“You too.”
“Hey, Mr. Turner, what can I do for you?”
“Have you seen the news?”
“I have. Looks like it could be a nasty storm. I checked all the metal shutters. We’re ready if we need them.”
“We may want to postpone the junior counselors’ arrival Saturday morning and possibly hold off opening the camp for a few days.”
“Oh.” Disappointment laces my tone, but I know he’s right, and honestly, I’m disappointed in myself for not considering it sooner. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Postpone by a week. Have them come in next Saturday instead.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks, Dean.”
“No problem.” I end the call, shoving my phone back into my pocket, and quickly make my way through the store.
19
Kleo
“Hey, Kleo?”
I glance over my shoulder at my father, who’s standing a few yards away, wearing jeans and an old camp T-shirt. Our logo, two palm trees with a lighthouse in the center, is so worn I can barely make out the words Turner Cove Summer Camp printed beneath it.
“Hi, Dad. Everything okay?”
He nods, surveying the cabin in front of me. “Prepping for the storm?”
“I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get started just in case it hits us.”
“Smart. I had Dean postpone the opening date.”
The tension between us breaks my heart. I wipe my sweaty hands on my shorts before grabbing the next shutter and attaching it to the metal railing my dad had installed a few years ago. The metal shutters protect the windows better than wooden ones, and for the most part, they’re easier to install.
“He told me. If you’re looking for him, he’s in the office, I think.”
“How are things going?”
“Fine.” Grunting, I nearly lose my grip on the metal, but before it falls, my father is beside me, helping to hoist it back into place. “Thanks,” I mutter and secure the hooks on either side.
“Getting along okay?”
I think back to moving his stuff out of his room. Of him moving mine onto the porch. “We’re managing. Neither of us has smothered the other, so I’m calling that a win.”
My dad chuckles. “That’s good.”
Curious, I turn to him. He looks so relaxed and a hell of a lot calmer than he has in years. “You okay?”
“I am.” He smiles. Actually smiles. “I’m glad you’re home, Kleo.”
“Thanks,” I say as Dean comes into view around the corner.
“Hey, Al,” he greets.
“Dean.”
I turn away and lift another piece of metal sheeting from my pile. As I’m lifting it, it slips, the metal edging slicing right through my palm. “Shit!” I wince, dropping the metal. It lands on my foot, and I’m damned glad I wore my tennis shoes instead of the sandals I’d had on earlier.
“You okay?” my dad asks, rushing to one side of me, Dean reaching the other.
“Fine.”
“Let me see.”
I remove the hand I’m pressing against my palm, and blood drips to the ground.
“I’ll grab the kit.” Dean turns away and runs back to the house as I follow my dad to the bleachers.
I hand him my palm and wince as he turns it to the side. I’m trying not to show how badly it hurts—the vulnerability from last night and my conversation with Dean this morning making me feel weak enough.
“You’re going to need stitches,” he says as Dean arrives, red first-aid kit in hand.
“Nah, I’m sure I’m fine.”
Dean kneels in front of me, gently taking my palm in his much larger hand. He looks at it and unzips the red bag, pulling out some gauze and opening the bottle of water he brought with him. “This may sting,” he says, looking up through thick lashes at me.
My stomach twists because even though my dad is sitting beside us, it feels like Dean and I are the only ones in the world. He moves my hand to the side and tilts it, pouring bottled water over my cut. Pain radiates up my arm, stinging as the water dilutes and washes away my blood.
Tears sting my eyes, and Dean turns my palm so my dad can see. “I think you’re going to need stitches,” he says, and no sooner do the words leave his lips than more blood begins to pool on my hand. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a red handkerchief. “It’s clean,” he says, looking up at me as he presses it to my hand, tying it off and standing, first-aid kit in hand.
“Perfect,” I murmur. An actual injury to add to my crap day.
“I’ll take you in,” my dad says. “You good to finish those?” he asks Dean. “I can see if Judson has some time to come by.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Come on, Kleo,” my dad says, slinging an arm around my shoulders in an affectionate move he hasn’t done in two years.
I don’t look back at Dean, though I can feel his eyes on me. When we reach my dad’s truck, I climb into the passenger seat as he shuts the door behind me and walks around to the driver’s side.
It’s then that I see Dean standing, kit in hand, watching me.
Hand stitched back together, I climb back into my dad’s truck and wait for him to get behind the wheel. He climbs in, offers me a quick smile, then starts the truck.
“Thanks for driving me,” I say quickly, and he turns to me, eyes wide with surprise.
“You don’t need to thank me, Kleo. You’re my daughter. You were hurt. I’m grateful you let me be here for you.”
We sit in the parking lot of the clinic, neither one of us wanting to say what’s on our minds because neither of us care much for vulnerability. I suppose I did have to get that particular trait from somewhere.
“I know we haven’t been that close since—and I’m sorry for what I did to make that hard on you. I know that you were embarrassed.”
“Oh, Kleo, is that what you think?” My dad’s blue eyes fill with tears. “You think I was embarrassed?”
“I know that he was your friend—” I start, but he shakes his head.
“I was angry—still am. I hate myself for letting him close enough to hurt you. Kleo, I’ve known that man nearly my entire life. We golfed together, and when you started getting those letters, I went to him first. He promised to help me find who was doing it, and the entire time, it was him. I can only imagine how proud he was of himself that he managed to dupe me.” My dad shuts his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, a tear slips down his cheek.
My dad never cries, never. Not once in my entire life have I seen this man shed a single tear. “Dad, I’m—”
“I’m sorry,” he interrupts. “Sorry that I wasn’t there to protect you, to keep him from trying to hurt you, and I’m so sorry that I let you think this entire time I was embarrassed.”
“But the contracts you made everyone sign.”
“I was so afraid of losing you. That you wouldn’t want to come back to a town where everyone was talking scandal. The thought of it was so horrible that I did what I had to do to give you somewhere safe, somewhere you would feel comfortable returning to when you were ready.”