Garnet Flats (The Edens)
Garnet Flats: Part 3 – Chapter 12

His daughter was adorable. She’d lost her front baby teeth and there’d never been a more precious toothless smile.

A daughter.

He had a daughter.

I put my hand over my heart, pressing hard because it hurt. Oh, God, it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Foster said. “I thought you knew.”

His daughter tugged on his hand. “Daddy, are we going?”

“Yeah.” His eyes were full of more apologies but he didn’t say another word as he let her drag him toward the hotel. The trainer, Jasper, followed.

A daughter.

Foster and Vivienne had a family.

“Talia.” Lyla touched my elbow.

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.

When would this stop? Was this some sort of sick joke? His way to torture me?

Lyla moved in front of me, forcing me to make eye contact. “What can I do?”

I shook my head and managed to choke out, “Work. I need to go back to work.”

“Okay.” She looped her arm with mine, taking a step and pulling so hard I had no choice but to walk away.

I’d taken a late lunch break today and come to the coffee shop to talk with Lyla. We’d decided to go for a walk around downtown because her barista, Crystal, was sweet but she gossiped constantly. Neither Lyla nor I trusted her not to eavesdrop.

So my sister and I had wandered downtown, behind the coffee shop and around the hotel, while I’d told Lyla everything Foster had revealed last night.

The underground fights. Arlo’s blackmail. The money. My suspicion that Vivienne had been in love with Foster from the beginning, so she’d gone along with her father’s scheme.

She’d won Foster. And not only had she gotten to claim the title of wife, she’d also given him a beautiful daughter.

A daughter I’d once dreamed of having.

“Goddamn it.” Tears flooded my eyes as we crossed the street, and I furiously blinked them away.

“Well, I’ll give Foster credit for something,” Lyla said as we rounded her building for the alley where I’d parked my Jeep. “He’s brought you out of your emotional shell.”

I slowed my steps, forcing her to do the same. “What? I don’t have an emotional shell.”

“Don’t you?” She gave me a sad smile.

“Seriously? You’re saying this to me today?”

“You’re right. Forget I said anything.”

Unlikely. “Just because I’m private doesn’t mean I have an emotional shell,” I snapped.

“I didn’t say that to pick a fight.” She held up her hands. “Not that we ever fight. Not that you ever fight with anyone. Or cry with anyone. We’re twin sisters and the last time we had a decent argument was in high school.”

My jaw dropped.

“Sorry. Bad timing. I just . . . I can’t help but think that since he’s come to town, you have been more open with me in days than you have in years.”

“You’re praising him for breaking my heart?” I shook my head, as frustration bubbled inside my chest. “Are you trying to make me angry?”

“Um, no? Just stating an observation.”

“Unbelievable.” I stomped away, digging my keys from my coat pocket.

“You’re just proving my point!” she called to my back.

I lifted a hand and flipped her off.

“See?”

I spun around, walking backward for a few steps. “You wanted a good fight. You have one now. Don’t call me for at least two days.”

Lyla shrugged as an infuriating smile spread across her face.

“Three days,” I barked, then turned and stormed around the corner toward my Jeep. I slammed the door too hard and smacked my hand on the wheel. “Ouch. Damn it.”

Thanks to my sister, at least I wouldn’t be crying when I got to the hospital.

An emotional shell? How could she say that? I laughed and smiled and joked all the time. I was happy. I was a blissfully content person.

My molars ground together as I drove to work. I stormed into the locker room to stow my coat and keys, then washed my hands before heading down the hallway, ready to drown myself in work for the next few hours.

“Hi, Rachel,” I said as I stopped at the nurses’ station. “Just wanted to let you know I’m back.”

She was seated behind the counter, eyes glued to a computer screen. Her gaze flicked my way before she glanced to the wall clock over her shoulder. “Long lunch?”

Don’t call her a bitch. Don’t call her a bitch. I forced a smile. “Just the hour. Like usual. Please let me know when my two o’clock appointment gets here.”

“Don’t I always?” Rachel returned her attention to the screen and hummed my dismissal.

This woman’s attitude had frayed my last nerve. But what was I supposed to do? Tattle on her? That would only make it worse.

This wasn’t Lyla’s coffee shop. If my sister had issues with an employee, she could fire them, put out a help-wanted sign and have a new barista within two weeks.

Rachel, for all her personality shortcomings, was a good nurse and manager. Fighting with her would do nothing for me. So I walked away.

“Because I’m a freaking professional,” I muttered to myself.

Dr. Anderson came walking down the hallway, dressed in his usual khaki slacks and white lab coat the same color as his hair.

“Hi, Dr. Anderson.”

“Hi, Talia.”

Talia. I called every doctor at Quincy Memorial Doctor. And they called me Talia. The nurses did too. Not just Rachel, everyone.

No one called me Dr. Eden. Why? Was I not worthy of that title? Was I not worthy of the respect? Was that why Foster had hidden the truth about the underground fights and the blackmail? Was that why Dad had confronted Foster at the gym instead of letting me handle it?

Did everyone see me as weak? Incapable?

“I’m taking off for the day,” he said. “Heading out early so I can take my wife out to dinner. It’s our anniversary, and I’d like to swing by the jewelry store for a little something and the grocery store for flowers.”

“Happy anniversary,” I said, faking more smiles and polite conversation even though I just wanted to go hide in the supply closet. “Where are you going to dinner?”

“Knuckles.”

“Good choice. Though I’m biased.” Not really. Knox’s restaurant was the best in the state. And I was in the mood to fight anyone who disagreed.

“Are you all set here?”

“Yes. I’ve got a couple of routine checkups this afternoon. Otherwise, I’ll do the rounds and handle anything that comes up.”

“Excellent. Dr. Murphy is in the ER until seven. Then Dr. Herrera is on call tonight if you need any help.”

Dr. Murphy. Dr. Herrera.

Doctor. Doctor. Doctor.

“Would you mind checking in on a few patients for me this evening?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

Dr. Anderson gave me a quick summary, then with a dip of his chin, took off for the day, leaving me on my own.

The hospital didn’t have the budget or demand for a doctor on-site twenty-four seven. We staggered the day and evening shifts, working varying schedules. There was at least one doctor in the building from seven in the morning to seven in the evening. On days like today, when we had scheduled appointments, one physician would be in this wing with patient and exam rooms while the other was in the emergency room for walk-in traffic.

When I’d first started my residency, all of my shifts had coincided with Dr. Anderson’s so he could supervise and observe. As my mentor and teacher, we’d worked cases together. But as I’d progressed through that first year, he’d given me more freedom.

Now, three years in and so close to taking my exams and getting my license, I often worked the late afternoon and evening hours alone. It had become my favorite time at the hospital.

Mornings were hectic. The lunch hour was usually too short. But by four or five o’clock, after the nurses’ rotation and the appointment window closed, it was peaceful.

My final appointment was with a woman who’d come in for her yearly exam and a mammogram. After saying goodbye, I left her to get changed while I wandered down the hallway, away from the exam rooms and through the doors that led to the patient rooms for those staying overnight.

The scent of garlic and tomatoes and pasta filled my nose as I passed a nursing assistant carrying a food tray. Dinner tonight must be spaghetti.

I stopped at the third door on the left, knocking before I pushed it open. “Hey, Dante.”

The teenager lying in bed looked as miserable as he had yesterday. “Hey.”

On his table was his own tray of food. The plate was shielded with a metal lid and the glass of milk covered with plastic wrap. “Spaghetti is the best dinner of the week. Need some help with it?”

“I guess,” he mumbled.

I went to the sink to wash my hands for the hundredth time today, then helped him uncover the meal. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I have two broken legs and a broken arm.”

I handed him a fork for his unbroken arm. “Could be worse. You could have a broken neck.”

“Yeah.” Dante poked at his pasta.

“How’s your pain?”

He glanced at the white board on the wall where the pain scale was depicted on the bottom. “Three.”

“Call if it gets above a five.”

“ ’Kay,” he muttered. “My mom is pissed.”

“It’s her job as your mother to be pissed.”

Dante had come into the ER yesterday with a myriad of broken bones. He was a sophomore in high school. He and a buddy had spent New Year’s Day together. They’d decided to go sledding off Dante’s roof into a snowdrift in the driveway. He’d taken the pioneer voyage, which had landed him in the back of an ambulance, destination: Quincy Memorial.

Dr. Murphy had been in the ER yesterday. The fractures had been clean, so he’d set the bones and put them in splints for the night. Then today, after another set of X-rays to make sure everything was aligned, they’d put him in casts.

He was staying tonight for observation, but tomorrow, he’d be on his way home.

Dante’s dad was a firefighter in town. His mom was an accountant. Dante was the oldest of five kids, and according to Dr. Anderson’s recap earlier, his parents were swapping shifts here at the hospital. His mom was due any minute.

“Want to watch some TV while you eat?” I asked, picking up the remote.

“My mom said I’m not allowed to do anything until I’ve lain here and thought about the idiocy of my ways.”

I pulled in my lips to hide a smile. “And have you? Thought about the idiocy of your ways?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nodded. “I’m a dumbass.”

“Everyone makes mistakes.”

He nodded toward his legs. “This is a big mistake.”

There were far worse things in a human body to break than bones. “You’ll heal. Don’t worry. Good as new in no time.”

The corners of his mouth turned down. His dark eyes flooded. “I’m going to miss basketball season.”

“I bet Coach Payne will let you sit on the bench and cheer for your team.” The high school basketball coach was one of the nicest people in Quincy and he loved his players.

Dante sighed. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Eat your dinner,” I said, turning on the television. “I’ll tell your mom that a little TV time was doctor ordered for stress relief and pain management.”

The tears in his eyes only seemed to multiply as he swirled some spaghetti around his fork.

Poor kid. He’d learned a hard lesson this week.

“Mind if I sit with you?” I asked, checking my watch. There was always work to be done, but I’d stick around until his mom got here.

“That’s cool.” He shrugged and ate another bite.

I pulled up the guest chair. “What do you feel like watching? ESPN? Disney? Cartoon Network?”

“ESPN.”

I scrolled through the guide and found the right channel.

Dante’s attention was instantly rapt on the small screen and the sports news recap.

ESPN wasn’t a channel I watched, mostly because I didn’t have the desire to keep up on professional sports. But also because it came with too high a risk of seeing Foster on television.

Dante’s mother had been right. We should have left the TV off.

Like the universe knew I was tuned in, the announcers changed the topic from football to the UFC. The show cut to an interview where a reporter was holding a microphone to a man’s face.

The man was wearing a pair of sweats and a tank top, his muscled arms covered in tattoos. Between the beeps they used to cover his curse words, he was talking smack about a fight.

“Scott Savage is going to kick that beep boy’s ass. You beep hear me? He’s old. Man needs to hang it up. Scott Savage is sending him into retirement.”

“This guy is such a douche,” Dante scoffed. “He always talks about himself in the third person. With both his names. Who does that? I hope Foster Madden kicks his ass.”

This—Scott Savage—was Foster’s opponent for his upcoming fight? I hated him already. Cocky bastard. “Me too.”

Foster’s face came on the screen, for just a minute, as the announcer recapped the fight date and each man’s stats.

Foster, on ESPN.

It was surreal to see him on the screen. I’d always believed he would achieve great things. I’d believed in him so hard that the loss of that faith had only multiplied the emptiness when he was gone.

I dropped my gaze to the floor and tuned out the television. It was easy, like placing a pair of earmuffs over my ears.

He had a daughter.

A lovely girl who was a mirror of Vivienne, from her chocolate eyes to the shade of her hair—brown with red streaks that glowed like copper strands under the sun.

My hand came to my heart. No matter how hard I pressed, the ache wouldn’t go away. Tears welled in my eyes.

Kadence. Cute name for a cute kid.

A name I would have known had I looked him up.

Maybe I should have looked him up years ago. But I definitely should have done my research when he’d arrived in Quincy. Before I’d let him into my home. My body.

Oh my God, I was an idiot. Such a fucking idiot.

Of course they had a kid. Kids? Did they have more than one child? They’d been married long enough to have a family.

Foster and Vivienne. And Kadence.

The Maddens.

My heart twisted again.

“Uh, are you okay?” Dante was staring at my profile, fork hovering above his plate.

“All good.” I lifted the remote and notched up the volume. Then I wiped the corner of my eye and sat straighter, staying until his mom breezed into the room, not caring a bit that he was watching TV while he’d had his dinner.

The ache in my chest lingered through the remainder of my shift. When I stood in the locker room, staring at the tally marks on the inside of my locker, the pain only grew.

What was the point of keeping track of good days? Should I erase the lines? Should I toss the marker in the trash? I’d been so determined to win over the nurses, my colleagues and our patients. To prove myself.

They didn’t even call me Dr. Eden. Maybe I hadn’t earned it.

I pressed my fingers to the marks, hesitating for a moment, before swiping them away. Then I pulled on my coat, slammed the locker closed and exited into the cold, dark night.

The streets of Quincy were quiet. Tiny snowflakes floated from the sky, catching the beams of my headlights. When I reached the turn off Main that would lead me home, I hesitated, almost continuing straight. Almost driving to the ranch for the night to sleep at Mom and Dad’s.

But I turned, knowing that Foster’s truck would be parked in front of my house.

It was.

The man himself sat on my porch’s top stair.

After pulling the Jeep into the garage, I trudged inside, my footsteps as heavy as my heart. Flipping on the lights as I made my way to the front door, I slipped outside and joined him on the stair. We sat with our elbows on our knees, gazes aimed forward.

My anger from last night had faded. Or maybe it was just masked with this numbness. Shutting down seemed like the only way to keep from feeling too much.

It might have been peaceful, sitting in the night, sheltered from the snow. There were no streetlamps in my neighborhood. The only light came from the homes, golden and cheerful and warm. I was the only single person who lived on this block. Every other house belonged to a family.

It might have been peaceful.

Except tonight, I’d never felt so alone.

“Where’s your daughter?” I asked.

“With Vivienne at the hotel.” He dragged a palm over his beard. “I thought you knew.”

“How would I know?”

“Figured you’d looked me up at some point.”

“Never.”

Foster’s frame deflated. “Never.”

Never. The severity, the magnitude, of that word seemed as endless as the night sky above.

“Kadence starts school here tomorrow.”

I sat up straighter. “What?”

“That’s part of why I’m here. I don’t want her growing up in Vegas. I don’t want her part of that world.”

“So you came here? To my world?”

“Quincy is where you are.”

Foster had come to Montana for me. I’d known that for weeks now, but tonight, it hit differently. He hadn’t just moved himself. He’d moved his daughter. His family.

“You told me that if I heard you out and I still wanted you to leave, that you’d go. You weren’t going to leave, were you?”

He met my gaze. “Never.”

Never.

“I have never been, and never will be, in love with Vivienne,” he said. “I have never stopped loving you.”

“Foster—”

“And I never will.”

My hand came to my chest for what felt like the hundredth time today. I pressed and pressed and pressed. But it did nothing to stop my heart from cracking. Jagged lines began to split, right down my center.

There was a reason I hadn’t dated. There was a reason I hadn’t moved on with my life. Why I didn’t have a husband or family of my own. Why I was married to my career.

His nevers mirrored my own.

That’s why this hurt so much. I’d given him my heart and never taken it back.

I stood from the step, making my way to the sidewalk, then I stepped into the snow on the yard, my tennis shoes sinking into the fluff. The ice slipped beneath the hem of my pants, melting against my skin.

This fresh snow had added a perfect layer of white, like the powdered sugar Lyla sprinkled on her pastries.

I was careful with my steps, doing my best not to leave unneeded marks in the pristine surface, then lay on my back, legs straight with my arms at my sides.

Scrubs weren’t exactly snow gear. My legs were instantly cold, but I didn’t care. I made a snow angel, raising my arms and sweeping out my legs, all while I kept my eyes locked on the few stars that dared shine past the clouds.

Foster followed, joining me on the snow. He lay still for a few moments, his eyes on the heavens, until his legs moved. Then his arms. He made his own angel, then gave up the sky to stare at my face.

“How old is she?” I asked. “Your daughter?”

“There is more to say than I said last night.”

“Answer the question.”

Deep down, I knew the answer, or had a rough idea. I was a doctor in a small town, which meant I saw a lot of kids in exam rooms. Kids needing their yearly checkups. Kids getting shots for kindergarten. Kids with bumps and bruises. Kids who had lost their front teeth, usually around the time they were six or seven.

Foster blew out a long breath, the wisps floating over the snow around us. “She turned seven last month.”

Seven.

We’d been apart seven years. Which meant if the girl’s birthday was in December, Vivienne had been pregnant before I’d left.

“I never cheated on you, Talia.”

Another never.

Was I a fool to believe them?

“Will you let me explain?” He reached for me, his cold fingers clasping around mine. “Please.”

I didn’t answer. I tugged my hand free and stood, leaving Foster in the yard as I went inside.

WHEN I WOKE the next morning and peeked out the window, our snow angels were gone. Erased by the storm and the inches of snow that had fallen overnight.

Erased, like they had never been.

I cried for an hour before I went to work.

I wanted the angels back.

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