The Drake House (18 page)

“A woman?” she asked. Hopeful, expectant.

Nick grinned. “Yes.”
Come on, ask us to come over
, he thought, hoping to give Trisha a diversion. He’d most certainly regret this later. Meeting the parents was a giant leap in their relatively non-existent relationship.

“You must bring her by. Come over for lunch. I can make…”

Nick laughed, causing Trisha to turn and look at him. “Um, no. We’ll come by only if sandwiches are on the menu. Or something Dad cooks.”

His mother sighed heavily. “I’m capable of making lunch.”

“Not without food poisoning.”

He could all but see his mother pouting. “Fine. I’ll get your father in from the shed. He’s determined to trap the raccoon that keeps eating the garbage.”

“We’re still downtown, so give us thirty minutes.”

Pocketing his phone, he turned to see Trisha’s eyebrows raised and her mouth thinned. “It’s just lunch,” he ventured.

“With your parents.”

“I’ve met yours. We’re here. You need to eat.”

Already backing down, she sighed. “What was that about food poisoning?”

“Dad’s cooking. No worries.”

Before she could find another excuse, he pulled the car out of the structure and got on the ramp for I-94, heading into one of the western subdivisions toward Elm Grove.

After not saying a word on the drive over, he turned to her when he parked in front of his parent’s ranch. “Try to eat something, okay?”

“I know how to be polite.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He sighed. “Look, we’ll worry about the rest later. For now, just relax.”

“Relax,” she repeated. “Right.”

“Look at me,” he said.

The little gold and hazel flecks in her eyes were more noticeable in the sunlight. Such beautiful eyes. Long, dark lashes. He brought his mouth down on hers, intending to calm her nerves before going inside, but instead the kiss riled his heart rate. This was why he hadn’t touched her in a week. Because whenever he did, he was gone.

Clinging, seeking, her mouth moved against his. Her lashes fluttered closed, but he kept his open, watching, trying to maintain distance. As if it mattered. Within seconds, he cupped her face. Her hands fisted on his shoulders, pulling him in.

Backing away, he muttered, “Well, I tried.”

“What?” she whispered.

I tried staying away from you and not giving a damn
. He shook his head. He’d worry about that later too. “Nothing. Let’s go in.”

Chapter Twelve

“Don’t look at those,” Nick ordered from the living room of his parent’s house.

After introducing Trisha to his parents, she walked across the plush neutral carpet over to the red brick mantel where his mother displayed the most unimaginable pictures of him growing up. She looked just as at home here as she did on the orchard. His mother’s country décor not seemingly Trisha’s style, but she’d smiled down on the hand-crafted birdhouses and spiced candles.

“Why not?” she asked, not in the least fazed by his tone.

“Because I said so.”

Trisha made a noise he could only interpret as a blow-off and studied the photos anyway. Satisfied she was distracted, he sat on the green plaid-print couch and stretched his legs before him.

His mother returned from the kitchen with a tray of lemonade. “You leave her alone, Nicholas.” After setting the tray down on a glass-top coffee table, she walked over to the fireplace next to Trisha, fussing with her shoulder-length red hair like they’d caught her before her primping time was complete.

His father, still in the kitchen making chicken salad, agreed with his mother. “I could drag out the old videos,” he shouted from the doorway.

Great.
“I’m shutting up.”

At least it was getting her mind off other things. Trisha may be the atypical female, but even she had her breaking point. If Nick could avoid that, even for a short time, he’d do so. Leaning forward, he poured a glass of lemonade for himself.

“Nick so rarely brings a date home,” his mother went on to say, completely ignoring the fact he was in the room.

Trisha didn’t seem fazed in the least. She looked over at him with a grin and then back to his mom. “We’re not dating, not seriously. We’re in town for…business.”

A heavy, weary sigh erupted from his mother. Picking up an old photo of him, she said, “That’s a shame. At this rate, I’m never going to get grandkids.”

Nick coughed violently, choking on his lemonade. Before he could step in to save Trish, she rescued herself. “You’d really like my mom. I’ll have to keep you away from her for a while.” The grin on her face had him melting. Feeling.

Taking the photo from his mother, Trisha studied it, then looked at him. “You were a goofy looking kid.” She replaced the photo and grabbed another. “Is this your sister?”

Nick didn’t have to look. He knew which picture she was holding. “Yep,” he said, focusing instead on maintaining a level face.

“Bethany. She died last fall,” his mom said, the despair momentarily clouding her blue eyes. Nick wished she’d yell at him. Hate him. Anything to banish the sadness etched on her heart. They never blamed him; they didn’t need to. He did it enough for everyone.

Because it
was
his fault.

And it had been a bad idea bringing her here. Bringing her into his world and their mess.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Trisha said, replacing the photo on the mantel.

“Lunch,” his dad shouted from the kitchen.

Gathering around the white maple table in the far corner of the narrow kitchen, Nick stared at the seat which was once Bethany’s growing up, recalling her wild red curls like his mother’s, her pale skin like the Irish in Mom’s side. Freckles dotting her nose…

The wallpaper had changed from a hideous fruit bowl pattern since then to a subdued cornflower and ivory vertical stripe. He and Bethany used to run from the living room straight into the kitchen when called for meals, a direct shot if done correctly. He’d had stitches a time or two when not done right.

Trisha claimed the seat and glanced at his father. “Thank you for lunch.”

“Don’t mention it. So, you own an orchard, I hear?”

“I do,” she said. “Just under eighty acres. We grow Redfree apples. We also jar applesauce in the fall for local distributors.”

Nick watched his father and Trisha slip comfortably into conversation as if he wasn’t there. Smiling, he glanced at his mother and did a double take. The grin on her face, aimed right at him, was mischievous.

“I like her,” she mouthed.

Yeah, he liked her, too. Nick nodded, tuning back in to the other conversation and lifting his sandwich.

“You’ll have to ship me some apples. I’ll make a pie.”

“I’ll do that,” Trisha said, biting into her chicken salad. “This is really good,” she said between bites.

Looking like the cat that caught the mouse, his dad bit into his own sandwich and swiped his mouth. “So, what do you think the Brewers chances are this year?”

And here it came. Though he can dream, his poor father had no one to share his love of baseball. “Dad, I’m sure Trisha…”

“I think we’ll do a heck of a lot better,” she interrupted, “now that our starting pitchers actually pitch well. Our bull pen is phenomenal, but they need to stay consistent and healthy.”

A bark of laughter erupted from his dad. “And our offense?”

She set down her sandwich. “We have some heavy hitters. High on-base percentage, too. But when one has a bad streak, the rest fall in line. We’ll see.”

Very carefully, his mother set down her glass in shock.

Nick didn’t move. “Dear God, you like baseball? Dad’s never going to let us leave.”

Trisha laughed, a rich smooth sound that seemed to sink into his soul. “I love football, too. You should come up to Small Rapids for the Packers season opener,” she said, returning her focus back to his dad. “It’s a big hurrah at the ranch. A lot of yelling. I think I lose my voice from September until January.”

Man, she just made dear old Dad the happiest he’d seen him in a long time. Nick sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. It hurt, actually, physically hurt, how much he wanted her right now. Wanted her for longer than right now. Wanted to give her more than right now.

Rising, his mother collected the plates and cups while they discussed batting averages and defensive strategies. Nick listened with half an ear until Trisha changed subjects.

“What line of work are you guys in?”

“I’m a retired truck driver,” his dad answered, “and Margaret over there is a retired librarian.”

Librarian. Well, damn it. Why didn’t I think of that?

“Mom, can we pop by the library? I want to look up something before going back.”

Surely, Milwaukee would have information. The incident with Trisha, or anything on Drake, could possibly be found in one of the papers. That would’ve been before the Journal and Sentinel merged.

“I don’t see why not.”

****

After his mother set them up in a quiet corner of the library, she headed over to the reference desk to chat with some old colleagues. Trisha turned her back to them and focused on Nick.

“I like your parents.”

Nick grunted, not removing his eyes from the computer monitor. “They like you too.” Scrolling down, he checked his notebook and mumbled to himself.

Trisha wondered what they were looking for. She and Brad had already done countless internet searches. She asked Nick what was on her mind.

Straightening, he answered. “That was internet. These are the Journal archives. Madison didn’t have anything, but I don’t think whoever removed them would think to do that in Milwaukee. Ah ha,” he muttered.

Trisha surveyed the screen. “Is that Alexandra’s death notice?”

“Yep.” Clicking a few keys, he brought the article larger. “I searched articles surrounding the date the attorney gave us. This is all that popped up.”

Alexandra Drake of Small Rapids, WI, entered into eternal life on June 7
th
. Born in Minneapolis, MN, Alexandra has made her home in WI the past ten years. She leaves behind no family. Private funeral to follow. Investigations surrounding her death concluded today with a ruling of apparent suicide.

“Suicide,” Trisha whispered.

Through the years when Trisha thought of Alexandra Drake, she didn’t envision suicide as her end. Trisha didn’t know Alexandra, she’d been just a child when she died, but her only, vague memory of her was as a thin woman, with dark hair and sad eyes. Trisha romanticized her death as being from a broken heart, passing away in her sleep.

“There’s nothing on your missing child case,” Nick said.

She shivered. “Let’s go home.”

****

“Why hasn’t Nick been around?”

Trisha looked down at Brad from one of the apple trees in her orchard. Tightening her grip on the ladder, she shaded her eyes from the sun. It was damn hot for late May. “Everything looks good up here.”

“You’re avoiding the question. And Nancy’s been asking.”

It wasn’t her problem Nick hadn’t come by. Ever since their trip into Milwaukee a month ago, he’d stayed away. Trisha laid awake at night thinking about Alexandra, Andrew, Nick, and his parents. Afraid to fall asleep, her mind went into overdrive.

She was just beginning to wonder if she’d imagined the handprints. The voice whispering her name. After everything that had happened since, the incidents seemed so far away.

But then last night, while preparing for bed, she was closing her drapes and spotted a shadow in the orchard. Worried it had been the unknown man from before, she’d reached for the phone. Except at closer examination, the shadow was smaller, feminine. Her blood had turned to ice as she stared. The shadow stood in that pocket between her trees and the woods. A long, stretched form with no body to accompany it.

No body, there should’ve been no shadow.

She had tried to wheeze in air, but she couldn’t draw a breath. Panicking, she shut the drapes and climbed under the covers like a kid.

And how do you call the cops on that? On a frosted handprint on her window? On a handprint burned into her skin? On voices?

God, she wasn’t even sure she was sane, never mind what the police would think.

“Yoo-hoo. Trish?”

Climbing down the ladder, she turned to Brad, trying to remember what they were discussing. “You know Nick and I aren’t serious. I don’t keep tabs on him.”

“You should talk to him.”

“You should mind your own business.” She collapsed the ladder. “I’m sorry,” she said, feeling bad for her jab. “I’m not sleeping well.”

Brad crossed his arms. “All the more reason to talk to him.”

She turned and headed toward the shed. “That’s not why I can’t sleep.”

Well, it’s partly the reason.
The rest fell on the information they found in Milwaukee. As if Andrew’s murder wasn’t senseless enough, what they learned seemed to confirm that.

After returning to Small Rapids that night a month ago, she had a pow-wow in her office with Nick and Brad. Feeling like a block of ice, she’d listened to the two of them theorize. Ideas stemmed as crazy as her being Alexandra’s biological daughter to Alexandra kidnapping her as a kid. Even if the half-baked theories were accurate, it still didn’t explain Andrew.

Brad followed her to the shed. Half the men were up in the trees checking buds, while the other half cut the grass and trimmed back branches lining the property. No one was around to hear them, but Trisha hated talking about this in the open. They hadn’t talked about it since that night either.

“You can’t go on like this, Trish. You look sick. Go over to his place tonight. Sleep over there. Get away for a night.”

Turning her back to him, she unloaded fertilizer bags onto the skids. “You know better, Brad.” Her tone should’ve been a warning.

He grabbed her arm, swinging her around and backing her into the wall. “He’s different.”

The lack of sleep and the high level of stress from the past month had her anger boiling. Tears threatened, so she gritted her teeth. “No, he’s not. And neither am I.” She swiped a tear, avoiding his eyes. “What did you expect? We’d get married and live happily ever after with the kids I can’t conceive while he locks me in at night so I can’t injure myself?” She straightened from the wall. “Be serious, Brad.”