Melinda Curtis - The Family Man

Relieved that the crews were okay, Logan gave a jerky nod to indicate he understood, that he would try harder to toe the line. Then he waited for Jackson to go away.

He didn’t.

“I know that losing Deb hit you hard, but you have to snap out of this.”

“Is that an order?” Something bitter climbed up Logan’s throat. He told himself it was just bad tacos, not the fact that his best friend since high school was disappointed in him. “Or am I missing something?”

Jackson shook his head. “You know what I miss? I miss my right-hand man. I miss my friend. There are a lot of us that miss you, buddy. You might want to think about that while you’re checking out that sunset.”

Logan would like nothing more than to do just that.

Only thing was, he didn’t know how to find that person Jackson referred to—the man he used to be.

STANDING IN LOGAN’S driveway later, Thea breathed deeply. The green scent of fir and pine filled the air. The dark green and brown colors set against the dusting of snow on the ground were calming. This part of Idaho was breathtakingly beautiful, so different from the skyscrapers of Seattle.

She could forget her goals up here, set aside the dream of earning a degree that would put her at the top of her field as her mother had done. Here she could listen to her little inner voice, the one that occasionally piped up at the oddest times with a twenty-seven-year-old’s desire for a family, a white picket fence and PTA meetings.

She let herself stare at Logan’s house just a little longer before she went back inside. It was a perfect house, straight off a Christmas card. The big log home was blanketed in snow, with smoke curling out of the two-story brick chimney. Part of Thea longed for the storybook life that had to go along with living in such a house. But she’d promised her mother when she was ten—right before her mother left—that she’d make something of herself.

Thea retreated to the kitchen and sank into a spindle-backed chair that felt unsteady enough to be an antique, her notes in piles next to her laptop, her study plan tacked to the wall. She needed to be reviewing her advanced technology notes. She should have reviewed them two days ago. She swung her foot, causing a ripple from the bells she’d attached to her shoes. According to her grandmother, vibrant noise was supposed to keep her spirits up, because the light notes reminded her to believe in sunshine and happily-ever-afters, of dreams being achieved. The sound didn’t help. She couldn’t focus on her studies.

The kitchen table was adorned with a deep brown crocheted doily. The hardwood floor was dark wood, as were the cabinets, and the countertop was brown tile with brown grout. Brown. Dark. Corners. Even the coffeemaker was made of black plastic.

The effect of the room was downright depressing, not at all the homey atmosphere the exterior of the house promised. Thea needed to dive into her notes, but she couldn’t concentrate in this gloomy environment. She pushed back her chair.

“Brown,” she muttered as she moved into the shadowy living room. Brown hardwood floors, brown velour couches—brown, brown, brown, brown, brown. Not a bit of other color in the place. The same neatness and lack of knickknacks in the kitchen pervaded this room—nothing to indicate anything about the man who lived here, his family, his roots. No photos of smiling relatives and friends or mementos of any kind. With the blinds closed in every room, it was more sterile than the furnished apartment she and the twins had been evicted from. And, despite the neatness of the place, everything was coated with a layer of dust.

The house had seemed so promising from the outside. Thea wandered dejectedly down the dimly lit hallway toward the bathroom.

“Deb, is that you?” an elderly, shaky voice called out as Thea passed another dark room.

“It’s me, Thea.” Thea poked her head in the bedroom. Glen, Logan’s maiden aunt, a gray-haired beauty, was sitting in bed knitting something with dark brown yarn.

The coffee mug Thea had filled earlier and a half-eaten piece of apple pie rested on the nightstand.

“Do I know you, dear?” Glen asked in a tremulous voice that sounded close to an elderly Katharine Hepburn.

“I’m taking care of the twins until Logan comes back.”

Lexie had warned Thea that Glen’s short-term memory was unreliable. She might have said nonexistent. Glen didn’t seem to remember Thea at all.

“Now, my boy Logan, he’s a man you can rely on. Cares about folks, he does.” Glen’s blue eyes were dull, faded, and a bit lost. She sighed. “Have I ever told you that I raised Logan and Deb after my sister died?” Glen gestured to her bureau of dark wood. Several pictures blanketed in thick dust were displayed there. It was the first place in the house that Thea had seen pictures.

“No, you haven’t.” Thea stepped nearer for a closer look, carefully brushing away the dust on an old, square-framed picture of two similar-looking young women leaning close, with seventies beehive hairdos and psychedelic orange and lime-green dresses.

“That’s me and my sister, Meg.” Glen shuffled out of bed and stood next to Thea. She smelled of soiled clothing and sweet coffee. This close, Thea could see her complexion had the tawny hue of unwashed skin. “And this is Deb and Logan.”

Thea closed her eyes for a moment to collect herself as anger at the old woman’s neglect threatened to overwhelm her. Lexie, with her own family and responsibilities, couldn’t be blamed, but the absent Logan McCall could. Already, Thea was thinking about what needed to be done—linens washed, everything dusted, swept and vacuumed, and Glen needed a bath, along with a complete brushing of her hair and teeth.

Thea drew in a steadying breath before peering at the photo Glen indicated. Logan wore a tuxedo and Deb a princess-style wedding dress. Two impeccably groomed blond heads leaned close together, both sporting picture-perfect smiles. Their expressions were so alike…

“They’re twins,” Thea said, noting the resemblance.

“Yep,” Glen confirmed. “Runs in our family thicker than the plague. Meg was my twin.” Her hand stroked the picture of the two women, seeming to tremble more with each breath she took.

Thea took Glen’s arm in case she collapsed. “Are you all right?”

The old woman nodded with a sniff. “Doc says my asthma medication gives me the shakes. Can’t complain. Well, I could complain, but what good would it do me?” She returned to the bed.

Glen’s face seemed deathly pale in the shadowy bedroom. Thea thought Glen could use more than some occasional light. Giving in to impulse, Thea spun the plastic handle on the blinds to let sunshine stream through the window.

Glen frowned. “Logan doesn’t like them open.”

“Why not?” Thea couldn’t understand why Logan would want to keep this sweet old lady in the dark.

“Sometimes it’s easier not to look.” Glen waved a hand at the bureau again. “Those blond beauties in the back are Deb’s little girls—Tess and Hannah.”

When it seemed Glen was waiting for a reaction to the girls, Thea obligingly leaned in for a closer look. The twins were younger, sporting bright bathing suits and smiles. Everything about the girls in the picture sparkled with energy and happiness. Thea longed to see them that way again.

Glen settled back against the pillows. “They light up this house.”

It was comforting to know that the girls had been happy here. Thea hoped they would be again. “I’ll leave you to your crocheting and go check on the girls.”

“I may as well go with you, just in case their room’s not as clean as it should be. I wouldn’t want the girls to get into trouble.” Glen scooted back off the bed. She turned the handle on the blinds to bring the room back to shadows. “Logan prefers the house dark,” she explained again as she shuffled ahead of Thea down the hall.