Mary Baxter - In Hot Water

“There’s nothing else I can say to make you change your mind?” Keefe’s harsh sigh filtered through the line.

“Is that a question, Keefe?”

“Yes.”

“Not a thing. Tell my father he made his own bed and that I’m going to take delight in watching him wallow in it.”

Keefe slammed down the receiver.

Holt in turn flipped the lid shut on his cell. Frustration and anger churned inside him and he knew it was time to make use of his gym. His favorite stress reliever was his punching bag. Hitting it repeatedly would definitely do the trick.

A smirk altered Holt’s tight features. It would certainly be better than heading for the jail, jerking up his old man and punching the crap out of him.

He despised his father so much that he knew he could do it.

But he wouldn’t. Holt walked to the bow of his boat and felt the warm breeze on his hot skin. Any time he thought about Seymour, his entire body reacted violently. He knew that for his own good he should let that hate go, that carrying it around would eventually eat him up.

It was starting to now. He grasped the railing and swore. If he never saw his father again, he’d be happy. He’d been certain Seymour felt the same way. So what had made him change and ask his son for a favor?

Fear.

The gut-wrenching, twisting kind. That would be unacceptable in Seymour’s world where everyone lived according to his rules and regulations. The thought of spending a day in prison, much less years, must be driving him insane.

Holt’s smile twisted into a sneer. Good. If Seymour was convicted, he’d get what he deserved. What goes around comes around. In his father’s case, this philosophy was proving to be true, and in a way Holt had never thought possible. Hooked on prescription drugs. He just couldn’t believe it. His father and drugs just didn’t mix. Seymour’s modus operandi was that he controlled everything; nothing controlled him.

It had always been that way. Even when Holt was a young child Seymour had wanted to control every part of his son’s life, just as he’d controlled Holt’s mother.

Only Holt had rebelled and oftentimes bested his father, especially when he shot down Seymour’s dream of his son following in his footsteps and becoming a surgeon. Instead, Holt had opted to become a criminal defense attorney. He had gone to work for a famous firm and done far better than even his wildest expectations until his mother’s death and a severe case of career burnout sent him off into uncharted waters on his sailboat.

And he hadn’t regretted a day he’d turned his back on his career and his father.

Holt wondered what had made Seymour slip into the gutter. Perhaps his young trophy wife was giving him trouble. Perhaps she’d decided to ditch him for a man her own age. Just the thought had probably sent his old man into a frenzy. Or perhaps his trip down Drug Lane had nothing to do with the second Mrs. Doctor Seymour Ramsey. Perhaps she’d turned out to be the wife of his dreams.

Holt couldn’t care less.

He’d never even seen the woman much less met her. Since Holt maintained an office in Dayton where he took on clients from time to time, news of his father always reached him.

Anything that pertained to the Ramsey family was big news. Unfortunately, that included him whenever he was in town. He’d been told by his friends that pictures of Seymour’s second wedding and the subsequent events had been splashed all over the pages of the daily paper.

Holt had counted his blessings that he’d been nowhere around, that he’d been on one of his long jaunts in and around Canada. If he’d been in the vicinity, he might have done something he’d regret, and Seymour hadn’t been worth that.

Seymour had ceased to mean anything to Holt when he’d divorced his mother years ago simply because she no longer pleased him physically or mentally. Six months later Lucille Ramsey had taken her own life by shooting herself in the stomach. A day before her death, she had told Holt she still loved his father, that she would always love him.

That declaration had devastated Holt.

After the funeral, he had severed all contact with Seymour. That had been years ago. How many years? He had no clue. He didn’t care. All he knew was he hadn’t forgotten or forgiven his father and that he could no longer bear the sight of him.

Holt shook his head trying to clear it. He squinted his eyes against the sun’s harsh glare and peered at the magnificent sail that billowed in the breeze. A sense of peace momentarily replaced the anger that had raged inside him.

Still, he strode down into his gym and battled it out with his punching bag. Later, after showering and swigging down a beer, he sprawled on the sofa and closed his eyes.

Only he couldn’t sleep. Images of his mother’s face swam before his eyes. He squeezed them tighter, willing his mother away. It was as if he could hear her whispering softly to him, telling him what she wanted him to do.

“No, I can’t,” he muttered out loud in an agonized voice. “I won’t.”

Everything appeared normal. Maci actually pretended her life was back to the way it was before Seymour’s arrest. But when she walked out the door and into the media scrum, Maci got a severe reality check.

Moments like that made her fear her life would never be the same, especially if her husband went to prison. Disregarding that unwelcome thought, she looked up from the set of house plans in front of her and wiggled her shoulders. She’d been working for several hours on a kitchen for a new client, and she was tired.

But her fatigue went much deeper than a sore neck and shoulders. Since Seymour had been hauled off in handcuffs, she hadn’t slept a wink. The fact that he’d been released on his own recognizance two days ago hadn’t helped.

Seymour, however, didn’t seem to have the same problem. Earlier at breakfast he’d eaten his omelet with his usual healthy appetite which prompted her to ask, “You really aren’t worried, are you?”

He put his fork down and looked at her. “Not in the least.”

“Well, I am,” she countered.

“I know you are, and I’m sorry, sorry for the pain I’ve caused you and Jonah.”

“What about yourself, Seymour? Even if you get out of this mess, your arrest is bound to have an impact on your practice.” Her voice rose an octave. “A man is dead.”

Seymour’s cup stalled halfway to his mouth, and his eyes narrowed. “I’d rather not have a replay of the past few days, Maci. I’m trying to get on with my life and my practice.”

Frustration surged through her. “And just how is that possible when every time we walk outside, bulbs flash in our faces and hurtful questions are thrown at us?”

“I’m sorry about that, too, but this will pass. In a few days, someone else’s life will be under the microscope.”

“Meanwhile, you’re going to go on with yours as usual.”

“Absolutely. And I suggest you do likewise.”

“It’s not that easy for me, Seymour.” She paused with a deep sigh. “The thought of you—”

“That’s not going to happen,” he said in a stern, harsh tone.

“Maybe not, if you’d consider looking for another criminal attorney.” She refused to back down and play the feebleminded mate without a thought of her own.

“That’s not necessary. I’m certain Holt will be here.”

“How can you be so sure, especially when he gave Keefe an emphatic no? Shouldn’t you at least have a contingency plan?”

“You worry too much, my dear.” Seymour wiped his mouth and then stood. “I’m going to the office. Give Jonah a hug for me. I’ll see you this evening.”

He leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. “Oh, I’ve invited Keefe for dinner. Please inform Annie.”