Page 13 of Stolen Dreams

I turn onto Fossil Mountain Highway then take the narrow two-lane road for the Calhoun estate. The property is sizable but minuscule compared to the properties of the Seven. Three grand houses sit nestled between a thicket of trees—mine, Mom and Dad’s house, and one for my grandparents. On the north side of the property, past acres of trees, is Stone Bay Country Club with its beloved golf course.

Our property may be on the outskirts of town, but I love the incomparable peace and quiet.

I steer my car down the drive to my parents’ house. A single light on in the living room tells me one of them is awake, waiting.

“Shit,” I mutter as I put the car in park and cut the engine.

Most nights, I slip into their house undetected, grab Tucker from bed, and leave with him without waking anyone. Every now and then, one of my parents waits up to talk.

Tiptoeing into the house, I ease the door shut and head for the living room. Wrapped in a blanket, Mom is curled up on the couch with her eyes closed. On light feet, I pad across the room to turn off the light. As my hand reaches for the lamp switch, Mom’s eyes flutter open.

“Hey, sweetheart. How was work?”

In the food and hospitality industry most of their lives, my parents know what it’s like to work crazy early or late hours.

“Busier than usual.”

She scoots back and sits up straighter. “That’s wonderful.” Lifting a hand to her mouth, she stifles a yawn. “And you got another video in?”

I nod. “One. Fin and I plan to meet up after Tucker’s at school tomorrow.”

Reaching up to rub the back of her neck, her expression turns pensive as she hums. “Speaking of Tucker…”

This is why she’s on the couch.

“What?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

“You need to spend more time with him.” A hint of sharp determination in her sleepy voice.

At least she got straight to the point. “I’m trying, Mom. You know my schedule is hectic.”

Lips in a flat line, she subtly nods. “I also know you’re working more hours than necessary. That you’ve gone in to help on a day off several times over the past month.”

In a blink, I feel like a teenager again. Every move scrutinized. Every imperfection thrown in my face.

Downfall of working in a place your family owns, they have easy access to everything, including schedules and clocked hours. Last I checked, my time card registered no less than sixtyhours a week for the past six weeks… which doesn’t include the time I spend filming for social media.

Irritated as I am with Mom for pointing out my flaws, my indignation fizzles out. Guilt wiggles its way in and sits like a brick in my gut.

“Was worried the kitchen would get bogged down with the number of reservations,” I say.

She tugs the blanket tighter around herself. “I get it, sweetheart. Your father and I both do. Being in the kitchen is part of who you are. It’s in your genes.” A sympathetic smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “But Tucker needs to be higher on your list of priorities.”

Deep in my bones, I know she is right. I need to spend more time with Tucker. I need to show him one of his parents cares about him, loves him. After years of searching for him, after all the anxiety-filled days and sleepless nights, after all the bullshit Brianna put him through, I need to be more present.

What kind of parent am I if I fight to get my kid back only to not spend time with him?

More than anything, I want time with Tucker. To make up for our years apart. But damn is it hard to find work-life balance with conflicting schedules. Not to mention, working extra hours pads my paycheck and helps me give Tucker the life he should’ve had all along.

But if we’re never together, am I really providing him with a great life?

“I’ll talk with Chef Beaulieu. See if Tucker can be at the restaurant a few hours after school and during the summer.”

Her shoulders relax as her smile gentles. “I’m sure André will go along with the idea. One of us can pick Tucker up before dinner and watch him until your shift ends.” She swings her legs off the couch and stands. Resting a hand on my arm, her eyesbore into mine. “Tell André you need more time with Tucker. He’ll understand and find a way to make it happen.”

A pang flares in my belly.

Tucker is of the utmost importance. But I don’t want André to think I’m incapable of working my appointed shifts and managing my personal life. The last thing I want is a culinary genius I admire to see me as incompetent.

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