Beach House Reunion (Beach House #5)(93)

Her father’s hands went still.

“And you know what?” she said by way of challenge. “I’m going to speak up too.”

Palmer’s eyes flashed like lightning. He crossed his arms as though to barricade against more hurt coming his way. “All right, missy. I’m listening.”

It was said as a threat. Linnea’s mind screamed out warnings to stop, but she’d gone too far. Cooper was strong; now she had to be. It was now or never. She steeled herself, lifting her chin.

“I’ve got news,” she announced. “I’ve found a position in my field and I have an interview. And if they offer me the job, I’m going to take it.”

Palmer’s face reflected his surprise. Clearly this wasn’t what he’d expected to hear and it took the wind out of him. “Well,” he said, and wiped his face with his palm. He looked exhausted, and seemed at a loss for words. “That’s good. Real good.”

“Let me finish,” Linnea said.

Palmer’s smile froze and he tilted his head, puzzled.

“The job is in California,” Linnea continued. “San Francisco, to be exact.”

“What?” Julia’s voice was stunned. “When did you decide this?”

“Just this week.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, sounding hurt.

“Oh, Mama, you had Cooper on your mind today. I didn’t want to add to your burden.”

“You don’t have to protect me,” Julia said, standing straighter. “I should protect you. I should protect both my children.”

Palmer broke through with bluster, having caught a second wind. “You’re not going to San Francisco.”

“Yes, I am,” she replied, facing him with equal conviction.

Julia stepped closer. “Where would you live?”

“I have a place to stay,” Linnea said.

Palmer frowned. “Where is that?”

The wind gusted again, stronger now, whistling outside the windows. The brittle branches of the old oak tree rattled like claws at the window. Linnea felt her courage waver.

“A friend’s.”

“Who?” he asked, stepping closer.

Linnea met her father’s unblinking gaze. “Emmi Peterson’s son, John.”

She heard her mother suck in her breath.

“I’m not a little girl anymore,” Linnea rushed to say.

Palmer’s eyes widened. “You’re going to California with a man?”

She swallowed hard. “He has an apartment there. I’m going to crash at his place until I find an apartment of my own. He’s being a good friend.”

Palmer snorted unkindly. “I’ll just bet he is.”

She tried for reason. “That’s all we are. Friends. But if I want something more, you need to trust me that he’s a good man and I’m making the right decision.”

He shook his head. He was having none of it. “You’re not going! And that’s that.”

Linnea felt no fear and spoke in a monotone that was, oddly, more effective than a shout. “I leave as soon as the storm is over.”

The tension skyrocketed with a sudden fierceness. He was blowing up, his rage building to a tipping point, and she felt her own anger swell like feeder bands of the hurricane.

“Hell, no!” he roared, stung to the core. The wind gusted, rattling the window, and the lights flickered. The storm was upon them.

She stared at him, mouth agape. She didn’t know this man, and he frightened her.

He pointed to her, his face red, spittle at his lips. “You’re not going anywhere! Who do you think you are? Goddamned beach house. What happens to women out there? My mother. My sister. Her damn friends. And now you? A bunch of radicals, all of them! Enough, I say! I’m your father, and I want you back home under my roof, hear? Where you belong.”

Linnea glared at him, then turned away. “I’m out of here.”

“Don’t you dare turn your back on me!”

It was all so fast, Linnea would never recall exactly what happened.

From the corner of her eye she caught sight of her father raising his hand in anger. Her breath hitched.

At the same moment, a deafening crack erupted just outside the house, and amid the terrible sound of ripping wood she heard her mother cry, “No!”

Linnea yelped and cowered, arms up over her head. Her heart pounded wildly.

Julia stood in front of her daughter, shoulders back, fists at her sides, eyes blazing. “No!” she shouted again in a resounding voice.

Palmer stared back at her, eyes wide, his hand still in the air. His face sagged and he staggered forward like a speared bull. His hand dropped to reach out to Linnea. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t touch her!” Julia shouted at him.

Linnea straightened, staring at her mother. She was a lioness, roaring, empowered.

Palmer had the thousand-yard stare of shell shock. His gaze drifted from Julia to Linnea, then back to Julia. His face contorted with anguish. In a sudden, swift move he turned and grabbed the crystal glass from the table and, with a guttural cry of anguish, hurled it at the portrait. It hurtled, spewing a trail of bourbon, to crash against the painting. Glass splintered and the seeping brown liquid spread over the old man’s face.