CHAPTER THIRTEEN Chad

Staring across the deck and at the swells slamming onto the shore, I placed my surfboard against the guest house's exterior. "Not today," I muttered, opening the door to where I'd been living that summer and going back inside.

The guest house was where I'd lived when I resided at home full time before college and during breaks, moving into it my junior year of high school. The small studio sat below the main house's deck, on a different level patio, and alongside the pool.

The design was basically a studio apartment with an oversized bathroom, and it fit my casual lifestyle perfectly. There was no kitchen, so I ate with my folks most nights if I wasn't slamming fast food in between shifts at the hotel.

Since the ocean was too aggressive for surfing that day, I got bored and soon wandered into the main house to see what the folks were up to. Mom was busy carting groceries in from the driveway, so I hurried down the front steps to intercept her.

"I got them, Mom. Go unload the bags," I insisted, grabbing her shoulders and redirecting her to the house.

"Okay, honey."

After three trips to her Land Rover, I joined her in the kitchen. "Quite a haul," I noted, peeling the plastic bag of grapes open to test a few for freshness.

Mom swatted at my hand. "Just a few, kiddo. We have company tonight and I need them for the charcuterie board," she stated.

"Oh, really?" I teased, pretending to hold a cup of tea with my pinky stuck out. "The charcuterie boards coming out. How gauche."

She ignored my smart ass. "Your father wants you in attendance tonight too, so cancel any plans," she said.

I wandered into the great room just off the kitchen, glancing at the still-swelling waves before turning back to her. "Plans?" I asked. "What are those?"

"Good. Your father will be pleased," she said, scanning my near naked body from across the room. "And put some clothes on tonight. Brush that hair too," she insisted, verbally going through a checklist of my current deficiencies.

"Who's coming?" I asked, teasing her by holding my pinkie finger out again, this time pretending I was drinking high tea at Buckingham Palace. "Is it the king?"

"No, it's not the king," she replied, as if I was serious. "It's Mr. Hicks, our new neighbor and your father's client."

"What?" I asked, thrusting my hands to my sides and exposing my palms in disbelief. "That man basically just fired me a week ago," I protested.

Mom was gathering produce from the fridge and then returned to the kitchen island, calmly smiling at her pissed-off son, as she sorted her organic treasures.

"Yes, dear. I know that, and then he called and apologized to you. Dad told me he even offered you your job back, but you declined."

My mouth fell open as my eyes widened. I threw my hands over my head in disbelief and fell dramatically onto a distressed leather sofa, face first. "God!" I yelled, a pillow muffling my scream.

By then, my father had come into the room. "What's he on about, Maggie?" he asked.

I sat up and glared at both of them. Dad was standing by her at the island, nibbling on a celery stick.

In unison, they asked, "What?"

"He did not apologize!" I stated. "Why does everyone keep saying he apologized?"

Dad, a wise-ass if you've ever met one, pointed a finger at Mom and mouthed the word one, and then touched his chest, mouthing the word two. "I know of only two people who said that, son. Who's everyone?"

"Arrgghhh!" I growled. "You know what I mean, people."

Mom, apparently bored by the discussion, looked up as she assembled her charcuterie board. "Honey, calm down," she began, motioning toward me. "You're getting all flushed, love."

I returned to the kitchen and sat across from them at the island. My eyes moved back and forth between them, bothered by their lack of sympathy for my plight. "For the billionth time. He did not apologize."

"Oh, honey, but I'm sure he meant to," Mom stated. "Maybe he's a busy man," she suggested.

"Exactly," Dad agreed. "He would have, but you turned down his offer to return to work too quickly."

"You two weren't there that first day," I argued. "The man basically accused me of being crazy."

"Did he call you crazy?" Mom inquired, wiping her hands on a dish towel and leaning against my father.

"Did you actually hear the word ‘crazy?'" Dad chimed in, enjoying the show the two of them were putting on. "Because sometimes people confuse your unusual behavior as crazy."

"Not us, of course," Mom added. "We know you better than that."

"Yeah, we accepted your crazy a long time ago," Dad said, stifling a giggle as Mom elbowed him for dropping the insult.

If they weren't so ridiculous, I wouldn't have started laughing. "You are both on my last nerve."

"Which one?" Mom asked.

Dad could barely contain himself before spurting out his contribution. "The crazy one, of course," Dad joked.

I picked an olive from Mom's gastric creation and tossed it at him. "I'm not showing up for dinner," I said in a huff and headed for the door.

"Chad," Mom called after me, causing me to stop and turn. "Mr. Hicks is new to the neighborhood, honey. He is also all alone from what I'm hearing at the tennis club," she began, laying on the guilt trip. "It was him that called us first and asked us over for dinner at his house." She motioned to Dad and me. "All three of us," she stated. "Your father and I felt it would be easier for him if we hosted."

"Of course you did," I replied, still staring at them like they were traitors. "But since the dinner is here, I don't think it matters if I attend."

"It matters to me, son," Dad said.

"And why is that?" I asked, sure to maintain a respectful tone. "I'm not planning on going back to work for him, Dad. I love you, but not after what he said to me. You cannot ask me to do that."

"I wouldn't. However, I want him to see how special you truly are," he said.

That shut me up. Mom and Dad were my biggest cheerleaders. They never questioned any feelings I had about mysterious impressions that I would sometimes receive from the universe, and I'd definitely received some whoppers in my short life.

Mom joined us and gave me a peck on the cheek, laying her hands on my shoulders. "And wear that cute lavender-colored polo, honey. It flatters your skin so nicely," she advised.

"The polo is pink, Mom."

"Like I said," she said, turning and waving a hand over her head as she went back to the kitchen island. "And that nice cologne too," she added. "You know, the Clinique that smells so shower-fresh on you?"

I looked at Dad, and he shrugged his shoulders. "Uh-oh," he whispered. "Mom's up to something," he warned.

"Not happening, Pops," I declared. "I don't do negative energy."