The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

Sabrina

T he small ranch house was neat and tidy. A red bow on the front door was the only nod to the season. The Boynton Beach community of Tidewater was one of hundreds of sixty-five and over developments in South Florida. It wasn’t fancy enough for a guarded gate but had a resort style community pool.

Michael had tried to convince me not to join him. He’d said he’d do his duty and come back in a couple hours, tops. That had been my first clue he and his parents had a strained relationship. The drive to and from their house would take about two hours, if not longer, leaving him zero time to spend with them on Christmas.

He parked in the brick paver drive and turned to look at me. “I shouldn’t have brought you.”

“They can’t be that bad.”

He groaned in frustration and rubbed his face. His palms digging into his eye sockets so hard, I winced. “They aren’t. It’s the combination of me and them.”

“You’re a good person. You say they are good people. What’s broken?”

“Everything.” He pushed open his door and got out of the car, a bag with his parents’ gifts in one hand.

I sagged into my seat and considered his words as I waited for him to open my car door.

We were steps from the front door when it swung open. Michael’s dad was as tall as his son and as bald as a cue ball. His mother looked like a well-preserved June Cleaver type, from the ruffled holiday apron to the red patent leather ballet flats.

I smiled my best meet-the-parents smile and ignored the flutter of nervous butterflies in my stomach.

The welcome was friendly, if perfunctory. They said all the right things, but the warmth of family was strikingly absent. I hoped my presence wasn’t the cause of the awkwardness. I stole a glance at Michael. His face might as well have been carved of marble for how little it gave away.

“Call me Beth and he’s Tom. No need to be so formal.” Beth fluttered around and herded us inside the front door and to the kitchen. There was something insubstantial about her. The wispy silver hair, the breathy voice and constant motion. The image of a hummingbird came to mind.

Michael’s dad was a grunt and point guy.

In the kitchen, a tray of bagels and all the fixings were laid out on the island. It was pretty enough to have been part of a photoshoot. Beth rushed around pouring juice and coffee for me and Michael while Tom busied himself tuning the old clock radio on the counter to a holiday music station.

Michael looked distinctly uncomfortable, shoulders hunched and hands balled into fists. He’d been a shirtless bartender to fifty strangers last night and looked nothing but relaxed. Standing in his parents’ kitchen, he looked ready to break out in hives.

“This place is cute. How long have you lived in Boynton Beach?” I asked. The house screamed Florida retirement from the white Formica cabinets to the rattan barstools with palm tree patterned cushions.

“We left Miami about fifteen years ago,” Tom said.

That was the end of the conversation.

Puzzled, I tried a different tack.

“Beth, this is lovely. Do you entertain often?” I waved at the spread of food.

“Oh yes. The garden club ladies and my pals from water aerobics. And we are part of the neighborhood dinner club.”

“Water aerobics? That’s great, Mom. I guess your bad shoulder isn’t giving you problems anymore.” Michael had finally joined the conversation. Hallelujah.

“I’ve got a new doctor. He gave me some injections and PT. It’s the bee’s knees.”

Tom grunted. I never knew a grunt could be so eloquent. In one syllable, he crushed the tepid start to the mother/son conversation.

Beth’s hand fluttered up to her chest like her husband’s disapproval had given her heart palpitations.

Michael took a bagel and tore it in half with more aggression than the baked good deserved and smashed it down on a plate.

“Yes, good idea. Let's eat. Shall we?” Beth passed me a plate and indicated I should take what I wanted off the counter, following behind Michael.

I made quick work of the small buffet and followed Michael into the living room. We perched on a sofa that was the kind only used on special occasions. His parents joined us a few moments later, sitting opposite us on an equally pristine pair of armchairs.

The coffee table might as well have been the 38th parallel dividing North and South Korea.

I could hear Michael’s dad chewing. In normal circumstances, the audible mastication would gross me out. But it was the most normal part of the morning thus far. Stilted, awkward, and uncomfortable only scratched the surface.

I didn’t start another conversation. I let my eyes wander the room. The main focal point was a hearth with four stockings hung below a pine garland. The stocking next to Michael’s was lavender and embroidered with Marney’s name. On the bookshelf there was a cheerleading trophy and a picture of her wearing a uniform and holding a pair of pompoms.

My gaze shot back to the fireplace. An ethereal oil painting of a teen girl hung over the mantel. I’d not thought much of it on first glance, but a realization was slowly dawning. The girl in the portrait was Marney.

We were having Christmas brunch with a ghost.

I swam through the rest of the morning in a haze. My heart ached for Beth. I’d lost a daughter before her time, too. I’d left Hailey’s room untouched and had tattooed a shallot on my arm. My memorials to my daughter.

But I’d promised myself and Hailey that her room would become my home office as soon as Viande’s doors opened. My therapist warned me if I let it go too long, it wouldn’t get easier, only harder. When I told him of the deal I’d struck with Hailey, he agreed it was a good milestone. And made me promise if I backed out, I’d call him.

After looking at the painting over the Steels’ fireplace one more time, I renewed my promise to my daughter to succeed not only at Viande but also at life.

Beth hadn’t moved on. Neither had Tom or Michael. This was a family in mourning.

Our food eaten, Michael stood, ready to leave. I couldn’t blame him. The morning had had the tenor of a funeral.

Leaving his parents was like arriving, but in reverse. On the way out, his mom pressed a brightly wrapped present into his hands and whispered that it was from Santa. My heart hurt watching the exchange. His gifts to his parents were sitting on the kitchen counter where he’d left them when we came in.

When we were back in his car, he sighed long and low. His closed eyes had dark shadows under them, and he clenched his jaw so tight it had to hurt.

“She’s been dead for how long?”

“Sixteen years. But my family was broken before that.”

He put the car in reverse and started driving. He turned out of the development and stuck to the neighborhood streets, passing under I-95 and continuing east. We were parked at the municipal beach parking lot before he spoke again.

“Walk with me?”