What You See (Sons of the Survivalist #3) - Cherise Sinclair Page 0,73
watching Bull with his family made her see that hers wasn’t very loving. Or supportive of anything unrelated to their own interests.
Sure, she knew that…in a way. Most of her friends had wonderful parents. But she’d never stepped back and really considered hers.
She tapped the CALL square.
“Francesca, it’s about time you returned my call.”
“Mama, hi. I saw you’d called a couple of times. I’m sorry, but the cell reception at the cabin is crummy. I waited to call you from town.”
The atmosphere in the little coffee shop seemed to darken with the spew of irritated language coming from the phone.
“Mama—”
“Just tell me when you’re returning. Nyla can’t handle your job. We’ve had two models quit and a photographer has refused to work with Jaxson. Birgit wants a new makeup artist, and…”
As her mother continued, Frankie thought of how she’d read about criminals killed by having stones piled on them. Until the weight slowly suffocated them. As her mother complained that Frankie’s absence had affected the entire family and the company, she felt her lungs struggle for air.
She needed to be here for Kit—and in New York for her family.
She couldn’t be both places.
Her stomach tightened until nausea swamped her. She didn’t even know if Kit was still in the compound. What if Obadiah had taken her back to Texas?
“I’m sorry, Mama, but I’m not going to fly right back. I haven’t had a vacation since I left college. Not one. For the last two years, I’ve asked to hire an assistant—someone I could train to fill my shoes when I can’t be there.”
“That’s unreasonable, Francesca. We can’t afford to have an assistant for you. Your job isn’t that essential and if—”
If my position isn’t essential, then why are you so angry that I’m gone? “Mama, listen—”
“No, you will return. You’ve had your vacation and…”
As the words poured over her, Frankie could feel her muscles getting tenser. Turning sideways, she bumped her wounded arm on the back of the booth. Ow. Caz had just taken the stitches out an hour ago.
All too easily, she could feel how the bullet had sliced through her arm. If the shot had been more accurate, she wouldn’t be here at all. And she was done. Just done with all the complaints.
“You know, Mama, if I was dead, you’d manage without me. So, since my job isn’t that essential, just suck it up and manage.”
There was a shocked silence on the phone. Frankie was the good child, not a prima donna model, but the one everyone could count on. She didn’t have moods, didn’t have temper tantrums.
Didn’t have needs.
To hell with that.
“Sorry, Mama, but I need to go. I’ll be back when my vacation is over. If you don’t think Nyla can handle the job, then hire someone else.” Before Mama could respond, Frankie said firmly, “I love you, bye.”
With a long sigh, she banged her head against the back of the booth. “Porca miseria.”
“I know a bit of Italian. ‘Damn me’, right?” The owner of the coffee shop set Frankie’s cappuccino, as well as a cinnamon roll, down.
“That’s right.” Frankie eyed the plate. “I only ordered coffee.”
“On the house. It sounded like you could use something sweet.”
“Could I ever.” With a half-bitter laugh, Frankie nibbled on the roll. “Mmm, this is decadent. I’m Frankie, by the way.”
“One of the roadhouse’s new servers, I know. I’m Sarah. My husband Uriah and I own this place.” With stylish short brown hair, the petite woman was around forty. Frankie’d seen her with her young daughter and a baby. Two children, a business, and living in Alaska would explain why she was so lean, despite making scrumptious desserts.
“It’s good to meet you. I mean with names and all.”
Sarah laughed. “After, what, three weeks, you’re almost a regular. How do you like our small town?”
“Rescue is great.” Frankie grinned. “Being so far from home, I love the sound of a fellow New Yorker’s accent.”
“You’re from New York? I heard that rumor and didn’t believe it.” Grinning, Sarah sat down across from Frankie in the booth. “How’d you escape without an accent?”
“It took some work. It returns if I get upset, although usually the Italian one overpowers it.”
“Italian, hmm?” Sarah lifted her eyebrows. “I had a guy in here last week Googling Italian swear words on his phone. Something like ‘tessydee cah-so’?”
Frankie felt her face flush. “Testa di cazzo. It’s…um…equivalent to calling someone an asshole.”
“I had a feeling he heard it from you. Was he a bad date?” Sarah grinned. “Sorry,