A Little Too Late (Madigan Mountain #1)(8)

But my mother didn’t hang it there. And when that door opens, I’ll expect her to call out to me. Reed? I’m in the kitchen!

And then she won’t.

“Come on,” my dad says gruffly. “Don’t drag your feet, son. Won’t make it easier. I know this is hard.”

This, from a man who wouldn’t even say her name after she died?

The week after her funeral, my father went on a rampage, stripping the house of every single thing that reminded us of my mother. He threw her clothes by the armful out the front door, onto the yard, while my youngest brother locked himself in the bathroom and turned on the shower to drown out his sobs.

My father never said, I know this is hard. He drank instead.

And I’m still so angry.

“My therapist would tell me to give you time,” my dad says. “But I’m afraid you’ll just drive away again.”

“Your therapist?” I’d be less surprised if he hired an exorcist.

“Yeah, her name is Addie. Nice lady.”

I blink.

The front door of my childhood home swings open and the new Mrs. Madigan steps out. She’s a tall, thin woman with greying blonde hair and a big smile. “Welcome, Reed! What a surprise.”

I smile by force of habit. My first thought is at least she’s not twenty-nine. And my next thought is to wonder if she took his name. Melody Madigan is sort of a mouthful, not that I’m going to point that out.

It’s pretty hard to believe that my father is the only Madigan man with a wife. His three sons are all too scarred by our family implosion to ever tie the knot.

“There she is!” my father says with a warm chuckle. “Her cookies are worth the walk, trust me.”

I propel myself toward the door, although I can’t imagine that any cookie is tasty enough to make this less awkward.

Dad steps inside first and carefully removes his shoes.

I’d do the same, except I’m too busy staring at the freshly painted interior. The walls of our open-plan living room are now a warm mustard color, and the furniture is all new. There’s lots of wood and earthy colors. Big red toss pillows on a brown corduroy sofa. A mustard-colored footstool. A leather club chair.

It’s so homey. And so unexpected. It would make more sense to my broken heart if the place had crumbled down to its foundations.

I make the mistake of glancing up at a long shelf that runs toward the kitchen. Dad built that shelf to display my mother’s pottery.

Now the shelf is bare. Every piece of pottery is gone.

I knew it would be, but it still hurts to see it.





Ten minutes later, I’m seated at the kitchen table with a cup of mint tea in my hand and two lavender shortbread cookies on a plate in front of me. There are purplish flower petals visible in the shortbread.

That isn’t even the weirdest thing about this moment. It’s like I’ve entered an alternative universe. The kitchen has all new lighting. The appliances gleam. There’s a roaring fire in the fireplace, and the air smells like butter and sugar.

Melody sits across from me, studying me with bright green, curious eyes. I’m trying to carry on a conversation, but I’m not doing my best work. She’s distractingly smiley and probably too young for my father. I can’t imagine what she sees in my grump of a father, except for his wealth.

Selling Madigan Mountain was probably her idea.

“Do you, um, have any children?” I ask. The question sounds polite enough, but I’m actually fishing for more details about her life.

“No, I don’t,” she says. “And I’m fifty-five years old, so that ship has sailed.”

She’s not too young for him, then. My mother would have been fifty-seven this year, and my dad is sixty. That’s not exactly scandalous.

“I have a horse named Baylor and an ex-husband who’s a waste of space. That’s it for me. And I signed a prenuptial agreement, Reed, so you don’t have to worry about the future. Your dad is right to protect his children’s legacy.”

Well, fuck. I rub the back of my neck and try not to appear flustered. “That’s not a cheery topic, is it?” I break off a corner of a cookie and shove it into my mouth, flowers and all.

She shrugs. “The older you get, the more frank you become. I don’t want money or anything else to get between us, Reed. I hope you’ll come to visit often, wherever we end up.”

“Thank you,” I say, trying to sound like I mean it. “Do you have plans to leave Colorado?”

“We’re going to travel the world,” she says, her eyes lighting up. “Our first destination is Australia, by way of Hawaii. We’re planning to go in January.”

“That’s soon,” I say stupidly.

She shrugs. “We haven’t booked it yet, because your father isn’t quite sure how long it will take to negotiate with the buyer. But we’re very excited. I have a whole binder full of articles about the places we’re going to visit.”

I struggle for something to say. “This cookie is really good.”

“Don’t get used to them,” she says. “I won’t be making them again.”

“Why not?” I break off another piece. It’s tempting to just shove the whole thing in my mouth. The shortbread is crisp, and the butter gives it a rich crunch. The lavender is subtle, giving the cookie a whiff of floral top notes.