Chapter 7

[Mavis]

“Honey. I’m home.” The jovial sound of Clay’s voice rings through his house when he enters his front door sometime after eight o’clock.

I’d finally given up on him returning for dinner and was putting the leftovers away in his fridge. Stepping into his living room, I pause just outside the entrance from the kitchen, opposite where he remains by the front door.

“That was weird, wasn’t it?” He wrinkles his nose. “I just made it weird.” His eyes light up and he chuckles, but the sound is rimmed with nerves. He swipes his thick hand over his salt-and-pepper colored hair.

Clay takes my breath away. He’s so rugged and tall, while casual cool and friendly. His personality beams through the wrinkles near his eyes and the smirky grin on his face.

Slipping my hands into my back pockets, I rock on my bare toes. “Not weird.” But it was a little strange. He’s hours later than I expected him when he doesn’t owe me his time. And I’m not his sweetheart, or his wife. I’m a nearly forty-year-old single mother squatting for a while because of his hospitality.

Shouldn’t I have my life better pulled together by now?

“I’ve just always wanted to say that.” His voice lowers as he dips his head, his gaze dropping from me. “Never had anyone here to say it to.”

The confession feels like an admission of loneliness which is difficult to believe. Clay Sylver is a very good-looking man in his mid-forties. Those icy-colored eyes. The scruff on his jaw. Even his wrinkles add to the sexiness.

Then again, I’ve learned not to judge a book by its cover. Beneath a pretty image can be a dark tale and pages full of aggression.

I should tell him I’m honored he shared his thoughts and his greeting with me, but I don’t want to make this moment any more awkward.

“I made you dinner,” I state instead, and then decide I’ve made it awkward anyway. Announcing dinner sounds like an accusation, like I made it, waited for him, and he didn’t tell me he’d be late. Or not present. When neither case is necessary. I’m a guest, nothing more. He doesn’t owe me explanations. I owe him everything right now.

Clay’s head lifts. His brows flinch. Confusion fills his cheeks. “You did?”

“I just thought . . . I assumed . . . I—” I take a deep breath, hating how I sound like I’m cowering. Removing my hands from my back pockets and rubbing them along the side seam of my jeans, I try again. “I thought it’d be nice for you. For letting us stay even though you’re on the mend.”

Although, I misjudged. He clearly doesn’t come home for dinner, and I hate how I waited on him. Hate how I questioned where he was, who he was with, what he was doing.

He isn’t Wesley.

Clay steps further into the room. “I don’t typically eat at home.” He glances around his living room, as if looking for something. Or someone. Or maybe he’s simply reminding me of what he already admitted. There hasn’t been anyone here to eat with him in the past.

“But I’ll make more of an effort tomorrow.” He takes another step closer to me. “Not that you need to cook for me. But if you were cookin’ . . .”

He reaches for the back of his neck and tips back his head, blowing out a breath. “I’m making this fucking weirder, aren’t I?”

I chuckle, hoping to ease the subtle tension between us. “Not used to someone in your home. I get it. I don’t need to make you dinner if you prefer to eat out.”

“No.” He’s suddenly in front of me. He smells like earth and fresh air and the misty fall rain. “I’m so used to just working and working, I don’t stop half the time until the shop closes at eight. Taking dinner late.”

“Did you eat?” I question, then worry at my lower lip with my teeth.

“I did. But I’m still curious what you made.”

“Fried chicken and homestyle fries.”

Clay closes his eyes and tips back his head again. He inhales and hums like he’s tasting the meal. When his eyes flip open, he says, “How about a second dinner?”

I laugh. “You don’t need to do that. I packaged it all up as leftovers. You can eat it tomorrow for lunch, maybe.”

Placing his hand on my upper arm, he says, “I’m sorry you went through all the trouble. I’m a terrible host.”

I shrug. “I don’t want to be an overbearing guest. It wasn’t any trouble.”

He nods and we seem to agree to drop the dinner debate.

“Where is Dutton?”

“In bed.”

“Already?” Clay’s brows lift.

“It’s after eight. And he was tuckered out. There’s a saying about boys playing hard from son rise to son set. That’s him. We explored your yard a bit more today.” The outdoors was our science classroom, as approved by the homeschooling curriculum I’d been using.

“Sounds like a healthy boy to me.” Clay chuckles.

I clear my throat, about to impart on a difficult discussion. Maybe it’s more of a test, which doesn’t feel fair, but a test nonetheless, for Clay’s reaction, and I utter a silent prayer he’ll pass. “You might have noticed how his nails are painted and he wears a lot of typically female-defined clothing.”

Clay stays very still.

I take another deep breath. “Love is love, Clay. And I love Dutton more than anything in this world. He’s discovering who he is. Who he wants to be, who he’s destined to be, and I’m giving him the freedom he needs to define himself in a world that wants to label everything.”

Clay swallows. “Is your boy gay?”

“I don’t know that he understands what that means but he knows what he likes. He likes pink things and glittery unicorns. He likes to play with my makeup and nail polish and enjoys watching female-led animation programs like Princess Power .”

I don’t know if Clay is familiar with Princess Power , but now isn’t the time for explaining a television show.

He nods, his expression pensive, thought-filled, like he’s really listening to me and not judging Dutton.

“My point is, I don’t use the constructs boy or girl with him yet. He’s just Dutton. My adorable, sweet, loving six-year-old, who has had a rough go of life so far.”

Within seconds, Clay responds, as if he didn’t need time to choose his words carefully or respectfully. His thoughts are instantaneous. “I think love is all that matters, especially for a child. Loving Dutton as he is, for who he is, is all he needs. The best thing you can do for him is love him.”

I could hug him.

Sadness fills his voice before he clears his throat. “About that rough life, though, . . .” His eyes meet mine, softening a little, but I predict what’s coming next. He should know more about us. He deserves to know more if we’re staying in his home. I’d simply hoped I could put off truth telling for a little longer.

“How about a beer?” Clay asks. “Then we can sit on the couch for a chat.”

I lower my head like a chastised child, preparing for a lecture about bad behavior when I’ve been labeled a good girl most of my life. “I’ll get you one.”

Clay’s fingers come to my chin, startling me and I flinch back from the sudden touch. His hand holds still a second before he flips it, palm up. “I’ll get you one. Take a seat.”

Anxiety spikes within me as we trade places. Him heading for the kitchen, me heading for his couch. With the nerves inside me rattling a little harder, I swipe my hands over my thighs again as I take a seat.

Clay quickly joins me, settling at the opposite end of the couch, placing his back in the corner. He hands me my beer and taps the neck of his against mine. “To chats.”

I don’t reply, watching as he lifts his beer and takes a long pull while I only take a hesitant sip of mine. I’m not much of a drinker, especially beer.

When Clay lowers his beer to his thigh, he watches me. With his other arm extended on the back of the couch and one leg hitched up on the cushions, he looks like a mature model, the essence of casualness, about to have a photo taken.

“I’m not going to push, but like telling me about Dutton, which I appreciate, I’d like to know whatever else you feel comfortable telling me.”

I sigh, glancing down at my beer bottle and picking at the label with my thumbnail. “But you already know things about me.” I was surprised he remembered my name. Surprised he recognized me after a year’s absence from this town. But I shouldn’t be surprised he’d recall a thing or two about me from when I’d lived here.

“I want to hear them from you.”

Certain he’ll kick me out after I spill my tale, I inhale. I don’t have anything left to lose that I haven’t already lost, so telling Clay a few things isn’t going to hurt.

I glance up at him. “Wesley and I moved here about five years ago. He said it’d be a fresh start for us. A beginning. We hadn’t been dating very long before Dutton came along.”

I weakly smile, remembering how pretty Wesley’s promises sounded. We’d get married. We’d raise a family in a small town. Life would be easier, better than it had been in Florida.

“We bought the house and started renovating.” My head lowers. “I’d been worried from the beginning that the house was too much. Too much money, too much space, too many projects, but Wesley kept saying we’d fill it with more children. And we had the funds.”

I turn my head and glance toward the now dark window panels, staring out into the night. “But we didn’t have the money. The house had been expensive, and all the renovations added up.”

Wesley tackled a few projects on his own, but eventually, he was fed up with DIY, and started hiring out the work. We needed functioning bathrooms and a serviceable kitchen. I didn’t know anything about the contractors who took the jobs. But I quickly learned we owed more money than we had.

“I’d been lucky to find a nursing job at the local hospital. We hired an older person in the area to watch Dutton. Wesley was gone a lot.”

At the time, I’d thought Wesley was a salesman. Poultry was his business. He had customers all over the United States and some even overseas. He was gone for large chunks of time.

Turning back toward Clay, I see he continues to observe me. Eyes kind and patient. Forehead furrowed with concern. What I’m telling him is only surface level.

“Time passed. Wesley was gone more often than home. And when he was present, life was . . . unpleasant. He had these ideals of what a wife should be while not living up to husband-standards. He criticized me often.” I swallow hard as Clay’s eyes darken. His fingers once loosely holding his beer bottle tighten around the glass. “And he was cruel to Dutton.”

“How?” Clay’s voice cracks.

I shake my head and lower my gaze. “He wasn’t as open to letting him be who he wanted to be. He called him names. Criticized him and his choices. And he accused me of babying him, making him weak.”

I swallow around the bile in my throat. The sick sensation within my gut every time I think of what Wesley said, and how I’d defend Dutton. The insults turned from an unnecessary teasing of Dutton to venomous abuse toward me.

“Did he ever touch Dutton? Lay a hand on him?” The strain in Clay’s voice rises. His knuckles whiten against the brown bottle in his hand.

“He went for him once. I got in the way.” I don’t close my eyes. Don’t need to recall the way I threw myself between man and child and took the slap that sent me to the floor.

We’d been arguing about finances, about his absences, and about our relationship before that moment occurred.

“He ever lay a hand on you?”

I don’t speak, but our eyes meet, and the watery appearance of mine answers his question. I swallow hard and blink back the tears. I refuse to waste any more on Wesley.

“Shit,” Clay mutters before lifting his beer and tossing back the bitter crispness. His eyes snag away from me and stare at the opposite corner of the room, somewhere near his fireplace.

Maybe I’ve said more than I should. Maybe I’ve confessed too much, but once the flood gates have opened, the rest of the story pours out.

“There’s no doubt you heard about the fire.” The house irreparably torched. “It took forever for the insurance company to accept the claims because . . .” I swallow hard again. “Because there was suspicion of arson.”

The investigation took six months before they finally processed the claims. Another three months passed, and constant nagging on my end before the claims moved through the chain of command. The final payout was expected in July, then August. The final days of September are upon us and still nothing.

I scrape at the label on my beer once more. “They eventually determined faulty wiring but that faulty wiring could have been on purpose.” Those sketchy contractors. Or a contract on my life.

I lift my head again. “The night before, I’d told Wesley I was leaving him. I was putting the house on the market and taking Dutton back to Florida.”

“You wanted a divorce.” Clay states the obvious.

“I didn’t need one. We weren’t married.”

“But—” His gaze drops to my left hand, looking for the ring I haven’t worn in over a year.

“It was an act. We called ourselves Mr. and Mrs. Holland but we weren’t legally a couple on paper. Wesley always said we’d get to it. We’d have a proper wedding. A grand affair.” I weakly wave my hand through the air, like the magic wand he’d pretended to be, fulfilling my every wish.

“Only we never did. We didn’t have the money and even though we could have had a civil service, we didn’t do that either.” And here’s where the stab wound in my heart reopens. My eyes prickle with tears once more. “He already had a wife. In Florida.”

“What the fuck?” Clay snaps, leaning forward and staring at me. “He what?”

“A wife in Florida. Me in West Virginia. And, I suspect, a new girl in Kentucky.”

“What a mother—” Clay cuts himself off, chewing hard at his lower lip to hold back a slew of terms I’ve used myself to label Wesley Holland. Whatever Clay is thinking, I’m certain I said it out loud at some point. For all the names Wesley called me, I have some choice ones for him as well.

“How did you find out?”

My laugh is bitter. “When Wesley went missing, it wasn’t as hard as I thought to trace a few breadcrumbs in his history.”

What did surprise me was my parents never had the foresight to investigate him. My dad thrived on fault with authority and suspicion of others outside his world. Maybe they had looked into Wesley, and hadn’t wished to share the truth, waiting for me to discover it for myself. Waiting for me to fail and come home with my tail between my legs.

Hadn’t I done that for a while?

I shake my head. “He’s still married to his wife, as far as I know, but she reported him as missing as well. I don’t know what happened to the girlfriend.”

I’m not certain what I was considered. The other woman? Never his fiancée. Never his wife as we’d told this community.

“Did you know about his wife before you planned to leave him?”

I shake my head. “After.”

“And the house?”

“Was in my name.” I came into a bit of money. The upfront investment had been all mine. “So, when the bills came due, or creditors called, and the insurance needed to be claimed, it all fell back on me. The arson investigation started with me.” As if I’d want to torch my own home.

“I had to prove I wasn’t a flight risk, which was first implied with Wesley’s disappearance, before I could leave the area.”

For a few weeks, Dutton and I stayed with Meredith Mulligan.

“Do you think he did it?” Clay asks, then immediately sits back and swipes his hand down his face. “Is this more than you want to talk about?”

His concerned expression tells me he’s giving me an out. I don’t need to overshare, but it feels good to tell someone other than my parents my thoughts.

“Considering I had Rohypnol in my system and Dutton was in the house, I can’t rule out that Wesley wanted to take everything from me. My home. My life. My son.” Tears well once again.

I shouldn’t be sitting here. I shouldn’t be back in Sterling Falls.

I should be dead. And so should Dutton.