Page 11 of Colton's Secret Weapon
But anything that reminded Bob St. James of his wife—which Dove did just by existing, so no need to exacerbate that by practicing her teachings in front of him—made the downward spiral worse.
“You like Mitchell,” she said, for the third time in as many minutes.
With another tip of his whiskey bottle at his lips, Whaler swallowed. Smacked his lips and nodded. “’S right, I do,” he said, the slur already obvious in his diction. “But no reason for him to be in here.”
The petulant tone, along with another swig, did not bode well. But Dove had no other option but to take him on. And words came to her.
“Fletcher called again, Dad…” she started, only to have him cut her off with a wave of the hand holding his bottle, on the way to his mouth.
“Call all he wansh. He can’t toush ish place,” the man said, full of whiskey-induced bravado.
“Mitchell heard the conversation,” she said then, raising her voice only a notch and instilling the sternness she’d heard her mother use on Whaler a time or two when he’d been working himself too hard. “Found it to be threatening enough that he called Eli to check into the guy. Apparently, Fletcher is a shady character.”
She stopped short of telling her father about the break-in at the studio. Only because, due to his drunken state, she feared what foolish thing the man might do to avenge her.
Whaler’s grunt gave her hope. She rode it for the few seconds she needed to breathe and ready herself for battle.
“Mitchell’s smart, Dad. And noticed some other things while he was here. Things he can help with. I think we need to take him up on his offer.” She chose the words carefully. “Before Fletcher tries anything more than just threats.”
Whaler put the bottle on his desk. Hard. “No.”
Standing still, she faced him. “Dad—”
Slamming his hand down on the desk, Whaler stood, too. Slurring some very strong words the gist of which she understood.
He had the right to make his own choices. Even if they were the wrong ones.
In any other circumstance, Dove would have looked him in the eye, nodded, told him she loved him and walked out.
She couldn’t do that. They’d reached the end of the road.
A brand-new thing between them. With no set protocol to direct her.
So Dove did what she had to do to maintain her own inner harmony. Which would give her the equilibrium to deal with Whaler’s lack of any kind of peace. Sliding down to the floor against the wall, she closed her eyes. Took slow, steady breaths. Envisioned the sun shining, bringing warmth to her skin.Chasing away the shivers of anxiety that were fighting to take control of her.
Other than the occasional sloshing of liquid as her father lifted his bottle to his mouth, she sat in silence. To his credit Whaler just let her be.
Respecting her need for a personal time-out?
Or just glad that she’d quit harping at him?
More likely, her decision not to walk out had gotten through to him. At least enough to clue him in that something was more wrong between them than it ever had been before.
And he was leery of waking a beast inside her?
The thought brought another singe of tension. And the threat of tears. The last thing she wanted to do was bring any kind of negative emotion to her father. He was already being eaten alive by the grief life had brought him.
Which was precisely why she had to stay her course. To help him find some joy again. Next to her and her mother, he loved St. James Boats more than anything else. If she could just give him a glimpse of what it would be again with Mitchell’s help, then maybe he’d lay off the bottle enough to help them make it happen.
She just had to show him that there was joy left to be had in his life.
If the stars fully aligned for him, maybe he could even get to a point where he’d be open to counseling. And be restored to the healthy man he’d been before her mother had gotten sick.
Peace settled over her, and she inhaled the silence. Taking comfort from knowing that her father was right there, breathing in with her. Breathing out.
In between swigs from his bottle.
And that was okay, too, just for those moments. Because there was always a point in Whaler’s drinking when he hit the mellow stage, as she’d learned to think of it.
