Kimberly Meter - A Sinclair Homecoming

“And do you believe that?” Jeremiah asked as Miranda pulled away.

“Maybe. It seems to have worked out that way for me and Trace. Maybe it’ll be that way with Wade, too. Although, he’s the most rigid out of all of us, so even if what he needed was standing right in front of him with a big neon sign, he’d probably refuse to see it.”

“He has that Sinclair stubbornness in spades, huh?”

“Oh, yeah...my older brother could write a book on how to be a stubborn jackass.”

“That’s saying something because you and Trace... Well, I’d say you’re both pretty stubborn.”

“Only when people don’t agree that our way is the best way,” she quipped half joking. When Jeremiah’s mouth lifted in a wry grin she conceded, “All right, I see your point but don’t push your luck. No one likes to be reminded of their shortcomings. Shall I list a few of your less than desirable personality traits?”

“Point taken.” He grinned. “Now, are we going to eat lunch or go straight to afternoon delight? Your tirade against your brother has eaten into our lunch breaks. I’m not sure we have time for both.”

Miranda grabbed Jeremiah by the tie and began leading him to the bedroom. “I wasn’t that hungry, anyway. C’mon, you big, sexy man o’mine. Let’s see how well you perform under pressure.”

“Baby, I eat pressure for lunch. I’m an administrator, remember?”

She laughed and they disappeared behind their bedroom door.

And for the next thirty minutes, Miranda’s thoughts were blissfully free of any member of her damn family.

* * *

MORGAN WAS BUSY studying her case notes for her next client when her secretary, Remy, came into her office with a scandalized expression on his face. With Remy, she never knew if he was simply being theatrical or if there was something truly scandalous to share. At any rate, Remy was entertaining at the very least. And he was family so she’d long since given up trying to change him. Not that she would if she could. Remy kept her sane around a bunch of crazies, as he put it.

“Girlfriend, you are not going to believe what file just crossed my desk for processing.” Without waiting for Morgan to guess, Remy said, “You remember those poor Sinclairs? You know the family whose girl was killed all those years ago by some psycho? Well, seems the mama has gone and had a heart attack and now Adult Protective Services is involved. They want a full evaluation of her mental status, if you know what I mean.”

Morgan frowned and accepted the file from Remy. “Why would APS need an eval after a heart attack? What am I missing here?”

“Check out the pics in the file,” Remy said.

Morgan opened the file and pulled aside the intake paperwork to see the enclosed pictures. She stared in shock. “Oh, my...word...” Her gaze returned to Remy. “She’s a hoarder?”

“Either that or she’s auditioning for world’s worst housekeeper,” Remy quipped.

“Oh, dear...that poor family,” Morgan said under her breath as she went through the pictures. Clutter of all sorts, from brand-new items to trash, littered every available space in the modest home and choked the halls. She returned to the intake paperwork. “It says here the paramedics couldn’t get to her because of the mess. It’s a wonder she was able to call 911. This is just awful. That family has been through so much already.”

“Oh, and it gets worse,” Remy said, delighted to have some relevant gossip. “On the day that APS booted her from the house and condemned it, police arrested the father for marijuana cultivation. He’s been in jail for weeks. Wouldn’t let anyone post bail. That’s a weird thing. Why would anyone want to sit it out in jail?”

“Maybe he felt more in control there,” Morgan answered, though her attention was on the Sinclair mom.

“How does being locked up make you feel more in control?” Remy asked. “I would say that’s the opposite of being in control when someone else is telling you when to eat, when to sleep and when to go outside.”

Morgan paused in her reading to answer her inquisitive cousin. “Well, if he has a substance-abuse problem and he doesn’t think he has the willpower to stay clean, being in jail takes care of that problem, doesn’t it?” Remy recognized the rhetorical nature of her question and shrugged.

“I suppose.”

“Well, at any rate, the father’s problems aren’t my concern. Adult Protective Services wants me to evaluate the mom so that’s what I’ll do. I’ll make time to do it tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you to keep your lip zipped about confidential cases, right?”

“Honey, now you’re just being rude. Of course I don’t talk about your crazies to anyone else.”

“Please don’t call them that. It’s insulting.”

“Oh, fine. You’re in a mood today. Is it time for Aunt Flo to visit?” But Remy didn’t stick around for an answer and sashayed from the room. That man drove her nuts at times but out of anyone in her family, Remy was the one who knew her secrets and never whispered them to a soul. For that, she was forever grateful.

Shaking off the odd vibe of her wandering thoughts, she shoved the file into her satchel to read at home tonight. In the meantime, her next client was scheduled in ten minutes and she still hadn’t finished going over her notes. Time to get to work.

CHAPTER THREE

THE TENSION BETWEEN Wade and his brother, Trace, was like a living, breathing thing, wedging itself in the open space as they traversed the sanitized halls of South Peninsula Hospital to their mother’s recovery room.

“Whatever you do, don’t go making promises that she can move back home,” Trace said. “Until Adult Protective Services says the house is fit for human habitation, she can’t move back, and trust me, it’s going to take a whole lot of cleaning to put that house back together again.”

“Fine. What’s this about Dad refusing bail?”

“He doesn’t want to come home, I guess,” Trace answered with a shrug. “But he’s not my concern. He can sit in that jail all he wants. Better for him, anyway. We have bigger problems and Dad’s booming drug business isn’t one of them.”

Wade exhaled in irritation. Trace wasn’t one to exaggerate but surely it couldn’t be as bad as everyone was making it out to be. Seemed everyone was running around being Chicken Little. So the house was a mess. They’d clean it and set things to right. Shouldn’t be a case for so much hand-wringing. He checked his watch. “After we see Mom, drop me off at the house and I’ll pick up Mom’s car to use while I’m here. No sense renting a car when there’s one sitting in the driveway.”

“Fine. But don’t try to go into the house at night.”

“And why is that?” he asked, irritated. “Is the boogeyman going to jump out from underneath the sofa?”

“No, smart-ass, you might trip and cause an avalanche and then we’ll have two family members in the hospital. I know you don’t believe me but you will when you see the house.”

Trace was right; Wade didn’t believe him. The house couldn’t be that bad. He grew up in that house. There was no way his mother had turned into the kind of person who hoarded to a dangerous level. The idea—well, the idea was too much for him to imagine or accept.

“Just so I know...am I going to get the cold shoulder the entire time I’m here?” he asked Trace.

“Depends. Are you going to start being part of the solution or part of the problem?”

“What are you talking about? I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Because our mother had a heart attack. Tell me if she hadn’t, that you would be here like we asked you to be.”

He couldn’t rightly say that and Trace knew it. “Some of us have lives that we can’t just drop because something is going on at home.”