Helpless to do more than look on in horror and self-loathing. In despair.
Hunter swung away from the bottles. He sucked in a deep breath and moved deliberately away from the kitchen and toward the makeshift desk he had set up in the corner of his small living room. On the desk sat a computer, monitor glowing in the dimly lit room, fan humming softly. Beside it the pages of a novel. His novel. A story about a lawyer's spiral to the depths.
If only he knew the story's end. Some days, he thought his protagonist would manage to claw his way up from those depths. Other days, hopelessness held him so tightly in its grip he couldn't breathe let alone imagine a happy ending.
He pulled out the chair and sat, intent on channeling his energy and anger into his novel. Instead, he found his thoughts turning to Avery once more.
What caused a man to douse himself with a flammable substance and strike a match?
He knew. He understood.
He had been there, too.
The blinking cursor drew his attention. He focused on the words he had written:
Jack fought the forces that threatened to devour him. To his right lay the laws of man, to his left the greatness of God. One wrong step and he would be lost.
Lost. And found. He had come home to set things right. To start over. He had already begun.
And now, here was Avery.
All together again, he thought. He, Matt and Avery. The same as when his life had begun to implode. How would this affect his plans? The timetable of events he had carefully constructed?
It wouldn't, he decided. Things would be set right. His life would be set right. No matter how much it hurt.
CHAPTER 5
Avery bolted upright in bed, heart pounding, her father's name a scream on her lips. She darted her gaze to the bedroom door, for a split second a kid again, expecting her parents to charge through, all concerned hugs and comforting arms.
They didn't, of course, and she sagged back against the headboard. She hadn't slept well, no surprise there. She'd tossed and turned, each creak and moan of the old house unfamiliar and jarring. She had been up a half dozen times. Checking the doors. Peering out the windows. Pacing the floor.
In truth, she suspected it hadn't been the noises that had kept her awake. It had been the quiet. The reason for the quiet.
Finally, she'd taken the couple of Tylenol PM caplets she'd dug out of her travel bag. Sleep had come.
But not rest. For sleep had brought nightmares. In them, she had been enfolded in a womb, warm and contented. Protected. Sud-denly, she had been torn from her safe haven and thrust into a bright, white place. The light had burned. She had been naked. And cold.
In the next instant flames had engulfed her. And she had awakened, calling out her father's name. Not too tough figuring that one out.
Avery glanced at the bedside clock. Just after 9:00 a.m., she noted. Throwing back the blanket, she climbed out of bed. The temperature had dropped during the night and the house was cold. Shivering, she crossed to her suitcase, rummaged through it for a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt. She slipped them on, not bothering to take off her sleep shirt.
That done, she headed to the kitchen, making a quick side trip out front for the newspaper. It wasn't until she was staring at the naked driveway that two things occurred to her: the first was that Cypress Springs's only newspaper, the Gazette, was a biweekly, published each Wednesday and Saturday, and second, that Sal Mandina, the Gazette's owner and editor-in-chief had surely halted her father's subscription. There would be no uncollected papers piling up on a Cypress Springs stoop.
No newspaper? The very idea made her twitch. With a shake of her head, she stepped inside, relocked the door and headed to the kitchen. She would pick up the New Orleans Times-Picayune or The Advocate from Baton Rouge when she went into town that morning.
That trip might come sooner than planned, Avery realized moments later, standing at the refrigerator. Yesterday she hadn't thought to check the kitchen for provisions. She wished she had. No bread, milk or eggs. No coffee. Not good.
Avery dragged her fingers through her short hair. After the huge meal she'd consumed the night before, she could probably forgo breakfast. Maybe. But she couldn't face this morning without coffee.
A walk downtown, it seemed, would be the first order of the day.
After changing, brushing her teeth and washing her face, she found her Reeboks, slipped them on then headed out the front door.
And ran smack into Cherry. The other woman smiled brightly. 'Morning, Avery. And here I was afraid I was going to wake you.'
'No such luck.' Avery eyed the picnic basket tucked against Cherry's side. 'I was just heading to the grocery for a newspaper and some coffee. You wouldn't happen to have either of those, would you?'
'A thermos of French roast. No newspaper, though. Sorry.'
'You're a lifesaver. Come on in.'
Cherry stepped inside. 'I remembered that your dad didn't drink coffee. Figured you'd need it this morning, strong.'
Her mother had been a coffee drinker. But not her dad. Cherry had remembered that. But she hadn't. What was wrong with her?
'Figured, too, that you hadn't had time to get to the market.' She held up the basket. 'Mom's homemade biscuits and peach jam.'
Just the thought had Avery's mouth watering. 'Do you have any idea how long it's been since I had a real biscuit?'
'Since your last visit, I suspect,' Cherry answered, following Avery. They reached the kitchen and she set the basket on the counter. 'Yankees flat can't make a decent biscuit. There, I've said it.'
Avery laughed. She supposed the other woman was right. Learning how to make things like the perfect baking powder biscuit was a rite of passage for Southern girls.
And like many of those womanly rites of passage, she had failed miserably at it.
Cherry had come prepared: from the basket she took two blue-and-white-checked place mats, matching napkins, flatware, a miniature vase and carefully wrapped yellow rose. She filled the vase with water and dropped in the flower. 'There,' she said. 'A Proper breakfast table.'
Avery poured the coffees and the two women took a seat at the table. Curling her fingers around the warm mug, Avery made a sound of appreciation as she sipped the hot liquid.
'Bad night?' Cherry asked sympathetically, bringing her own cup to her lips.
The worst. Couldn't sleep. Then when I did, had nightmares.' 'That' s to be expected, I imagine. Considering.'
Considering. Avery looked away. She cleared her throat. 'This was so sweet of you.'
'My pleasure.' Cherry smoothed the napkin in her lap. 'I meant what I said last night, I've missed you. We all have.' She met Avery's eyes. 'You're one of us, you know. Always will be.'
'Are you trying to tell me something, Cherry?' Avery asked, smiling. 'Like, you can take the girl out of the small town, but you can't take the small town out of the girl?'
'Something like that.' She returned Avery's smile; leaned toward her. 'But you know what? There's nothing wrong with that, in my humble, country opinion. So there.'
Avery laughed and helped herself to one of the biscuits. She broke off a piece. It was moist, dense and still warm. She spread on jam, popped it in her mouth and made a sound of pure contentment. Too many meals like this and the one last night, and she wouldn't be able to snap her blue jeans.
She broke off another piece. 'So, what's going on with you, Cherry? Didn't you graduate from Nicholls State a
