Читать книгу The Closer - Rhonda Nelson - Страница 10

Prologue

Summer 1992

GRIFFIN WICKLOW SAT on the front porch of the house and idly tossed a baseball into a glove, though there was nothing idle about the rage simmering inside him.

Lazy bumblebees buzzed around the hydrangea bush while their dogs—Brooks and Dunn—took shelter beneath its shade in a vain attempt to combat the heat. It was sweltering—he could feel the sweat sliding down his back—but the heat matched his mood, so rather than go inside and cool off, he remained on the porch.

And he watched. Glared. Not that it made any difference.

Every time the door swung open, he could hear his mother, her voice choked with desperation and as much dignity as she had left, plead with his father as he made trek after determined trek to his car, his arms loaded down with his belongings. Griff’s little sister, Glory, hadn’t quite yet realized what was happening and was peppering both parents with questions. Innocent ones like, “Can I have chocolate milk?” and “Where is Daddy going?”

His lips curled into a bitter smile.

On second thought, that last question wasn’t so innocent after all. Gallingly, everyone but Glory knew where their father was going. That’s why the neighbors had manufactured reasons to be outside, so that they could watch the drama unfold before them firsthand. As if his family’s humiliation and pain was for their entertainment.

Across the street, Mrs. Johnson pretended to water her flowers while shooting covert looks across the way. Next door, Mr. Thigpen lingered by his mailbox, appearing to read a circular as he, too, shot furtive looks toward their house.

In and out his father went, over and over again, and with each slam of the screen door, Griff’s anger intensified into a white-hot ball of fury, one that made his insides throb, his hands shake and, to his resentful shame, a lump swell in his throat.

After a cursory glance inside the car and trunk, his father closed the lid. He stood there for a moment, his gaze lingering at a spot on the back tire, then he sighed and made his way back to the porch. He didn’t go into the house, but rather stopped before Griff.

“I know you don’t understand this now, but it’s for the best.”

Griff looked up and merely smirked at him. “Oh, I think I understand better than you think I do. Your girlfriend is pregnant. You’ve started a new family and are chucking the old one.” He grimaced, continued to toss his ball. “Nothing too difficult to understand about that.”

His father’s hands fisted at his sides. “It’s not that simple. These are adult matters, things you couldn’t possibly understand.”

The hell he couldn’t—Griff knew selfishness when he saw it—but he wouldn’t argue. It was pointless and somehow Griff knew his silence was more painful for his father than if he spoke.

“I’ll be in touch,” his dad said. “I promise. We’ll do something for your birthday next week. Go to the batting cages, work on your swing.”

A spark of hope flared, but he quickly snuffed it out. They were only words. Maybe even good intentions, but Griff knew better than to believe them, promise or not. He didn’t expect his father to show up for his thirteenth birthday any more than he imagined he’d be around for his thirtieth. He might have just now worked his way around to leaving them, but he’d checked out more than a year ago when he’d met her. Priscilla. How odd that he could hate someone he’d never met, but he did.

His father took another deep breath, one that seemed to swell enough to sever all ties, heralding the end. “You’re the man of the house now, Griff. Look out for your mother and sister.” He turned abruptly and made his way to the car, then backed out of the driveway and drove away.

He never looked back.

He didn’t send so much as a card for Griff’s thirteenth birthday, or any birthday thereafter.

So much for promises.