Chasing Castles (Finding Focus #2) (14 page)

The longer we wait, the more the bottom falls out of my stomach and my heart. I’m not a medical professional, but I know that if Deacon is in some kind of coma or something, the longer he’s out, the worse it is. And that thought makes me feel like I’m going to be sick.

“I need to see him,” I whisper to no one in particular.

Annie squeezes my knee and then her hand finds mine.

I want to ask how long is too long . . . what does it mean if he doesn’t wake up . . . but I can’t let my fears take flight. I can’t speak that out into the universe.

I’ve been nervous a time or two in my life, but nothing like this. My entire insides want to give way to the emotion that’s been bubbling up since the moment I heard those sirens. My muscles hurt from struggling to keep myself from shaking.

Looking at my watch, I do the math. It was a little after ten this morning when I heard the sirens, and now it’s almost noon. So, two hours have passed since this all started. Two hours isn’t that long, right? The drive here was half of that. Surely, he’s awake by now. Surely, they’re just cleaning him up before they come out and tell us that everything’s fine.

With a bolt, I stand up out of the hard plastic seat, and I begin to walk down the hall toward the double doors. I can’t sit any longer. I can’t just sit while Deacon is less than a few hundred feet away from me . . . and he might be fighting for his life. I want to fight for him. I want to do something besides take up space in the waiting room. But if they won’t let me back there, I’ll be right here when they finally come out.

When I feel an arm entangle with mine, I assume it’s Annie, but it’s not. “You okay, honey?” Kay’s voice is soft, and she doesn’t try to make me sit down or tell me to stop worrying. She just falls into step beside me.

“I am, if he is,” I tell her, honesty soaking my words. I couldn’t say that to Annie, but I can to Kay. She’s like a mom to me. She came into my daddy’s life at the perfect time, and they’re perfect for each other. In all the years since my mama passed, I could never imagine my daddy with someone else, but that’s because I never saw him with Kay. It’s like my mama handpicked her for him . . . for us. The thought brings even more tears to my eyes, and I can’t hold them back any longer.

“Shhhh,” Kay says, drawing me close to her and smoothing my hair.

She doesn’t tell me everything’s going to be okay because no one knows that. She just holds me and gives me a shoulder to cry on. It’s what I need, and so I cling to her and let her hold me.

Camille

Past

MY DADDY CALLED ME TWO
days ago, asking if I could come home for the weekend. Of course, I said I would. Besides the fact that he sounded like he had something important to tell me, it’s been a few months since I’ve been home.

But now, as I’m driving down the two-lane highway, I feel anxious. He didn’t say what the nature of his call was. I’m sure if it was anything bad, he would’ve given me some warning. On my weekly phone calls with Annie, she’s made it sound like he’s doing great. So, I don’t think it’s about his health or anything.

At least, I pray it’s not.

When my tires finally meet gravel, my chest feels lighter, and I breathe a little easier.

Home.

It never gets old, and it always feels good.

I take a second to roll my windows down and let as much of the fresh, unpolluted Louisiana air inside my truck as possible. If I could bottle it up and take it back to New Orleans with me, I would. Dust and all.

Passing by the Landry’s, I smile. Annie’s azaleas are green and ready to bloom, and her lilacs are putting on a gorgeous show of pale purple.

Begrudgingly, I drive slowly past the large white house and continue down the road.

The first thing I notice when I turn off the road and pull up to the front of my house is an unfamiliar car. I know it’s not Tucker because his hippy van he uses to travel around the country is parked on the other side. And I doubt my daddy called me home to show me a new car. He’s never bought a new car. Doesn’t believe in them.

Turning off my truck, I step out, cautiously looking over the sleek black sedan.

“Daddy,” I call out as I walk through the door, letting the screen bounce behind me and tossing my backpack into the hallway.

And that’s when I hear it—a woman’s laughter.

And then I smell it—baked apple pie.

Rounding the corner into the kitchen, there at the table sits my daddy and Tucker and Mrs. Bellenger, my high school Home Ec teacher.

Or is it Ms.?

Her husband died in a freak boating accident about ten years ago and left her with loads of cash. We always wondered why she kept teaching.

“Cam,” my dad says with a huge smile on his face as he walks across the kitchen and wraps me up in his arms. “Glad you came home.”

I hug him back, squeezing hard. “Me too,” I say, tilting my head and raising my brows, like is there somethin’ you want to tell me?

“Camille LuAnne Benoit, get over here and give your brother a hug,” Tucker demands. When we were kids, he loved it when Annie middle and last named me, because it usually meant I was in trouble, but that didn’t happen often. I can’t say the same for him, Micah, and Deacon, though. Their middle names were used more than
the
and
but
.

I hug Tucker and look at him long and hard. “You’re gone too much,” I tell him, pulling at the front of his plaid shirt with pearl snaps.

“You need to move home,” he retorts.

I scowl at him and shake my head. “At least I come home more than twice a year.”

“I don’t like you livin’ in New Orleans all by yourself,” he says, sitting back down at the table and cutting himself another slice of that good smelling pie. “I wish you’d live in the dorms like a regular college student.”

I look over to see Mrs. Bellenger just watching us.

“Well, I’m nineteen years old. So, you don’t get to boss me around anymore,” I say through my teeth as I give Mrs. Bellenger a big smile. “I need to be closer to the square so I can sell my paintings.”

Daddy clears his throat from behind me, and I turn to look at him over my shoulder. I can tell he has something to say by the way he lets out a deep breath and his eyebrows go up to his forehead like he’s giving himself an internal pep talk.

“Hi, Mrs. Bellenger,” I finally say when no one else says anything. “How are you?”

She stands and gives me a hug. “I’m just great,” she says, patting my back. I give Tucker a confused expression over her shoulder, but he just stuffs his pie hole with more pie. “And call me Kay.”

Kay? Maybe that is her name. Isn’t that weird? You never think of teachers having real first names.

“Okay . . . Kay,” I say, smiling as she sits down and pats the seat next to her.

When I sit, she takes a clean plate off the stack in the middle of the table and serves me up a large piece of pie. “I’m sure you’re hungry after your drive,” she says. “Would you like milk . . . or coffee?”

She stands from the table and goes over to the cabinet where we keep the cups and waits for me to answer.

Why is she offering me something to drink in my house?

I hear Tucker snicker, but it’s my daddy I turn to for an answer, even though I didn’t speak it out loud. He has to know what I’m thinking.

But instead of saying a word, he walks over to Mrs. Bellenger and slides his arm around her waist, pulling her into his side.

And suddenly, everything makes sense.

Why he’s always so busy when I call him.

Why there were unfamiliar leftover dishes in the refrigerator the last time I was home.

Why he’s always out on Friday nights.

Why he was so happy and at ease when he visited for Thanksgiving.

“You’re datin’ Mrs. Bellenger?” I ask, a slight laugh in my voice. “Oh, my God. How did I not see this?”

She had a thing for my dad. I remember. Back when I was in tenth grade, she stayed late for an entire week while I perfected this lemon meringue pie for my daddy’s birthday. And she would always ask about him. And I saw the way she looked at him when he came to our parents’ night.

“Well, actually,” my dad finally says, gaining back his ability to speak. “We’re engaged.”

I turn to look at Tucker, imagining a look on his face similar to the one I’m sure is on mine—shock, awe, dismay—but no. He’s just sitting there with a smirk on his face.

“Did you know?” I ask, not accusatory, just curious.

“Yep,” he says, laughing and shaking his head. “Well, I mean, I knew before you, but not before today.”

“Uh, congratulations,” I say, turning back to my dad and Kay. They’re both standing there with worrisome expressions, like they’re just waiting for something bad to happen. When I smile, they ease up a little. But it’s not until I walk over to them, giving them both a hug, that they finally breathe easy.

“I’m happy for you,” I tell them, but I mean it most for my daddy. I am. I want him to be happy, and I don’t want him to be lonely. So, seeing him with Mrs. Bellenger—KAY—It’s a good thing. It’s weird and completely unexpected, but good.

After dinner, the four of us sit around the table and visit. It’s nice to hang out with Tucker. I haven’t had a chance to do that since Christmas. And Mrs. Bellenger is really funny. I can see why my daddy likes her . . . or loves her, I guess.

Engaged, I remind myself.

The corner of her eyes crinkle when she smiles, and she looks at him like he hung the moon.

It’s weird seeing him with someone like this. I was so young when my mama died. I remember them being affectionate toward one another, her sometimes sitting on his lap while they watched television, but I don’t remember specifics.

But my daddy is sweet and thoughtful. He occasionally brushes her shoulder or reaches his hand across the table and locks pinkies with her. He listens so intently to her stories and laughs at all of her jokes.

Dinner is amazing. She made jambalaya, and it is close to beating Annie’s, but I’d never tell her that . . . either of them. Even though I live in New Orleans, and it’s a food lover’s paradise, nothing beats home-cooked meals.

I wake up the next morning and have to remind myself where I am. It’s weird how things have changed, but waking up in my old bed feels good. I stretch like a cat on a cool summer’s day and soak up the tiny rays of sunlight that make their way through the large oak outside my window. I left the window cracked last night, and nothing but earthy goodness is seeping through this morning.

Taking a deep breath, I also pick up a hint of coffee, and I can’t stay in bed any longer. Besides, I’m planning on driving back today, and I want to see Annie and Sam before I leave.

Quietly, I make my way down the hall and expect to see my daddy or Kay milling around in the kitchen, but I’m surprised when it’s my big brother standing over the coffee pot, waiting for it to finish.

“Are we the first ones up?” I ask, looking around the house. I don’t know why, but last night I was so caught up in the news and the conversation that I missed the tiny new touches in the house. It’s obvious that Kay has made her mark. Part of me is a teeny tiny bit sad, but the bigger part is happy.