down the path, she had the urge to turn back. To see if Del was watching her. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw he wasn’t. He’d gone inside.
Foolishness, she told herself. Just like the tingles. If she ignored it, it would go away. At least that was the plan.
* * *
DEL FINISHED HIS COFFEE, then accepted the inevitable and drove to his parents’ house. As he pulled into the long driveway, he braced himself for the inescapable drama. Because this was his family and nothing was ever easy.
He parked and walked toward the front door. The huge rambler looked as it always had—sprawling with a large garden front and back. Beyond the rear yard was the workshop his father used. Two stories of windows in a steel frame, because of the light. Ceallach also had a studio on the far side of town for when he needed to get away.
His father was a famous glass artist. World famous. When he was good, he was the best. But when he drank...
Del tried to shake off the memories, but they were persistent. His father had been sober several years now. He no longer destroyed a year’s worth of work in a single afternoon’s drunken tantrum and left the family desperate and destitute. It was better now. But for Ceallach’s five sons, better had come too late.
A happy bark drew him back to the present. A brown, black and white beagle raced around the side of the house and headed for him. Sophie bayed her pleasure as she rushed at him.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he said, scooping her up and standing. She wriggled in his arms, trying to get closer and give kisses at the same time.
“You probably don’t remember me,” he told the dog. “You’d be this happy to greet a serial killer.”
Sophie gave a doggie grin in agreement. He put her on the ground and followed her to the front door. His mother opened it before he could knock and shook her head.
“You couldn’t shave?”
He chuckled, then hugged her. “Hey, Mom.”
She held on tight, then drew back and shook her head. “Seriously. Would it kill you to use a razor?”
He rubbed his jaw. “Most mothers want to talk grandchildren.”
“That would work for me, too. Come on.” She held open the door.
He stepped into the house and back into the past. Very little had changed. The living room had different sofas, but in the same spot. His father’s glasswork was everywhere, all carefully mounted or secured so Sophie or her wagging tail didn’t do any damage.
Del turned his attention back to his mother. Elaine had met Ceallach Mitchell when she’d been twenty. According to her, it had been love at first sight. His father had never told his side of the story. They’d married four months later and Del had been born a year after that. Four more sons had followed, each about a year apart until the twins.
His mom looked as she always had, with dark, shoulder-length hair and an easy smile. But as he studied her, he saw that there were a few differences. She was older, but it was more than that. She seemed tired, maybe.
“You okay, Mom?”
“I’m fine. I don’t sleep as well as I used to.” She shrugged. “The change.”
He wasn’t sure exactly which change she was referring to, but he wasn’t going there. Rather than take a safe step back and escape, he moved to the sofa. Sophie jumped up next to him and immediately settled in for a nap.
His mother sat across from him. “How long are you in town?”
“The rest of the summer. You said to be home for Dad’s birthday. I came back early.”
“Your father will be pleased.”
Del was less sure about that. Ceallach might be brilliant, but he was also temperamental. In his mind what mattered was art. Everything else was a far second. A lesser kind of living. He had no patience for or interest in mere mortal lives or pursuits.
“You’re here by yourself?” his mother asked.
Del nodded. Last time he’d been home he’d brought Hyacinth. He’d been so sure they were going to make it. But they hadn’t. She’d been unable to promise herself to a single man and he’d been unable to accept the string of what she swore were insignificant lovers that moved in and out of her bed. While he’d loathed the cheating, the dishonesty had been just as bad.
“Traveling light,” he told his mother.
“Del, you need to settle down.”
“I’ve never wanted to settle.”
“You know what I mean. Don’t you want a family?”
“Finally playing the grandkid card?”
She smiled. “Yes. It’s time. Your father and I have been married thirty-five years and yet none of my boys has ever gotten married. Why is that?”
He couldn’t speak for his brothers. He’d been in love twice in his life, first with Maya and then with Hyacinth. Both relationships had ended badly. And the common denominator? Him.
His father strolled into the living room. Ceallach Mitchell was tall and broad-shouldered. Despite being weeks away from turning sixty, he was still strong, with the muscles required to wrestle large pieces of molten glass into submission. Del acknowledged his father’s genius—there was no denying brilliance. But he also knew it came at a price.
“Del’s home,” Elaine said, motioning to the sofa.
Ceallach stared at his son. For a second Del wondered if his father was trying to figure out which of his offspring he was.
“He came back for your birthday,” his mother added.
“Good to know. What are you doing these days? Surfing?”
Del thought about the board he’d created, the company he’d started, how much he’d sold it for and the impressive amount sitting in his bank account.
“Most days,” he said, dropping his hand to rub Sophie’s tummy. The beagle shifted onto her back and sighed.
“You seen Nick?” his father asked. “He’s still working in that bar, wasting his talent. No one can get through to him. I’m done trying.”
With that, Ceallach walked out of the room.
Del stared after him. “Good to see you, too, Dad.”
His mother pressed her lips together. “Don’t be like that,” she said. “You know how he gets. It’s just his way. He’s glad you’re back.”
Del was less sure about that, but didn’t want to start a fight. Nothing had changed. Ceallach only cared about his art and other people with the potential to create art, and Elaine still stood between him and the world, acting as both buffer and defender.
“What are you up to these days?” she asked. “I know you sold your company. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I’m still deciding what’s next. I’ve been offered some design work.”
“Are you going to take it?”
“No. I came up with my board on my own. I’m not a designer. There are a couple of venture capitalists who want to fund my next big idea.” Which would be great if he had one. What he most wanted to do— Well, that wasn’t going the way he’d hoped.
“You have time to decide what’s important.”
The right words, but again he had the sense she was hiding something. Not that he was going to ask again. Secrets were an ongoing part of life in the Mitchell family. He’d learned early to wait until they were shared.
“You could go to work for your brother,” she said.
“Aidan?”