Page 16 of Echoes at Driftwood Cottage

“Why?”

“Because you don’t know my mother. Look, I don’t want to be alone tonight. Why don’t you build a fire in the fireplace? I’ll give you the whole sordid backstory about Gwynn Eaton. Just know beforehand, it’s not pretty. I don’t want you judging me or feeling sorry for me, either.”

He scrubbed a thumb down her cheek and tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “ No one gets to pick their parents. Why would I judge?”

“Because I didn’t win the lottery when it came to mothers.” She patted his chest. “You start the fire. I’ll make us a drink. I’ll even try making you one of those daiquiris you’re so fond of.”

He cocked a brow. “Really? You have rum?”

She poked a playful finger into his belly. “Of course I do. Doesn’t everyone?”

Rowan got busy in the kitchen making the drinks while Daniel grabbed several oversized pillows and a blanket from the bedroom closet. When she brought in the tray, she found him already sprawled out in front of the fireplace, his long legs stretched out, trying to get comfortable.

He noticed she hadn’t fixed a drink for herself but was sticking to wine.

She waited for him to take his first sip. When he did, she saw his face light up and break into a wide smile. “Did I get it right?”

“I think I’m in love. You didn’t forget the cinnamon.”

She sat down cross-legged next to him. “Heavy on the lemon, light on the honey.”

“A little sweet, a whole lot sour. Perfect.”

“There must be at least a hundred variations of this drink online. Why the Hemmingway daiquiri?”

“Purely an economical way to go. My college roommate kept a stash of rum on hand. His dad was a distributor. While all my friends began drinking sugary, fruity stuff using Malibu rum that made you sick after a couple of drinks, I went in another direction—sour but not tart, less sweet. I discovered how cheap it was to mix them together. Lemons don’t cost much. The school cafeteria always had them sitting around near the tea. They kept honey on the tables, cinnamon too for oatmeal. The cheap angle was a poor college student’s dream.”

He knew her well enough to know she’d gone into stall mode. “Now, tell me about your mother.”

“Gwynn Eaton,” Rowan murmured and took a sip of wine. She let her head fall back on the couch cushion and closed her eyes as if talking about the woman was too painful to face otherwise. “My first memory was her passed out on the floor, a group of people standing over her. There was loud rock music blasting in the background. I’m fairly certain that time, somebody had the good sense to call an ambulance. I remember them wheeling her out the door. She’d overdosed.”

She opened her eyes and stared into the flickering flames of the fire. “Then there’s this other memory I have when the stench of marijuana filled the air as people took out their needles and shot up. Again, we never seemed to be alone but always had a large group of people hanging around who were in the same shape she was. During the worst times, the places we lived in were downright filthy. I didn’t attend school on a regular basis until I was probably eight or nine years old.”

“It must’ve been incredibly difficult to keep up with your class.”

“Oh, it was. I remember Granddad and Gran showing up, packing up my stuff, and loading me into the pickup more times than I could count. They’d get her into a rehab facility, any one of half a dozen or so. God knows how much money they spent trying to help her kick her habit. Gwynn would stay sober for a while. One time it was for almost a year. But she always relapsed. Always. She spent a lot of time in rehab facilities or psych wards. One or the other. Social Services would contact my grandparents and they’d come and pick me up. And the cycle would start all over again.”

“What caused them to finally take you in?”

“I remember Gwynn overdosing at a motel with it pouring rain outside. Gran showed up. So it wasn’t much of a surprise when Gwynn shot up once too often and suffered a stroke, a massive one. It’s that simple. She’s basically a vegetable, has been for years. That’s not how the doctors would describe her condition. But various ones told Gran eight years back that she’d never get any better. And she hasn’t.”

“I’m so sorry, Rowan. That must’ve been incredibly difficult on you and your grandparents.”

“What did I say earlier? Don’t feel sorry for me. It was tough, but I learned to cope. I survived. My grandparents were amazing, and when it was just Gran. She did everything she could to shield me from the worst of it. She made sure I went to school and had a normal childhood as much as possible. And she never complained once. We didn’t have a lot of money, but she loved me and did everything she could to make sure I had food and a place to live.”

“After the age of ten.”

“Well, yeah. But before that, off and on, I’d come here to stay, sometimes for weeks and months at a time. That’s why I can’t understand how the Gran I knew would keep a secret like that headstone. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t add up. Gran wasn’t like that. She was warm, funny, caring. We used to watch old movies together. I just can’t believe she’d ever be a party to keeping something like that without telling me.”

“Maybe she never worked up the courage.”

“I suppose.”

“Do you mind me asking a personal question? How do you afford the kind of care your mother needs?”

“Granddad had a life insurance policy. When he had his heart attack and collapsed, the payout was something like five hundred thousand dollars. Gran banked every penny. She lived like a pauper, clipping coupons, never eating out, scared to spend a dime on herself because she was afraid she’d run out of money to care for Gwynn. There were times when she went without to make sure Gwynn stayed in the nursing home.”

“And now that she’s passed away?”

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