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Starting Fresh
When I pullup to the wrought iron gate, I have a momentary freak out. What am I doing?
What if he’s not even here?
Last I heard, Preston, Nanna, and Harris are still living here (Harris is on house arrest until the trial), but Jake is only here sometimes. Before, he never liked being here. Too many bad memories. But in an interview last month, he said he’s home more now to spend time with his father. There’s a good chance his father could be put away too.
The only reason Jake isn’t being prosecuted is because of Harris and Meaghan insisting he had nothing to do with the coverup. So far, Ruby and Magnolia haven’t countered it. I wouldn’t put it past them, though. If nothing else, out of sheer spite.
Just push the damn button and see, my thoughts press. Worst thing that can happen is he’s not here and I can go back home.
Or someone tells me to fuck off. That I’m not welcome.
Which would totally be founded.
I press the button and it beeps.
Oh, God.
I’m an idiot. I’m such an idiot for doing this. Of course, they’ll tell me to fu—
“Yes?” someone says over the speaker. I don’t recognize the voice. It’s a woman and she sounds like she’s in her sixties, if I had to guess.
“Hi, um…I’m here to see Jake.”
She pauses. “Does he know you’re coming?”
Great. I’ll have to reply with ‘no’ and look like a stalker. I wince and say, “No, I…I didn’t tell him I was coming. Just thought I’d drop by.”
I smack my forehead at how dumb I sound.
“Okay…” She thinks a long second. “Your name?”
“Scarlett Reed.”
She disappears.
A couple minutes pass, and I start to get antsy. Why is she not coming back? Is he not here? Then why wouldn’t she just tell me? Or did she tell Harris or Preston and they told her not to let me in?
I wouldn’t blame them. I wouldn’t let me in either.
With a sigh, I put my car in reverse and start to back out.
That’s when the gate opens. “Ms. Reed,” she says over the speaker. “You’re welcome to join us at the main house.”
“Okay,” I say, a little too eagerly, and shift my car into drive again.
Along the driveway, another car approaches. It looks Italian and expensive like Jake’s. I pull mine into the yard between the pear trees to allow it to pass, my eyes following along its sleek curves and edges. Yes, expensive like Jake’s.
A guy about his age…around thirty-ish, flicks his hand up in acknowledgment. I can’t see him well through the tint, but I can at least see enough to make out dark hair and shades. The woman in the passenger seat has her hair pulled into a messy bun and she shoots me a curious smile. She then makes a point to shift in her seat to get a better look at who the visitor is, though they don’t stop, so she must not be that intrigued.
When they’re several car lengths behind me, I pull back onto the driveway and head toward the main house.
The front looks exactly the same…not that I expected it to change much, and like the first time I saw it, it takes me a little time to gather the nerve to get out and go up to the door.
By the time I’ve crested the stairs, the front door swings open, and I go still. It’s hard to see who it is until they step into the light—a woman. Forties. And she has a cleaning rag slung over her shoulder and a bottle of Windex in her hand. “Scarlett?” she says. She’s not the woman from the gate, but she must have told her I was on my way.
“Yes,” I reply, and it’s then, as she’s about to let me in to see Jake for the first time in a long time, that I regret not planning this out better. I, too, look like I’ve been doing chores all day. Is it too late to back out now?
