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I give his text a thumbs-up and drop the phone on the picnic table. I immediately feel better having him on my case.
I slide over on the bench closer to my sister. “I owe you an apology, Ashton. I’ve been hard on you for the last thirty years. Not only are you the best sister a guy could ask for, you’re also an amazing friend.”
Tears well in her eyes as she smiles at me. “Thank you, Will. That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me. I’m grateful to be in a position to help. This is why Mama left me the house.”
I toss my empty gelato cup into a nearby trash can. “Give me a break. She left you the house because you were her favorite. Why do you always give her so much credit?”
Ashton shoots back, “Why do you always give her no credit?”
“Because she ruined my life.”
“She made your childhood difficult, but you’ve allowed her to ruin your life by harboring so much resentment towards her.”
“You sound like Clemmy. If you decide to quit architecture, you have a career as a psychotherapist waiting for you.”
“I’m serious, Will. Mama is dead and buried in Mossy Oak Cemetery. It’s time you take back control of your emotions from her.”
“And how do I do that, Dr. Ashton?”
“By forgiving her,” Ashton says, pushing her empty cup away.
Her response hits me like a ton of bricks. I realize the path to emotional freedom is through forgiveness. And I’m making great strides towards forgiving myself for Bert’s accident. But forgiving my mother for all the bad stuff she did to us is one avenue I’ll detour.
TWENTY-SEVEN
JULIA
Late on Tuesday afternoon, I’m poring my heart out to my computer while Conrad plays with his trucks in the dunes at the edge of the yard. I hear a loud rapping on the door and freeze, my fingers poised on the keyboard. Who could that be? I know so few people in town. The boogeymen wouldn’t bother knocking. It must be Fry, finally respecting my privacy.
I’m on my way to the door when more loud knocking is followed by a harsh voice saying, “Police! Open up!”
My immediate thought is that something has happened to Will. I swing open the door to find two young men standing on the small front porch, a baby-faced officer in uniform and an intense-looking guy with thick dark hair and menacing black eyes.
“Are you Julia Becker?” asks the man in plain clothes.
I grip the doorknob. “I am.”
“I’m Detective Max Rourke.” He flashes me his credentials and tosses a thumb at his sidekick. “And this is Officer Porter. We need to talk to you about your relationship with Will Darby.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I see Conrad coming inside with his trucks, leaving a trail of sand across the porch floor. I close the door tighter, so my son won’t see our visitors, and lower my voice. “Now is not a good time. You’ll have to come back in the morning when my son is at school.”
Rourke’s dark brow hits his hairline. “Excuse me, Miss Becker. But this is not a social visit. We can either talk here or we can go down to the station. Either way, we’re having this conversation now.”
I consider my choices. There’s no one I trust to keep Conrad, and I can’t take him to the police station with me. “Come in.” I step out of the way for them to enter the cottage. “I need to start a movie for my son. You can wait for me on the porch.”
Conrad’s eyes grow wide when he sees the police officer. “Is that a real gun?” he asks, pointing at Porter’s holstered weapon. My son appears more fascinated than intimidated by the officer. Has he already forgotten that cold night last spring when an army of police officers arrested his father?
Porter smiles down at Conrad. “Yes, son. It is. You’re a cute kid. What’s your name?”
My son tilts his face upward. “Conrad. But my friends call me Buddy.”
Porter holds out his hand to Conrad, and they shake. “Nice to meet you, Buddy.”
Clearing my throat, I motion them towards the porch. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Why are the police here, Mommy? Did you do something bad?” Conrad asks as I scroll through the PBS app for a suitable program.
I smile. “No, son. I’m not sure why they’re here. Whatever it is, I don’t want you to worry. I’ll handle it.” I tune into Arthur, one of Conrad’s favorites, and tuck a blanket around him on the sofa. “I’ll be right out on the porch, but you shouldn’t interrupt us unless you really need me.”
