she dropped her gaze and bent to crush the burning tip of her cigarette into the overflowing ashtray on the side table.

How long had it been since she’d emptied it?

That distasteful job had once been mine.

Straightening to her full height, she turned narrowed, angry eyes on me and continued, “I’ll let you guess which one we are.”

My jaw dropped.

We.

As if we were the same, she and I.

Cut from the same cloth.

The apple that falls not nearly far enough from the tree.

Like I hadn’t a hope of escaping the life she’d led.

She winced, her eyes flashing with what I suspected was pity before growing hard once more. Without another word, she turned and walked away from me.

I didn’t take my eyes off her back until she closed her bedroom door.

Living just beyond the docks, the town of Moose Lake on one side of us, miles of farmland on the other, Mom worked at one of the local farms.

For as long as I could remember, our lives and her income revolved around rain.

I hope the rain holds off.

If only it would rain.

There’s been too much rain this year.

We need to pray for rain.

As if the heavens gave a shit what happened here on earth.

She hadn’t changed since I left, not really.

But I had.

I thought about the paint swatches I picked up on the weekend, the corkboard of dreams hanging on my bedroom wall, the rich smell of yeast and the fragrance of vanilla, cinnamon and the punch of soft, sourdough beneath my fists.

She didn’t want me to be better.

She wasn’t praying for rain.

I promise, as soon as it rains, I’ll come see you.

Standing, I gathered my purse under my arm and took one last look around.

I’d make my own damn rain.