THE SECRET IS OUT
The following day at lunch, Sandra stood in the dining room chatting up a storm with the guests who gathered. Close by, Trevor accepted humbly all the praise his mother spouted while attempting to quiet her zeal. When he caught Angie’s eye, his expression froze and if hate had a name at that moment, it would be Angie. Even though she’d skipped breakfast, suddenly her appetite left her and she yearned for nothing more than to high-tail-it-and-run from his glare. Sandra followed Trevor’s gaze and rushed over, every emotion, except hatred, spilling from her.
“Dear, so nice to see you out from under your pile of work. I love Heritage Inn! So much to do and see here. I’m in awe of the old architecture. It’s everywhere, inside and out. Must admit the entire historical thing is a passion of mine. It must be grand living with the ghosts of the past.” While her face showed nothing derogatory, Trevor’s spit fire.
“My family has owned this establishment for generations, so yes, Mrs. Dristoll, there are friendly ghosts reminding me of my heritage at every turn here in Heritage Inn.”
Trevor spoke up. “We visited the north wing where you display your family tree, Miss Parkinson. Encouraging people to call you Angie is a tad self-serving, don’t you think? Sidesteps a multitude of questions I’m sure you’d rather not discuss.”
Angie pictured the room, the generations of Parkinson’s, her immediate family included. Horror filled her. She hated that Trevor found out this way. She should have listened to Charles and came clean with the sordid tragedy. Probably, they’d recognized her brother, Jerrod, from photos released after the incident. The story made the front page in all the Hawaiian newspapers. Or perhaps his name alone triggered the connection. When she’d gone to the island to identify her family, Angie had steered clear of the other victims in the multi-car crash, their grief too heavy to shoulder alone. For even now, her heart longed to comfort the pain etched in Trevor’s face, but the horrid weight of it fed her impulsion to flee. No. This time she would not let fear override faith.
When someone stole his mother’s attention, Angie sucked up all the bravery within, and whispered, “Trevor, we need to talk.”
“You didn’t feel the need before, so why now?”
“I need to tell my side of the story,” Angie said.
“I’m not interested.” He’d barely uttered the words when Mrs. Dristoll was back in their conversation.
“Of course, you are, dear.” She patted Angie’s arm. “My son is head-strong, like his father.”
“Mother, mind your own business.”
“You are all the business I have left, so get used to it.” She glanced around the crowded room and leaned in closer. “Is there a quieter place where we can speak, Angie?”
“I can have plates delivered to the west terrace.”
“Perfect. You see to it then, and we’ll meet you there.” She hooked her arm firmly through her son’s, and added, “Both of us.”
Angie went to the kitchen and asked a waitress to set up a secluded table for three on the terrace. She ambled toward the French doors, her feet dragging and her heart sagging with doubts that anything she said would change his heart. She dreaded the unavoidable confrontation and stood off to the side watching mother and son in deep dialogue. They leaned against the glass banister, gazing off toward the turbulent lake. She hoped the woman knew the magical formula to reach Trevor’s stubborn heart.
Two people from the kitchen passed her on the way to the table at the far end. “Be just a minute, Angie. Dinner is on the way.” I felt bad about pulling the help from the busy kitchen while the majority of the guests gathered in the dining room for their meal. I inhaled a deep breath and headed for railing.
“They are setting us up over there,” Angie said when she approached Trevor and his mother.
“I’m not hungry,” said Trevor.
“I’m famished and will eat your share. Come and sit like the gentleman you are.”
Three wooden bowls of Cesar salad arrived, along with dinner plates of thick homemade lasagne with stringed green beans on the side, and garlic toast. The servers left, and they were alone.
Sandra Dristoll took the lead. “Shall we say the blessing?” She nodded to Trevor, and he thanked God for the food, the hands that prepared it, and that the conversation around the table be God-honoring. Angie appreciated that last petition and clung to the hope that healing was in the wind for them all. Her hopes dashed with Trevor’s first comment.
“So, Miss Parkinson, let’s get this charade over with. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Son, you promised.” The woman’s voice was sweet but held a strength I knew her son lacked at this moment.
“For your mother’s benefit, I will start from the beginning. The entire reason my parents took my brother, Jerrod to Hawaii was a last ditch effort to reach an addict and turn him around. They figured a week of vacation to bond would help Jerrod see the importance of family, a unit so strong that no high from alcohol or drug compared – surely that would be enough. They were wrong. It fell on deaf ears. Jerrod ‘s addiction controlled him, so, from Hawaii my parents booked him in rehab for the first of the New Year.”
Angie paused and looked
