Crickitt’s stomach clenched. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why are you telling me this?”
“Because he needs you.”
She wanted to believe that. Badly. All evidence suggested the opposite.
“He’s got a funny way of showing it.”
“Yes. He does.” Lori’s watched her for a second. “In an effort to help him in his budding business, I’d been introducing him around to some of my wealthier friends. It was going great until he stood up my good friend Norman Weaver.
Crickitt’s eyebrows jumped. “Weaver’s Ice Cream Stands?”
“Yep. At the time Norman had five. I thought it was a great opportunity for Shane to venture into the world of franchising. Norman and I waited at his office for an hour, and Shane didn’t show. I was so angry, I drove to the ratty hovel he called home and pounded on the door until he opened it. He looked awful. Sleep-deprived, pale, distant. I demanded he tell me what was going on. He wouldn’t. Until I threatened to call all of my friends and tell them to pull their business.” She crooked an eyebrow. “I’d have done it, too.”
Crickitt believed her.
“Has Shane ever talked to you about his parents?” Lori asked.
“Other than he owns his father’s clock and they’ve both passed?”
Lori let out a sound between a grunt and a laugh. Then her face grew serious. “He’s been through hell. Without telling you everything, just know that Shane blames himself for his mother’s death. He was being a bratty teenager the night she drove to pick him up before the cops did. The roads were icy. It was dark. She didn’t see the tree.”
Crickitt set her wineglass aside, feeling sick. “I had no idea.”
“She didn’t die at the scene. Lived the rest of her short life in a wheelchair. Shane’s father slipped into depression, and Shane took care of her since his father was never home. About a year later, Shane and his mother had an argument.” She shrugged. “Typical parent-kid stuff. He stormed out of the house but when he returned…” Lori shook her head.
Crickitt’s eyes beaded with tears. “What happened?”
“They think it was a seizure.”
She couldn’t imagine the guilt… Crickitt closed her eyes, swiping at the tears on her face.
“His father never missed an opportunity to lay blame squarely on Shane’s shoulders, I’ll tell you that. By the time he was dying and Shane took him in—”
“Took him in?” Crickitt asked.
Lori nodded. “Until he passed. Told you. Shane’s the best.”
Crickitt stared through her wineglass. At fourteen, she was busy with her friends, discovering makeup, suffering through braces. Shane was mourning his mother, blaming himself for her death, and shouldering his father’s bitterness.
“I’d have left the bastard to die alone.” Lori finished the last olive and dropped the skewer into her empty glass. “He needs you. He doesn’t know it, won’t admit it, but I see it.” She spread her hands. “I see all.”
She thought back to her mother’s conversation, to what Lori told her now. Was it possible she wasn’t seeing the situation clearly? Did Shane need her? As much as she needed him?
“I don’t know where he is,” Crickitt said. Even if she did, would she go to him?
Yes. I would.
“He only goes to work and home. Where else could he be?”
“I checked his house. I called his home office. I—” Then it hit her. “Tennessee.” The cabin. Of course. “He’s in Tennessee.”
Chapter 33
Shane stared into the thick forest behind the cabin, breathing in the air and trying not to think. He planned on staying for a day or two. That was three days ago. Or maybe four, he’d lost track.
He’d come here to take a levelheaded, sensible look at his and Crickitt’s relationship and come to a levelheaded, sensible decision. But he missed her so much he couldn’t think straight. Since desire was his reigning emotion, he refused to call her. He might blurt out he missed her. Or something much, much worse.
So he completed a jumbo crossword puzzle book and started a second, watched all four seasons of The Tudors on Netflix, and grew a beard.
Every time he started to open his e-mail or turn on his phone, he felt the same surge of panic as the day he left to come down here. Meaning the shallow breathing, shaking, and night sweats he’d experienced at home were caused by something other than a collection of cogs and gears hanging on his living room wall. It was almost funny. Except it wasn’t. So he’d transferred the blame for his physical reactions to other inanimate objects and left his phone turned off, his laptop in its case, and did his best to pretend neither had been invented yet.