Page 16 of The Art Of Starting Over

“What are you doing here?”

“This is my house,” her father said gruffly.

Devy stepped into the hallway and closed the door to the basement. “No, I mean why aren’t you at work?”

“I come home for lunch.”

“Oh.” She followed her father into the kitchen and stood there, wringing her hands. In Chicago, this was her space, the place where she would make her family three meals a day and where Maren would come and sit at the island bar after school and tell Devy about her day.

“Would you like me to make you something?” she asked Crow.

“No,” he said pointedly. “I can do it.”

Devy felt a mixture of rage and hurt boiling. “I know you can do it, but I’m offering because ... because ...” She couldn’t finish her statement before she broke down. A sob rolled from her toes until it left her mouth in an ungodly sound. She bent at her waist, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, as if she was trying (and failing) to hold everything in.

“I can’t ...” were the only words she could get out before her father pulled her to his chest.

“Breathe, Devorah,” he said as he rubbed his hands up and down her back. “You need to breathe before you pass out.”

“It h-hurts,” she stammered through a hiccup. “Everything hurts.”

“It gets better.”

Would it, though? Was he better, or was he still bitter and angry that his wife had passed away? Devorah didn’t see how any of this could get better. Her husband had done the unthinkable. If they’d had problems in their marriage, he should’ve come to her. Instead, he’d given himself to another woman, a woman Devy had trusted implicitly. This betrayal ran deep and was unforgivable.

Her father didn’t know this sort of pain. His wife didn’t cheat or leave him for another man. She was sick, and the doctors couldn’t cure her. Yet Crow still golfed with those doctors on occasion. Or at least he had the last Devy knew.

What Crowhaddone, though, was shut himself off from everyone, except for work and his friends, after her mother died. Crow hadn’t comforted his children, except briefly, when he’d told them she had succumbed to cancer. He was a man of few words and even fewer emotions.

She still had to comfort her daughter and explain to Maren why her father had done something like this, and why he had allowed his mistress to be so callous in airing their dirty laundry.

Devorah stepped out of her father’s grasp, doing so first before he could let go. If he pushed her away, she’d lose it again. The Crowleys were strong and always put on a brave face despite how they felt on the inside.

She left her dad in the kitchen, to fend for himself like he wanted, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Without changing out of Colt’s clothes, she crawled into bed, set the alarm on her phone, and pulled the covers over her head. Sleep would evade her, but she’d try. It was the least she could do for herself.

Six

Hayden

Hayden pulled in behind the last car in the school pickup line, and within seconds other moms—not parents—were out of their cars and coming toward him. This was his personal brand of hell, and he wished Oyster Bay had a busing service.

“Shit,” he muttered as a mom approached the driver’s side of his truck. He didn’t have enough time to determine if he knew her from way back when or not. Thankfully, the rain had stopped. He pushed the button, and his window went down.

“Hayden McKenna, I heard you were back in town.”

Any news traveled fast in Oyster Bay.

He made eye contact with the woman and then briefly looked around. Other moms lingered, some in pairs and others in groups. Were they all waiting to talk to him? Did he need to hold court or something?

“Yep, I’m back.” He cringed at his wording and the inflection his voice did at the end. It was as if he thought he was the Terminator, who promised to always return. This wasn’t Hayden’s first time back to his hometown, but it was his first as a single man. That made a difference.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

He shook his head slowly while he studied her face. She seemed familiar, but he had a hard time placing where he’d know her from, other than school.

“Sapphire Fleming.”

As soon as she said her name, he remembered both her and her sisters. They all had gemstone names, which stood out among their classmates. If he recalled correctly, she was one of four sisters, along with Ruby, Opal, and Amethyst. Amethyst was in his class and was memorable because she had worked in his father’s office as an aide.

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