My shoulders tighten. I haven’t talked to my father since I left my firm. I haven’t talked to anyone besides Wyatt and a used-car salesman. “I’ll see you Monday.”
“You staying at the cottage?”
Nodding, I prop my arm on the open window of the door.
“All right, then.” Wyatt clears his throat and starts off at a brisk pace toward his hardware store. “Monday morning. Bright and early.
Nodding, I turn the key. “Every day,” I repeat under my breath.
It’s all I want—hard work and no trouble.
* * *
Pushing through the door of the cottage, I flick the light switch and survey the weathered wood and white interior. Dad sold his house in Oceanside and relocated to the city after I started law school. He never wanted to have anything to do with this town again. He made his millions and got out.
I cross the yellow pine floors to the grayish-brown farm table. At first I’m confused. When I left the cottage was nothing more than an abandoned shack. I’d expected to find it closed up and empty. Instead, it’s polished and clean and completely renovated.
I switch a quiet window unit on high and continue down the hall, past a smaller, office room, to the master bedroom. A king-sized bed is covered in a white Matelassé spread and matching pillows. It’s all very Cape Cod and very new. Am I in the right house?
The sudden ring of a phone startles me, and I look around the place. A white cordless phone is on the bedside table.
Reaching slowly, I lift the receiver. “Hello?”
“Who is this?” I recognize the forceful male voice on the other end of the line at once.
“Dad?”
“Jackson? What the hell are you doing at the cottage?”
For a moment, I hesitate. I hadn’t intended to have this conversation with him so soon—at least not until I’d sorted it out in my own mind.
“Well, my original plan was to clean it out, fix it up, and live here for a little while.”
“I’ve already done all of that.”
“I see you have.” Walking through the two thousand square-foot residence, I take in the elegant décor—white paint, navy and white striped fabrics, driftwood accent pieces. “It’s nice.”
“I’ve been using it as a rental property. The manager just called to ask if I’d rented it without telling her. I didn’t even know you still had a key.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I try to think. “I can stay somewhere else.”
“What the hell are you doing in Oceanside? You’re supposed to be at work.”
Here we go. “I took a job here.”
“A job? Doing what? Wills and estates?”
“Painting. Wyatt Jones has these three old storefronts he needs repainted. I expect it’ll take me at least a week to finish. Maybe longer.”
“You’re doing what?” His voice is a rasp. “What is the meaning of this? You’re the newest partner at Wagner and Bancroft—the youngest partner they’ve ever taken on. I just read the fucking article last spring! It’s unprecedented.”
“I resigned.”
“You can’t resign!”
“Actually, I can, and I did. I’m sorry, I assumed my mother’s cottage would be empty. I’ll clear out and find somewhere else to stay in town while I work.”
The line is silent for several long seconds. I’m about to say goodbye and disconnect when my father speaks again, his voice grave. “Are you in trouble, son?”