Trinity(6)

She checks something on the computer in front of her and then smiles, disingenuously. “Mr. Winters is waiting. You’re late.”

I glance at the clock over the receptionist’s head. It’s five after nine. Give me a break.

“Shit happens,” I sneer. “Where am I going?”

She cocks a penciled eyebrow. “Elevators. Third floor. The door on your right.” She points with the tip of her pen.

“Thanks.” I continue to march, if for no other reason than to retain my confidence.

I ride the elevator up to the third floor and walk through the glass door on the right. I’m met with yet another perfectly prim receptionist.

“Ms. Reeves?” she asks cheerfully. Genuinely. She reminds me of Shayna. Blonde, bubbly, and doe-eyed.

“Yes.”

“He’s waiting.” She motions to the double doors behind her. I suck in a deep breath and prepare for war as I waltz through the entrance and into a gargantuan conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows and a backdrop of the glimmering Atlantic Ocean.

“Ms. Reeves. Please have a seat. I’ve been waiting.” I’m reminded once again. Five minutes. You’ve been waiting five fucking minutes. Get over it. I walk assertively across the room and sit down adjacent to the impeccably dressed man. Ty Winters is nothing like I imagined. He’s much younger than I pictured, dictatorially handsome with his copper hair and bold green eyes, and way more intimidating than I was prepared for.

“I was expecting a Mr . . .” He opens the red folder in front of him, disinterested. “ . . . Nathaniel Jackson.”

“Mr. Jackson is presently in a nursing home in poor health. I’m here to speak on his behalf.” I latch on to the thin rope of poise I have.

“Are you his power of attorney?”

“In a matter of speaking.”

“Ms. Reeves.” Ty sighs as if I’m wasting his precious time. “I’m uncomfortable talking contracts and negotiations with someone who isn’t legally authorized to speak on Mr. Jackson’s behalf.”

“That’s fine, because I’m not here to talk contracts and negotiations. I’m here to tell you we’re not selling.”

“Ms. Reeves—” he immediately protests.

“Don’t waste your breath, Mr. Winters. The Corkscrew isn’t for sale.”

“I advise you to reconsider. It’s a generous offer.”

“It’s a crap offer, and you know it,” I snap.

His green eyes sharpen to pin points. I surmise the young Mr. Winters isn’t used to people talking back to him. It’s clear he’s incredibly accomplished, well-educated, and an Ivy League asshole who wants for nothing. His suit is probably worth more than my life is. But I’m not going to let that intimidate me. Just because he’s powerful doesn’t mean he can ride in and steal from the poor to give to the rich. One percent of the population in Newhaven Beach can afford the condo compounds he’s building. Before Winters Travers swooped in, this area was peaceful and quiet. An unblemished coastline escape. Now, with all the new development, taxes are rising, the community is changing, and people whose families have lived here for generations are being pushed out because they can’t afford their beachfront homes anymore. I don’t know when the shoreline became strictly for the rich, but it fucking blows. That’s why I refuse to give up the Corkscrew. I have plans for the little restaurant, and I’m not going to let some greedy developer ruin them.

“It’s the best offer you’re going to get. I urge Mr. Jackson to reconsider. Change is coming,” he threatens, vehemently sliding the folder in front of me. “The town wants this redevelopment, and your little establishment isn’t going to get in their way. Persuade Mr. Jackson to accept the offer.”

I narrow my pale blue eyes at Ty Winters. “I don’t have to persuade Mr. Jackson to do anything. We don’t accept. So you can take your shitty offer and shove it up—”

My tirade is interrupted when the door to the conference room suddenly swings open.

“Ty, I have specs I want to show you—” A tall blond man in a tan suit barges in with a tablet in his hand. He stops short when he looks up to find Ty isn’t alone. Our eyes lock, and suddenly, I want to throw up. “I didn’t realize you were still in a meeting.”

“He’s not. We’re done.” I jump up, sick to my stomach. I race past Shane without uttering a word and bang on the elevator button like it’s going to magically open the doors.

“Jenn?” Shane voices my name from behind. I slowly turn around with a defensive look in my eye.

“You work for him?” I hiss. “Is that why you came into the Corkscrew last night? Recon?”

“No,” Shane contests. “Chase and I just got back into town. We’re starting on our next project.”

“You both work for him?” I’m disgusted.

Shane shakes his head at me incredulously. “Why were you meeting with Ty?”

“Like you don’t know.” The elevator doors ding open. Thank god.

“I don’t.” He stands there gaping as I press the lobby button.

“Sure.” I cross my arms and glare as the doors slide closed.

What a fucking idiot I am. The term sleeping with the enemy could not be more appropriate.

The nausea rolls as I dart out of the building, into my car, and pull away.

I chew on my anger like tobacco until I pull up to Magnolia Nursing Home. Taking a few deep breaths, I squeeze the shit out of the steering wheel to help pull myself together. I can’t go in there a frazzled mess. The last thing Pops needs is to start sniffing out trouble. He has enough to worry about.

I sign in at the front desk and give Daisy a small smile.

“Morning, Jenn. You look nice today.”

“Thanks. I just came from a meeting.” I inwardly scowl. “I hate business attire.”

She laughs lightly. “Don’t we all. That’s why I became a nurse.” She tugs on her floral scrubs. “Casual Friday every day.”

“That’s one way to choose a career. How’s our patient today?”

“I’ve heard cranky.” She purses her lips.

“So, normal?”

“Pretty much.”

“Good to hear.” I tap on the desk before I head to room 404. My heels click on the tile floor the whole way, agitating the quiet hall. Agitating me. I try to forget all about Shane and Chase and who they work for as I enter the room. Pops, aka Nathanial Jackson, is resting peacefully, propped up in his bed. The television blaring Sports Center, as usual. After turning the volume down, I sit on the edge of his mattress and watch him sleep. His breaths are heavy and his mouth is slack. His dark skin is ashy, and the hair on his chin and head has turned almost completely white. He looks so different now compared to the first time I met him, nearly twelve years ago. A neglected teenager who was looking for attention and something to eat. My parents couldn’t be bothered with me, so I was a victim of circumstance and indifference. My father cared more about drinking on a fishing boat than anything else, while my mother worried who her next boyfriend was going to be. I have an older half-brother, Tommy, but I haven’t seen or heard from him in years. Once he turned eighteen, he joined the Marines and never looked back. Who could blame him? When my father did decide to make an appearance, Tommy was his personal punching bag.

My brother did do one notable thing before he left. He protected me. Our father went after me one night, and Tommy made sure he never did it again. That was three weeks before his eighteenth birthday. I was eleven. He repaid my father tenfold for the years of abuse. I still remember the vicious beating and the bloody aftermath. Our father’s face was so swollen he couldn’t open either eye for days. I’ll always be grateful to Tommy for standing up for me. For protecting me. I wish he hadn’t left, but I understand. I just hope wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, he’s happy.

Pop whimpers in his sleep but doesn’t wake. The tube in his nose provides the oxygen his lungs desperately depend on. I want to hold his hand, but I don’t want to disturb him. He hasn’t been sleeping well from the violent coughing and pneumonia. Just as the thought crosses my mind, he breaks into a coughing fit, which startles him awake. I grab some water, but he puts his hand up in protest as his frail body jerks from the vicious hacks.

My heart breaks as I watch helplessly. There’s nothing I can do. There isn’t anything anyone can do.

“Water, water,” he finally croaks, motioning for the small pink cup in my hand. I hand it over readily. I recall the first time I met Pops. I’d been stealing food from the Corkscrew’s pantry for weeks, sneaking in while the servers were setting up and swiping whatever morsels I could. One day, he caught me. This big, intimidating black man with a fedora and a cigar. I was thirteen and terrified out of my mind. I thought for sure the back of a cop car was where I was headed. But instead of calling the police, he handed me an apron and told me if I wanted to eat, I’d have to work for my dinner. So I washed dishes that night and every night after that for weeks upon weeks. I was Pop’s stray cat. Feed me once and I just kept coming back. After a while, he started to take an interest in me. In my schoolwork, my future, my happiness. He encouraged me, made sure I was on the right track, and kept me there. He was the only adult in my life who truly cared, and I grew to love him. Respect him. He was an incredible role model. Everyone adored him. Especially me.