Page 2 of Sighs By the Sea

I climb out of the car and look around. A dilapidated VW bug is at the curb. Yellow and rusted along the bottom.

"That’s Sam’s. The woman could buy a Mercedes or Lexus but goes for a car that only starts half the time."

I nearly crack a smile. It's a very Sam thing to have. But that's not what my mind is stuck on. No. The sight of a rundown vehicle has my mind wandering elsewhere. There's a certain someone else that drove a piece of shit car. Though since I don't really know her, I'm not sure if it was part of her undercover persona or not.

Detective Margaret Parker. One of the LAPD detectives that worked my case. My full confession went to her before she turned it over to the DEA. With her auburn hair, cut at her shoulders with gorgeous beach waves and an easy smile, I was smitten right away. She visited me in prison exactly three times. Each time, I thought she looked more beautiful than the last. But they weren't social calls. She needed information on the operations of our money laundering. It was part of my deal that I would help whenever possible. Her presence lingers in my mind like a ghost, haunting my thoughts with what-ifs.

I shake the thought away. Detective Parker isn't someone I should be thinking of in any sense. She's so far removed from my social standing that I may as well imagine her as a goddess in the heavens. And trust me when I say, that description fits. Not that it matters. I won't ever see her again.

I should be focused on getting my kid back.

Damn. Knowing how far I have to go before that happens hurts. I need to get up to Oregon to see Georgie as soon as possible. George is so much bigger, talking like it’s his job, and causing a ruckus everywhere he goes for my in-laws. I miss him like crazy, but there's a path forward to getting him back. Rushing to the goal isn't an option. For now, he's safe and happy up with Lori in Oregon.

Miranda runs a hand through her dark hair, her bracelet dangling as she does. She gives me a smile. "Ready?"

I nod, and we go to the front door. The home is like all other Southern California two-stories, but I’m not fooled. I know the real estate in this area. Tilly probably paid close to a million bucks for this place.

Miranda rings the bell, and the door swings open. Tilly stands with a young boy on her hip. Her hair is longer, but just as dark and sleek as ever. It looks like she’s added more tattoos to her sleeve, and I make a note to ask about it later.

She brightens and leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek. "Hey! I was wondering when you'd get here. Was traffic awful?"

Miranda is whining about it as we step into the house. The ceilings rise high overhead, a staircase on my left with a baby gate attached. The front room looks more like a formal sitting area. A single couch, draped with toys, is next to a tall bookcase. I smile as I see the bottom two rows of the bookcase are empty. A sure sign of toddlers.

As we walk in, Tommy comes around the corner. "Grayson! My dude, I got that beer you like out back."

A warmth starts to build in my chest. They’re acting like they’re actually excited to see me. Not like the reformed federal prisoner I am. It's refreshing, but I contain my inner joy. Hope can be a dangerous and addictive drug. I learned that when I was first looking for my wife. Every time we got a lead, that stupid, useless emotion would flood through me only to be burned up through sheer exhaustion later on.

Giving Tilly a small grin, I focus on the boy in her arms. "And who's this?"

"Matty, this is your Uncle Gray. Can you say hi?" The adorable boy snuggles his face into Tilly's chest, hiding shyly from my gaze. She rolls her eyes and shifts him higher on her hip. "He's a bit shy, sorry." There's embarrassment in her voice that I want to tell her is completely unnecessary. This kid doesn't know me from a stranger on the street. It's a good thing he doesn't trust some long-haired, scraggly-looking bearded man.

I wave my hand like it doesn't matter, and Tilly starts toward the back of the house. Following along, I try to keep my eyes forward. Snooping is rude, after all. Over her shoulder, Tilly says, "I want you to talk to Sam. She’s got some stuff to run by you."

Tommy slings an arm around my shoulder with a hearty laugh. "Relax, man. You deserve real beer now, not that prison toilet wine." His genuine warmth cuts through my lingering tension.

That coaxes a laugh from everyone except me. I certainly did not partake in any sort of beverage created in toilets. Nor did I ever see any. Federal prison isn't a cakewalk, but it wasn't as horrible as I suspected either. For the most part, I stuck to myself. A few other men in for tax crimes would speak with me occasionally. We liked talking stocks or interest rates. I took an art class that was supposed to act as a sort of therapy. The only reflecting I managed in that class was on how terrible my fruit bowl looked. My job was taking care of the garden. Since it was half-dead weeds when I arrived, that it remained when I left. I would trim the weeds and sweep the path around it, but that was it. For two years, that was my life.

We walk past the giant dining room table and into the kitchen on the right. It’s modest but looks very functional. Through there, Tommy goes to the slider along the back wall and opens it up.

He goes through first, and I see him turn with his arms crossed and a smug expression painting his face. I can also feel Tilly and Miranda staring at me from behind.

They’re acting strange. I don't like when people are unpredictable. Not at all. That's how wives end up missing or aunts end up dead. I stop at the doorway. "What's going on?"

Tommy laughs and opens both his arms. "Come out and see, you big grouch." Brows furrowed, I step through the sliding door.

Two very familiar people are out there holding a very important four-year-old boy. "Daddy!" George cries. I can't move. My face, my body, even my heart is frozen.

George is here. It takes another second before the smile breaks out. It's wide, stretching between my ears like a hammock between palms. I kneel and open my arms. "Georgie!" My mother-in-law lets the boy go, and George sprints over. I catch him while laughing and start bouncing him up and down.

"Georgie," I say again, softer now. It's all I can do to keep the tears at bay. But everything is too raw. I haven't held him in my arms in far too long. I've missed it. Missed the feel of his tiny body, the smell of that silly Spongebob bubble bath in his hair that he loves so much, the way he can't quite pronounce the r sound yet. "I missed you, son," I manage to say.

"I missed you too, Daddy." He's playing with the collar on the neck of my polo now. Fiddling with the button. I choke back a laugh. He always had a fascination with the mechanics of clothes. "Gwamma says I get to live with you soon." I find my mother-in-law’s eyes. She’s smiling but clears her throat. "Not yet, Georgie. He needs to get a house and job first."

"But very soon, buddy. Now tell me about you. How is Oregon?"

"Oro-gone?" he asks.

I laugh, my face already getting sore from how much I'm smiling. I guess it's been a while since I've been this happy. "Tell me about living with Gramma and Grampa."

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