Page 125 of Things Left Unsaid

I’m out here monitoring because we take our hiring process seriously.

They only get through the ‘door’ after a criminal record check. It’s why it’s taken weeks to get to this point after Gillon quit.

With eight domestic violence survivors on my land, I’m not about to invite the wolves that are their ex-husbands into the fold. There’s little those psychos won’t do to get their exes back.

“Do you think there’s a reason Father hasn’t come around?” he asks abruptly.

“He’s been in Vancouver since he left here,” I half-lie, grateful he doesn’t know Pops broke into the house.

His jaw clenches. “Oh.”

Understanding the source of his fear, I sling an arm around his shoulders. “When have I ever let him hurt you?”

Goddamn never, that’s when.

“I hope he doesn’t come back here.”

“I think that’s unlikely. I’ll head him off though. Get him a room at the Pigeon Inn.”

As intended, that has a gust of laughter escaping my baby bro. “Can you imagine him there? ‘Where’s the butler?’” he derides. “And where are the silk sheets? NO ROOM SERVICE? What is this place? A hovel?!”

Snickering, I cuff him upside the head. “Sounds like fun to me.”

“Oh, to be a fly on the wall.” His eyes light up. “I bet I could convince Eloise to plant a camera in the room they’d assign him?—”

“Eloise?”

“Eloise Grant. You know her—the cheerleader I tutor in biology. Her parents own the inn. She owes me.”

“I created a monster,” I tease, but he’s smiling and that’s all I could ask for. With a final squeeze, I let go of him. “You okay?”

It’s not like him to come out here so I figure the situation with Pops has been worrying him more than I reckoned.

“Yeah.”

“What’s with the ‘Father’ shit, anyway?”

“Pops is something you call a nice man. He’s not nice. He doesn’t deserve to have an affectionate name.”

“Traditions are hard to break. I figure that’s why we carry them on,” I concede.

“Yeah, well, I’m breaking this one.”

Because that’s a healthy boundary he wants to implement, I don’t question it, just ask, “How you coping with Mum being around?”

“I’m sick of tea.”

“She does drink a lot of it.”

“I saw something in the kitchen the other night.” At my questioning glance, he murmurs, “Mrs. Abelman was holding her hand.”

“Mum’s hand?”

He nods.

“Huh. They’ve always been friends. I think that’s the only reason she didn’t have a breakdown when she had to leave us. She knew Mrs. Abelman would protect us like we were her own.” My glance turns knowing. “How’s that feel?”

“How’s what feel?”

---