Page 47 of Until the Storm Breaks
“Can you come to the gym? We need to talk.”
“About what?” I ask.
“The house. And your timeline,” he says, his tone clipped.
“My timeline?” I repeat.
“We’ll talk when you get here. Just come by the gym.”
The line goes dead.
I turn toward the gym instead of the hardware store, irritation prickling at me. Why does everything have to be face-to-face with Dominic, like we’re negotiating hostile territory?
I pull up to Midnight Boxing. Dominic’s BMW is parked out front next to the usual collection of work trucks and sensible sedans. Inside, the familiar smell of sweat and leather tape hits me. A couple guys are working the heavy bags. The rhythmic thud echoes through the space.
Dominic’s in the office, feet up on Dad’s old desk, scrolling through his phone.
“Finally,” he says when I walk in. “Sit.”
I lean against the doorframe instead. “What’s this about?”
“You know what it’s about.” He swings his feet down, leansforward. “I ran into Earl from the hardware store yesterday. We were chatting and he mentioned that you’re pretty much solely keeping his store in business. Your little fixes should be done by now?”
“It’s taking longer than expected,” I say, trying to keep my tone from getting hostile.
“Because you’re making it take longer.” He stands, walks to the window overlooking the boxing floor. “You’re stalling, Cal.”
“I’m fixing Mom’s house. It’s the house we fucking grew up in.” Well. So much for keeping it from getting hostile.
“You’re avoiding reality.” He turns back to me. “The realtor comes right after the memorial. We need the house ready.”
“It’ll be ready.”
“Will it? Because Theo says you’re talking about redoing the kitchen cabinets now.”
I shrug. “They need work.”
“Let the buyers take care of it,” Dominic says. “They know the shape the house is in. They don’t care. They’re serious and want to close right after the memorial.”
“What about Maren’s cabin? We talked about working her into the contract.” I straighten up from the doorframe.
“Month-to-month verbal agreement. Legally, the new owners don’t have to honor it.” He holds up a hand before I can interrupt. “Listen, I’m not a complete asshole here. I know Maren was good to Mom. Hell, I’m the one who told you that when you first got back. I saw her there every day at the end.”
“So what are you saying?” I ask.
“I’m saying I’m trying. But the buyers are firm. They want the full property clear.” He leans forward. “I’m already looking at alternatives for her. Theo’s studio might be an option if it opens up. She’ll get enough notice once things are finalized. I’m not trying to screw her over, Cal, but we have to face reality. We can’t keep the house, and if the buyers won’t budge...”
Maren took care of Mom when I couldn’t handle watchingher fade. She runs the bar that keeps this town together, takes care of everyone who walks through her door. Who’s looking out for her?
“That’s nice that you’re trying,” I say. “But those apartments aren’t her home. Mom would’ve wanted her protected.”
“Mom would’ve wanted us not to lose the house to back taxes.”
I think about Maren in the sunroom, how she talked about being seventeen and lost. She’s more than capable of taking care of herself—runs a successful bar, manages her own life. But I have this bone-deep need to make sure she’s okay. Even if I completely misread what happened between us, even if she’s not interested, I need to know she’s secure. Protected.
“Look,” I say. “We both know Mom would’ve wanted Maren taken care of too.”
“Sure, in an ideal world?—”
