One Step Closer(22)

At least, he didn’t have to read it if he didn’t want to.

His phone began to ring and he reached for it, glancing down: it was a number he didn’t recognize.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Caleb, darling, I’m so sorry to hear about your father.”

Caleb visibly cringed. He was shocked by the voice on the other end of the phone, though he shouldn’t have been. Veronica didn’t come off any less bitchy or annoying despite the pseudo attempt at a sympathetic tone.

“Ah! Step-monster! I wondered how long it would take you to start sniffing around like the vulture you are. You certainly don’t disappoint,” he retorted sarcastically. He could almost hear her claws come out through the open phone line.

Veronica laughed nervously, ignoring his sarcasm. “Now is that any way to be, given the circumstances? I just wanted to offer my condolences to you and to—,” she stumbled a bit before she continued. “Um, Wren. I know she and Edison were close over the past few years.”

Obviously the bitch was fishing and Caleb realized that his stepmother had absolutely no idea whether Wren was in Denver or not. He almost laughed out loud. His disdain for the woman was barely contained when he spoke; his tone harsh. “Fishing is for seagulls, not vultures, Veronica. You get nothing about Wren from me, and no, you don’t get any of the money, either. Buh-bye, now.” He hung up on her without filling in the blanks then glanced down at his smart phone. “No Caller ID” was the only identifier, making it impossible to block the number. “Bitch.”

He threw on some old flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt he found in one of the drawers and meandered upstairs in search of the delicious aroma coming from the main level of the house. His stomach was rumbling and he realized he hadn’t eaten since that morning.

When he found the kitchen, Mrs. Jones was at the stove frying something, and the counter was lined with pies and breads.

“Hey, Jonesy,” Caleb murmured and the old woman turned, a sad smile flashing across her face.

“Oh, Caleb!” She put down what she was doing and rushed around to hug him. His arms wound around the plump older woman to return her embrace. “Are you hungry?” Jonesy pushed back to look up into Caleb’s face.

“Starving.” Caleb nodded, letting her go and then went to the refrigerator and pulled it open. The shelves were lined with trays of salads, fruit and vegetable trays and more desserts.

“Wow. Look at this spread. Are you expecting everyone within the Denver city limits to come to the wake? I didn’t think dear-old dad was that popular.” Caleb knew he sounded scornful, but he felt little need to put on a fa?ade for the housekeeper, a woman who’d seen him grow up and knew every nuance of what went on in this house.

Jonesy turned, pulling up the front of the apron that was tied around her waist and used it as a towel to wipe off her hands. “You know me, dear. I like to be busy. And your father was very respected, Caleb. There will be a lot of people coming to his funeral. We have to—”

Caleb interrupted her. “Put on a show?” His face twisted and he shook his head, leaning into the refrigerator in search of a beer or something else to drink. “No beer,” he huffed. “How could I forget beer was beneath Edison Luxon?” He lowered his voice mockingly. “Single malt scotch and Dom Perignon all the way.”

Jonesy pulled the skillet off of the hot burner and shut off the heat angrily. “Caleb.” Her tone was stern. “Your father may have been less than he should have been to you, and no one can make you respect him, but the man is dead. He built an empire for you.”

Mrs. Jones wasn’t just an employee of his father’s estate; she’d been a fixture in the house for Caleb’s entire life, and so she wasn’t overstepping her place in her tone. She and Jonathan were the closest thing to family he had left.

Caleb found a bottle of water and let the door of the refrigerator shut. He shrugged, looking at the woman. “I don’t want it. Do you think money and mansions can justify everything he did?” His brow dropped into a frown as he began to unscrew the lid off the plastic bottle, and shook his head. “It wasn’t for me. All it did was assuage his guilt, and he deserved to keep every last shred of it for how he turned his back on Mom, Jonesy.”

The old woman sighed and started to pile food from one of the containers on the counter onto a plate. She turned and put it in the microwave, and pushed the button to make it start. As it whirred into operation, Caleb lifted the lid on one of the other containers and fished out a thick piece of buttered French bread, taking a giant bite.

When Jonesy sat the plate piled with steaming lasagna and a smaller one with a fresh Caesar salad on the table, Caleb, still munching on the bread, took a seat behind it, set his water bottle down and picked up the fork she provided. It looked and smelled delicious. Macy never cooked, and it had been years since he had home-cooked meals.

Jonesy looked hard at Caleb for a few seconds; as if she were having a mental conversation with herself then pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. “He made sure you were educated; that should mean something. He was good to Wren after you left. He’s responsible for her career.”

Jonesy knew the pain that Edison suffered after the loss of his wife, and though it was no excuse for abandoning his young son, she understood that kind of pain. Her own husband and baby girl had died in a car crash when she was a young bride, and no pain had ever compared to it. Caleb had suffered too, but he would surely suffer more if he couldn’t find forgiveness in his heart.