Page 23 of Slow Burn
“Did you take Mama out that night?” she asked.
Frank drew a breath and looked upward, irritation edging his sigh. “I don’t remember, Joss.”
“Nan had me most of the evening,” she pressed. “So I thought maybe you’d had a date.”
“Probably. She was off that night, right?” His tone carried paternal exasperation, as if they were discussing something as trivial as her teenage spending habits.
From the other end of the bar, she felt Cole’s focus settle on them again, the curiosity like a caress. Maybe the interaction wasn’t as mundane-looking as she was hoping. It was just as well. She felt like her shoulders were tucked into her ears.
“Yeah,” she said quietly, trying to concentrate on Frank. “How come you didn’t stay after?”
His head snapped toward her. “What?”
“Why didn’t you stay over like you usually did? You always made the best French toast.”
Something like fear darted across his face for a moment. “I-I don’t remember, Jossie. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I wish I had been. Maybe if—” His words broke off into an unsteady exhale.
Jocelyn bit her lip, feeling the weight of his grief. It was heavier than hers, unworked and raw. Pity filled her when the understanding settled more solidly that he truly hadn’t moved on.
“It wasn’t your fault, Frank.” She placed her hand on his arm.
His eyes jerked away. He patted her hand once before pulling free. “That’s about all I can handle tonight, Hon.” He drained his glass and reached for his wallet.
“It’s on me,” she said quickly.
“No, it’s not.” He tossed cash on the bar and leaned down to press a kiss to the top of her head. “It was good to see you, baby girl.”
She cupped her glass with both hands, blinking back tears as he walked away.
Several minutes passed as the Friday night rush pressed in, the room filling with chatter and movement. Jocelyn finished her drink, tasting none of it.
ten
“Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire.” - Gustav Mahler
Cole’s pencil scratched out an uneven rhythm as he scrawled measurements along the two-by-four he was about to cut. He stuck the pencil behind his ear, hefted the board to the table saw, and lined it up. The saw sat in the stale shade of the old house his granddad had grown up in—a Depression-era craftsman so small it made more sense as a shed than a home.
Sometimes Cole wondered how a family of seven had managed to cram inside it without killing each other.
Once his own house was finished, he figured he’d turn this place into a workshop. Sure, it could serve as a guesthouse, but who the hell would he ever host? He barely knew anyone outside Cedar Hollow, and the truth was, he didn’t much care to.
The saw roared to life, drowning out the sound of a car crunching across gravel, but when Cole shut it off, the footsteps that followed rang out clear enough through the open windows. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his back, proof of how uselesshis attempt at airflow had been. He ripped off his goggles, swiped a forearm across his brow, and waited.
A tall, lean figure filled the doorway, and Cole saw where Jocelyn got her height from.
His mood soured at once, his expression following quick behind. He’d already been trying—and failing—to shake Jocelyn Murphy from his head, but this unwelcome visitor did nothing to aid his efforts.
Daniel Abbott.
The older man smiled politely, pretending not to notice Cole’s scowl. Abbott wasn’t a fool. He was just annoying enough to make a man wish he was.
“Don’t have the energy for you today,” Cole grumbled, snatching up his water bottle. He nearly chucked it at the man but settled for an angry gulp instead.
Daniel’s hands skimmed the stack of two-by-fours Cole had in the corner before stepping inside to lean against the wall, casual as a house cat. “You’ve been busy. Making good progress.” He nodded toward the framed out first floor several yards out.
He looked too much like a proud father as he ignored Cole’s dismissal completely.
Cole snapped the lid back onto his water. “Answer hasn’t changed, so don’t bother.”
