Page 85 of Jack
His dad nodded, warmth in his eyes.
Jack got into the passenger side. His father always reminded him a little of Russell Crowe, salt-and-pepper hair now, and gray whiskers, but he had a perpetual grin that took up all the space on his face, a low laugh, and Harper was right—the man never raised his voice.
Maybe that’s why his disappointment sat in Jack’s soul.
They drove to Grover House, the childhood home of his father. Similar to Doyle’s place—the Norbert—Grover House possessed a wide front porch, a turret, a parlor, dining room, five bedrooms, and a third-floor ballroom. They sometimes brought in a caterer for bigger groups. Now, a few shiny Escalades sat in the driveway, belonging to Oaken and his friends.
His father backed the truck in and got out.
He loaded Jack up with more wood, then grabbed his own armful, and they headed inside.
Bacon frying in the kitchen, conversation, laughter. Weirdly, the fact that Jack’s sister was marrying into a sort of found family settled a peace inside him.
They arranged the logs, then his father stirred the fire to life.
“Thank you, Mr. Kingston.”
Jack looked over to see Oaken entering the room, holding a cup of coffee.
His father got up. “We’ve been over this. It’s Grover.” He winked at Oaken.
Oaken lifted his coffee, glanced at Jack. “Have you tracked down Penelope yet?”
That’s right. Oaken and Penelope were friends. Jack had worked the fire into a blaze and now set the poker back with the fireplace utensils. “Working on it.”
Oaken’s mouth made a tight line. “If you need help, let us know.”
And by ‘us’ he meant Boo’s search and rescue team. “Maybe. We have a couple leads we’re checking out today.”
Jack followed his father back out to the truck. His dad looked over as he put the tailgate up. “I didn’t know she was missing.”
“Yeah. We thought she went to Minneapolis, but”—he shook his head—“I’m not sure.”
“If anyone can find her, it’s you, son.” Then he winked and headed to the cab.
And Jack just stood there, wanting for the first time to make promises.
His father fired up the truck, and he slid into the front seat. They motored over to the Rudolph, the third home, this one more of a cottage, built for great-great-grandfather Bing’s youngest son, who’d remained a bachelor all his life. A porch, of course, a small turret for the parlor, two bedrooms, and a great room with a marble fireplace in deep mahogany.
“The band is staying here.” His father got out and they repeated their resupply of the firewood.
They got back in the truck, and Jack wanted to round back to his father’s earlier statement, but the older man turned on the radio to the morning news from KDUC. Something about vandalism at the market this morning, police on the scene.
His father turned off the radio. “Kids today need something to do. Outside. Something to fill up their time more than video games.”
“Like building firepits?”
His dad glanced over at him, grinning. “It kept you boys out of trouble.”
Jack shook his head, also grinning.Maybe. “That’s Doyle’s job now.”
“He’s a big help. But he’s getting restless, I can feel it.” He pulled back into the drive for Grover House. “Sort of like you.”
“Me? I’m not restless.”
“Son. You’ve been restless your entire life.” He turned to Jack as he put the truck in Park. “But it’s good to have you home.”
Maybe Jack was tired, but the words nudged in beside the others, filling his chest.