I had to work several long days in a row after Thanksgiving to make up for taking the actual holiday off. I also wanted Juan to have some time at home with his family, so I was swamped with organizing the heavy load of upcoming Christmas party orders on my own. I waited until the Tuesday morning after the holiday to call Common Ground, the halfway house in Portland my mother had told me about. The place where my father might be. I wasn’t sure why I waited, exactly. Maybe it was the fear that it wouldn’t be open anymore and the one meaningful clue I’d found in my search for him would lead nowhere. When I finally picked up the phone, I was relieved to discover that they were still in business and they’d be happy to let me come show them a picture of my father. The program manager, a man named Matthew Shockley, wouldn’t give out information about client files over the phone, but if I came in person, he’d talk with me. He, like Jack, took his clients’ privacy very seriously.
I told as much to Jack, who came over that night after we got done with the dinner at Hope House. It had been my first day off from work since the holiday, but I didn’t even consider not showing up to cook the clients their meal.
Now it was late, about two a.m., and Jack and I were lying in bed after making love. The candles I’d lit when he arrived at midnight flickered, on the verge of going out. The man had stamina.
Jack rolled over on top of me after I relayed everything the program manager at Common Ground had said. He used his arms to prop himself up so he didn’t squish me. “So, when’s your next day off?”
“Um, I think I get Monday and Tuesday next week.” I loved the feeling of him on me. The sheer weight of him was reassuring.
“Not until then, huh?” Jack said.
“Nope. The holidays are my busy season. Our calendar is booked with at least four major Christmas parties every night.” I tilted my head and shifted a bit beneath him. “Why?”
Jack felt me move and fell off to the side, pressing his body up against me. He bent his right arm and set his head in his hand. “I was thinking we could take a road trip.”
“What kind of road trip?”
“I hear Portland is lovely this time of year.”
I smiled. “Are you serious?”
“I’ll make the reservations for us in the morning.”
“You are the sweetest man on the planet, you know that?”
“I know.” He winked and gave me a slight smile. “Would you like to invite Bryce and Georgia to come with?”
I grabbed my pillow and walloped him over the head with it. “No, I would not.” Even though I’d talked with Bryce over the weekend and he really did seem okay just being friends with Georgia, I still felt a little strange about the idea of spending time with them together.
“Too bad. I already invited them.”
“Excuse me?” I held the pillow in midair and stared at him. “When?”
He grinned. “On Thanksgiving, after you told me about your mom giving you the name of the shelter in Portland. I’d like to get to know them better and they want to help find your dad. They both offered to come if we ended up taking a trip down there.”
I sighed and dropped the pillow behind me. I had to admit their offer was a generous one, considering that no matter what they said, it probably wasn’t totally comfortable for them to spend a prolonged amount of time together right now. “Did you invite my mom and John, too? Are we making this a family affair?”
He laughed. “No. Though John did ask if he and some of his guys from the station could help build the fence for the garden. I wasn’t about to turn away free labor.”
“Well, that’s nice of him,” I said. John really was a great person.
“Yes, it is. You’ve got a good family.”
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about our little deal, either, Mr. Baker.”
“What deal was that?”
I poked his arm. “Don’t play dumb with me. You said you’d try to talk to your dad if I made up with my mom.”
“Well, you had it kind of easy, don’t you think? She showed up on Thanksgiving and you didn’t have to make much of an effort.”
“I had to swallow my pride and apologize. Believe me, that took plenty of effort.”
“Hmm,” he said, staring at me through narrowed eyes. “If I remember correctly, I said I’d think about talking to him.”
“What’s the big deal with you two? There’s got to be more to the story than you just not wanting to take over his company.”
“Nope, that’s pretty much the story.” Jack rolled away from me and over onto his back. He laced his fingers together and put them behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
“Jack,” I said, not wanting to rock the boat too much, “I feel like you know so much about me. I want to know you better.”
“You know I’m falling for you.” He turned his head to look at me and I scooted over to curl up next to him. He pulled one of his hands free from behind his head and wrapped an arm around me. I snuggled in and rested my cheek on his chest. I felt like a puzzle piece, clicking into place.
“Yes, I know. I’m falling for you, too.” I paused. “But I want to know more about the man I’m falling for. All your nooks and crannies.”
“Sounds kinky.”
“Jack.”
“I’m not very good at opening up,” he said.
“You can trust me,” I said.
“I know I can,” he said quietly. “It’s not you I’m worried about.”
I was silent, waiting for him to continue. I’d told him so much about my life, my father’s illness and suicide attempt. My emotions had been spilled out all over the floor pretty much since the day we met. I was ready for him to offer me a little more of the same. He’d told me the story of what he witnessed his group of friends do to the homeless man, how it had spurred him to open the shelter. But I wanted to understand other parts of him. I wanted to know where he came from.
“What do you want to know?” he asked after a few minutes of neither of us speaking a word.
His words startled me; I’d half thought he’d fallen asleep. “When was your last serious girlfriend?” I asked, fairly drowsy myself.
“Five years ago. Her name was Darcy.” He said her name like it was something sour in his mouth.
I snapped awake, instantly hating her, whoever she was. I pictured her glistening and perfect, with long, flat-ironed blond hair and a cute turned-up nose. It made me feel ill to think about his kissing another woman the same way he kissed me. “How long were you two together?”
“Since we were twenty.”
I did some quick math in my head. He was thirty-one and it ended when they were twenty-six. That meant they’d dated for six years. Six years? That was longer than the relationships I had with some of my appliances. I was suddenly very intimidated.
“Who ended it?” I asked in what I hoped was an interested but lighthearted voice.
“I did.” He was still staring at the ceiling. “Both of our parents thought we’d get engaged. She thought we’d get engaged. She hinted about it often enough.”
“But you didn’t love her?” Please, please, tell me you didn’t love her.
“I cared about her, I guess. We’d known each other almost our entire lives. It was sort of expected we’d end up together.”
“Like how it was expected you’d take over your dad’s company?”
“Exactly like that.”
“What does your dad’s company do?”
Jack laughed, a short, barking sound. “The question is, what doesn’t it do? Baker Industries has its fingers in pretty much every pot. Mergers and acquisitions, imports, exports, technologies. You name it, the Baker name is probably stamped somewhere on the paperwork.”
“You’re one of those Bakers?” I was stunned. Baker Industries was one of the largest multinational corporations based in Seattle. Emerald City Events had catered more banquets and dinners for them than all of our other clients combined. It was such a common last name, I never thought to link Jack with the company.
“Yes, I’m one of ‘those’ Bakers.” I felt him move his head, so I adjusted enough so I could pull back and look at him. “You’ve heard of us, I guess?”
“I’ve done a lot of catering for the company’s events.” Questions began shooting through my mind. Was Jack a trust-fund baby? Or did his father disinherit him when he didn’t follow the path expected of him? Was that why they didn’t speak, because Jack didn’t get the money he was expecting?
“I’m sure you have. Dad’s fond of high-end parties.”
I was silent for a moment before a thought struck me. “Does Tom actually work for you, then? I remember he said, ‘Mr. Baker takes good care of me,’ but you said it was a joke.”
Jack shook his head. “No, Tom’s just a friend. He does work for my dad, though. That’s how we met.”
“Aha. Now it makes sense.” I went back to the ex-girlfriend. “So, why did you end it with Darcy?”
He sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“Isn’t it always?” I said, attempting to keep my tone light.
“I made it more so by leaving my position as VP for my dad’s company. I told Darce I wanted to live a more simple life and do something to make up for what I’d done to that man back in high school. I also wanted to build something of my own instead of riding on my father’s coattails. I wanted to create my own success instead of just inheriting his.”
“And she didn’t understand that?” Please don’t call her “Darce,” I thought.
“Oh, she understood it. She even supported me in it the first year or so after I quit working for my dad. She helped with some of the initial fund-raising and grant applications. She’s a lawyer, so she was good at that kind of thing. But then the novelty of the situation wore off, I guess, and she started having a hard time with the idea of not living the lifestyle she was accustomed to.” His words were bitter. “Once reality set in, it turned out what she really wanted was all the money and prestige that came along with marrying Jack Baker, not Jack Baker himself. I felt like an idiot for ever believing anything different. So I broke up with her.”
“That sucks,” I said sympathetically. Jack didn’t strike me as someone who’d fall easily for a disingenuous woman. It could be that she thought she could leave the wealthier lifestyle but after living it awhile discovered she wasn’t cut out for a simpler life. I wasn’t sure that made her a bad person, exactly, but I was happy the result of her decision was my ending up with a man like Jack.
“Did she come from money, too?” I asked.
“Not really. I mean, her mother was successful in my dad’s company, which was how we got introduced in the first place. We dated and our families cooked up the idea we’d get married and I’d head up the company with her as the trophy on my arm.”
I cringed, shifting my prior vision of her to statuesque Brazilian supermodel. “Trophy, huh? She must be very pretty.”
“Some might think so,” he said. “Not when I finally saw her true colors. I wanted to build something meaningful with my life, you know? And she just trashed it. When I broke up with her, she called me an idiot and a loser who’d never amount to anything. My father pretty much followed suit.”
“Oh, Jack, I’m sorry.” I hugged him and kissed his chest.
He shrugged, mindlessly rubbing my back with his open palm. “It happened a long time ago. The sting has worn off. But you can understand why I’m hesitant to go see him. I don’t think his opinion of what I’ve chosen to do with my life has changed any. I don’t know how I’d explain to him how so much of what I’d been given in my privileged life were things I didn’t need or really even like.”
“Like what?”
“Like country club memberships and summer houses. That kind of thing. My dad is all about accumulating more and more stuff. More money, especially. I wanted a simpler life. Less encumbered by things, more enriched by people.” He rolled over to look at me. “I tried to make him happy for a few years. I worked with him, schmoozed over business dinners and Saturday golf. All that crap. And I was good at it. But I hated it. I literally had to force myself out of bed in the morning to go to work. I felt like I was living someone else’s life. Like I wasn’t being the person I was meant to be.”
“Did your dad disinherit you when you told him how you felt?”
“Does that matter?” There was an instant edge to his voice—a guard thrown up. Money was obviously a touchy subject for him. I’d need to be careful how we talked about it.
I sat up and pressed both my hands flat against his chest, pushing him from his side over onto his back. I stared him down, unblinking. “It absolutely does not matter to me. I fell in love with an idealistic, underpaid social worker, okay? I couldn’t give a shit about your bank account.”
He smiled. “You fell in love?”
My cheeks suddenly burned and I had to avert my eyes from his. “Did I say that? I think I said, ‘I’m falling for.’”
He nodded. “You did. But that was earlier.” He reached up and touched my cheek with the tips of his fingers, gently turning my face back toward him. “I’m pretty sure you said you fell in love with me.”
My heart pounded. This wasn’t good. I wasn’t supposed to say it first. How could I be in love with him in such a short time? It was only infatuation. A crush. Lust, even. I made myself look at him. His expression was kind; his gaze was softened by the warm light the candles created.
“I’m falling in love with you, too, Eden,” he said. “It’s scaring the shit out of me.”
I laughed and threw myself on top of him, shoving my mouth against his neck to kiss it. “We’ll be scared shitless together, then.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He paused. “And, Eden?”
“Yes?” I asked a little dreamily, basking in the glow of being told he was falling in love with me, too. It was better than any drug, any success I could ever reach.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad about asking about my inheritance. It’s just an old button of mine. So many women I’ve dated, as soon as they found out about my family, they became all about what I could do for them. What I could buy them or what kind of trips I’d pay for. It’s why I pretty much stopped dating altogether.”
“And then I came along,” I said, still pressing my lips against his neck.
“Yes, you did. And I’m happier for it.” He squeezed me, then rolled me off the top of him. “And just so you know, my father didn’t disown me financially. But I haven’t touched my inheritance since I quit my job with him. The only thing I did was use it for collateral to buy the building and land around the shelter. The down payment, the mortgage, that all comes from my own personal savings and the funding and donations I’ve drummed up on my own. That’s why it took almost four years to raise enough capital to open the doors. I live in my crappy one-bedroom apartment and love it. I don’t see myself ever going back to the kind of existence my family wants me to have. You should know that up front.”
“I don’t care where you live, Jack. I really don’t. I’d hang out in a cardboard box with you.”
“Well, at least we’d know some of our neighbors.”
We both laughed, and he tucked my back against him, spooning our bodies together. “Now, get your nook in my cranny, woman.”
I giggled and snuggled up to him, making sure every inch of my skin was pressed up against his. Our breathing fell into a slow, synchronized pattern, and within minutes the last remaining candle flickered and then went out.
Since Georgia’s Mercedes was too compact to fit all of us and our bags, we ended up setting out for our road trip to Portland in Jack’s SUV. We dropped Jasper off with my mom, then drove to pick up Bryce at his apartment, and then Georgia at her house.
“You want the front seat for the leg room?” I asked Bryce as Jack helped Georgia fit her suitcase into the back of the vehicle. Despite my brother’s apparent nonchalance about their one-night stand, I thought he might be uncomfortable sitting next to Georgia for the entire trip.
“No, thanks,” Bryce said, surprising me. He had completely backed off on the tanning; his skin was almost a natural shade again.
Georgia came around the corner of the car. “I’m okay in the backseat,” she said, though not quite looking at Bryce as she spoke. There was only the tiniest bit of tension between them—perhaps it was embarrassment more than anything else. Rather than draw attention to the situation, I decided to ignore it and act as if nothing had ever happened, taking them at their word that they were fine.
“We should get going,” I said. Everyone climbed into the car and we hit the freeway headed south. No one spoke much as the miles and hours passed, but anticipation wiggled in my belly as we got closer to the Washington/Oregon border. What if my father was actually living at Common Ground? What if he was living peacefully in a place that encouraged his art and helped keep him on his meds? I tried not to get too excited about the possibility, as Jack had advised, but I couldn’t help it. Something about this felt right to me.
Georgia spoke up as we crossed over the Columbia River and into Portland. “Are we there yet?” she asked sleepily. Lost in my own thoughts, I hadn’t realized she had been asleep.
“Almost,” Bryce said.
“Do you want to check in at the hotel or go straight to the house?” Jack asked me, turning his head only for a moment so he could smile at me.
“I’d like to go straight there,” I said. “If you guys don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” Georgia said. “That’s why we’re here, right?”
“Right,” Bryce said. He reached his thick fingers through the headrest and briefly massaged my shoulder. “You doing okay, sis?”
I nodded. “Yep. Just a little nervous. Sort of how I felt when I first arrived at Hope House.”
“You were nervous?” Jack punched a few buttons on the GPS to look up the address he’d programmed in for Common Ground. “I never would have guessed.”
I looked at him. “Really? I was a wreck inside. And you were such a jerk.”
“And now you love me.” He flashed me a quick wink.
“I know, I know,” I said. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Hey,” Georgia interjected, “you guys are dropping the L-word up there?” She leaned forward and poked Jack’s arm. “She’s pretty great, isn’t she, Jack? How could you not love her?”
“Georgia . . .” I moaned.
Jack laughed. “It’s okay, Eden. You’re right, Georgia. You obviously have excellent taste in friends.”
“Damn straight,” Georgia said. “Just remember, if you hurt her, I’ll kick your ass.”
“Duly noted,” Jack said solemnly. He followed the GPS’s digital directions, took the exit marked “Downtown/City Center,” and then turned right.
“I’d be careful, dude,” Bryce warned Jack. “Georgia’s kind of a badass. And I’m Eden’s brother, so I’ll be next in line if you screw her over.”
“Oh my god,” I said. “You guys, please.”
Jack laughed again, pulling into the parking lot across the street from where the GPS told us our destination was. “You’ve got a posse, baby. I’d better be careful not to break your heart.”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head a few times, secretly pleased Georgia and Bryce were putting on such a protective show. Then my eyes wandered over to the house, a two-story colonial with a small front yard and a wraparound front porch.
“You want us to go in with you?” Georgia asked. “Or wait here?”
I looked at Jack. “I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I think you and I should go in first. Then grab your bodyguards for backup, if we need them.”
Georgia laughed. “Sounds good to me. Let us know if you need us.”
Jack and I went up the front steps of the house and knocked at the front door. A moment later, it was opened by a portly bald man with three chins and squinty small eyes. When he smiled, the apples of his cheeks pushed up so high, his eyes disappeared completely.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Eden West. I’m looking for Matthew Shockley? He’s expecting me.”
“You found him!” the man said, reaching out to vigorously shake Jack’s and my hands. “But call me Matt, okay? It’s nice to meet you! How was your drive down?”
“Uneventful,” Jack said. “Thanks for letting us come.”
“Of course, of course!” Matt exclaimed. “Happy to help. Come on back and we’ll talk a bit.” He turned around and hitched up his sagging white painter’s jeans by the belt loops, but not before we caught a glance of his butt crack.
Jack swallowed a snicker, but I was too nervous to laugh. We followed Matt down the hall to a small room off the kitchen. The walls were dark and paneled but covered almost floor-to-ceiling with various paintings—oils and watercolors, charcoals and delicate inks. Were any of these my father’s? We took a seat on the small couch in the corner of the room while Matt settled into a large padded recliner behind a desk.
“So, after we talked, I took it upon myself to look up your father’s name in our system.”
“Did you find anything?” I asked, clamping my fingers together tightly as though in prayer.
He bobbed his head. “Yep, sure did.” He lifted a yellow manila folder and held it up. “He’s right here.”
“Here? As in staying here right now?” I asked, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice. Jack reached over and rested his hand flat on the top of my thigh in a soothing touch. My muscles hummed with anxiety.
“No, no,” Matt said. “He’s not here now. But he was just a couple of weeks ago. Stayed with us for about a month this time around.”
“This time around?” Jack said. “He’s been here more than once?”
“Yep, yep,” Matt said. “We have to cycle people through. There are only so many beds. They have to get approved through the psych ward at the hospital as good to go, and if there’s room and they qualify, they come here. They can stay up to three months.”
“But he was only here a month?” I said.
Matt blew a breath out of his thin lips. “David isn’t crazy about staying on his meds. The rules are, if you’re not following doctor’s orders, you’re not allowed to stay.”
My hopes fell a bit as he spoke. “How does the program work here, exactly?”
“I’d be interested to hear that, too,” Jack said. “I run a shelter up in Seattle and I’m always looking for new ideas for programs.”
“Hope House, right?” Matt said. “Eden told me that on the phone. I’ve heard good things about it from some of my clients.”
“Really?” Jack said, sitting up a little straighter.
“It’s a tight-knit community,” Matt said. “A lot of our peeps travel back and forth between Seattle and Portland. We hear about the good and the bad. Hope House has a good rep.”
Jack sat back and put his arm around my shoulders. I rubbed his leg a little, acknowledging that I understood how important it was for him to hear about the work he did.
“And your program?” I asked, prodding Matt to continue.
“Oh, right,” he said. “Sorry, my Ritalin hasn’t kicked in yet today. ADHD makes me nuts. But that’s why I’m perfect for this place, I guess. I understand the clientele.” He chuckled. “Okay, but enough about me.” He took a breath before continuing. “Common Ground was founded about ten years ago by Arthur Reinhart, a local sculptor who struggled with clinical depression and bipolar disorder. As part of his therapy, he started teaching art classes at a few shelters around town and he realized how many of the people he got to know there suffered from the same kind of illnesses he did. He was just lucky enough to come from a rich family who made sure he didn’t end up on the streets. After a year or so, he came up with the idea to buy this house and turn it into a place where homeless artists with mental illness could live after they were hospitalized. Which a lot of them are. They can paint or sculpt as therapy and get settled into a normal routine. Kind of as a transition back into the real world.” He threw his hands up in the air in front of him. “That’s about it, folks.”
“That’s amazing,” Jack said. “Do you help them with getting a job?”
“We do.” Matt nodded. “I’m just one of the six social workers we have on staff. There’s also a nurse practitioner and a psychiatrist who comes two times a week to manage the clients’ meds.”
“Is Mr. Reinhart still involved?” I asked.
“He died two years ago. Overdose.”
My eyes filled for this man I didn’t even know. Even after creating such a wonderful place, he still couldn’t find a reason to live. His illness wouldn’t let him. Jack’s hand, which was resting on my shoulder, squeezed in reassurance. “How is the house funded, then, if he’s gone?”
“His family has been kind enough to continue to take care of us as a tribute to their son. We host fund-raisers, too, of course, with art for sale and things like that, but the majority of our financing comes from the Reinharts. They’re wonderful people. Real philanthropists.”
I took a deep breath before speaking. “Do you know my father?”
Matt nodded. “I do. He’s a very talented artist. But like I said, he fights the rest of the program here. He manages to fake it for a while but doesn’t do well with expectations and rules. But I’m sure you know that.”
I nodded. I knew it all too well. “Do you have any idea where I might find him? Any place he might hang out or stay after he leaves here?”
Matt pulled a sheet of paper out of my father’s file. “I thought you might ask me that, so I took the liberty of putting together a list for you. It’s not much, but there are a few haunts he’s talked about. Where he goes to sketch people for money.” In one great huff of breath, he leaned over his desk to hand me the piece of paper.
I jumped up to take it from him. “Thank you so much, Matt. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
Matt stood and smiled, his eyes disappearing again. “It’s my pleasure.” He nodded toward Jack. “Be safe out there, okay? Some of these aren’t the safest places to visit. Not where I’d usually send tourists in our fair city.”
Jack reached out and shook his hand again. “Don’t worry. She has bodyguards in the car.”
Matt gave him a quizzical look.
“Private joke,” I said.
“Ah, gotcha,” Matt said. “Do you have a minute to come look at something? I won’t keep you long.”
“Sure,” I said, clutching the piece of paper he’d given me to my chest. I was so close. I could almost feel him.
We followed Matt down the hall again and into a large room with a bay window. Two couches flanked a river-stone fireplace and a low table sat between them.
“There,” Matt said. “Above the fireplace.”
My eyes followed where he directed. Jack grabbed my hand and held it tightly.
“Oh my god,” I said breathlessly. “That’s me.” Just above the mantel was a portrait, an image of my face. I was probably about ten, the last time my father had seen me. He had somehow captured the fragile mask I wore. Hints of a more secretive sadness and fear showed in my eyes and in the small, worried lines of my forehead. It was the portrait of a young girl trying to look at peace when inside she was waging a war.
“It’s gorgeous,” Jack said. “Eden, it’s really, really good.”
My bottom lip trembled, but I managed to hold myself together. I could not believe the scope of my father’s gift. I couldn’t believe how much his illness had taken from him. How much it had taken from me.
“We’ve had more offers on that painting than any of the others combined when we do our fund-raisers,” Matt said. “But David refuses to sell it. He asked if he could leave it here for safekeeping, though. He always tells me he’ll be back, that he’ll find a way to silence the rumblings in his head.” He smiled at me. “That’s the thing about your dad, Eden. He has a way of saying it so you believe it might be true.”
