Amazed, Greg asked, “How do you know all this? You said you haven’t been in contact with your brother. I know you haven’t talked to your father, or he’d be dead already.”
She’d kept some things to herself over the years. Things she didn’t want anyone to know, because . . . Well, they might question her sanity, quite frankly. At this point, she’d given herself away in some respect. Several ways, actually. Look where she lived. She’d bought the property above the road where she and Dylan spent prom night naked in the backseat of his car.
How sane are you, Jessie? A psychiatrist would have a field day with you and the many ways you torture yourself.
Sighing, she looked at one of the two men she trusted with her life. Without Greg and his father, she wouldn’t be where she was today. She owed him an explanation.
“You know how you tease me about locking myself in the workshop. Well, when I go in there I work. I work until I’m numb and nothing is in my mind, so I can sleep without dreaming.”
“I’ve heard the tools.”
“Yeah, but you don’t know what I’ve been doing. I build furniture.”
“I’ve seen all the furniture in your house. You’ve given Dad and me some really nice pieces for Christmas and our birthdays. I know you made it yourself.”
“Once I finished the house, I kept making it. It’s kind of an obsession.”
“So you have a barn full of furniture. How does that explain how you know about your brother and father selling the business to his partner?”
“I have a store in Fallbrook where I sell the furniture.” Sheepish, she fell into her seat.
Greg rested his hip on the corner of her desk, folded his arms over his broad chest, and waited for her explanation.
“Okay, fine. I heard through some business contacts a shop owner needed a business partner. She sells antiques and collectibles and wanted someone who made fine furniture. It started off small with custom curio cabinets, headboards, hutches, and things like that. Then, people started asking about matching pieces and bigger pieces. Now, I stock the store with all kinds of things. I make a lot of money, and my hobby has turned into a second business.”
He continued to stare at her with his determined chin stuck out, waiting for her to continue.
“I’m a silent partner. She runs the store and I provide the merchandise. She takes a small percent, and in exchange, she’s agreed to keep her mouth shut about where the furniture comes from.”
“J.T., that’s amazing. How long have you been doing this?”
“Six years.”
“Since we were in college. I had no idea.”
“I think Pop knows. I used to stay late sometimes at the jobsites to use the tools. I’d buy the wood and set up in one of the unfinished houses. I’d spend a few hours making a chest or a table. It was just something to do. I’d imagine someone sitting at the table having dinner with their family, or putting a favorite quilt in the chest.” She shrugged and tried to fight the crooked smile creeping across her face. “Stupid, huh?”
“No. Not stupid. I’ve never known anyone better with their hands and power tools. You have a gift.”
“It’s the only thing the old man ever gave me. He always demanded I be the best one on any jobsite. He’d ride me all day, every day, to make sure I did the job right. I hated that, but I always liked the satisfaction of seeing the finished product. There’s nothing like stepping back and looking at what you’ve built out of pieces. I like it when those pieces make a whole.”
She wished she could do the same with her heart. It seemed the pieces would forever lie scattered in the chasm of her soul.
“I know how you feel. I felt the same way the day we finished my house. I feel the same way whenever I work on something.” Taking a deep breath, he asked, “Are you going back to Fallbrook now that your father is dead?”
“You won’t leave this alone, will you?”
“No. Dad and I agree. Go home and put the past to rest. Find a way to be happy.”
“I’m happy.” She’d spoken too quickly. His disapproving glare told her he didn’t believe a word. “I am, damnit.”
“You’re not. What you are is a successful businesswoman. You aren’t that poor little girl who had the misfortune to grow up with Buddy Thompson for a father.”
“Well, the joke’s on me, because he wasn’t my father.”
That little gem came out of their last fight. Buddy, drunk and cussing her out, went over the top, revealing her mother confessed to an affair in her suicide note. She’d loved the man, and he’d left her to go back to his own wife and children. Devastated and pregnant, she passed Jessie off as Buddy’s daughter, until she couldn’t take Buddy’s drinking, or the loss of her one true love.