The other room contained the boxes that he’d brought with him from the house he and Lakin had shared. Jason leaned against the doorframe and gawked at the cardboard containers, losing himself in painful memories.
They’d been married five years and lived in a two-story brick home in Vestavia. But three and a half years ago, the final decree of their divorce was signed on January 29, 2015. Exactly thirty days later, on the morning of February 28, Jason’s father had suffered a heart attack in the shower. Lucas Rich had been able to crawl to his phone and call an ambulance, but he’d passed before arriving at the hospital.
Nothing had been the same since.
“Jason, let’s talk about what happened with Lakin.” Michal had pushed him in their sessions to explore the hard questions concerning his marriage. “Were there any issues or problems that kept coming up?”
Lakin had wanted kids. Jason couldn’t, or maybe the proper word was wouldn’t, commit to having a family. “Why couldn’t you, Jason?” His therapist asked probing, thoughtful questions about whether the couple’s marital issues were connected in some way to Jason’s family history.
He didn’t have all the answers. All he knew was, at the end of the day and as Jimmy Buffett liked to croon, it was his own damn fault. Had he loved Lakin? Yes, he had. She was a court reporter when they first met. He’d been taking a host of stressful depositions in Nashville, and Lakin was the stenographer. She was good at her job. Witty, funny, and smart. He enjoyed talking with her during breaks in testimony. When the last deposition concluded, he asked her to have a drink on Broadway, which led to dinner, and which resulted in an unforgettable nightcap in his apartment that didn’t end till the following morning.
Since opening his law practice, Jason had dated many women, but none who were as much fun as Lakin. They laughed. They partied. They enjoyed each other’s company. And they eloped nine months after the tryst in Nashville.
Had Jason’s family approved of Lakin? Hell no, they hadn’t. Lakin was from Talladega, Alabama. Her father had spent a lifetime in stock car racing, working the pit crews for Bobby Allison and the Alabama Gang. Her mother was a waitress at Huddle House. The only money Lakin had was in her purse. Lucas Rich had wanted his only son to marry a woman with a dowry, who came from “good stock.” He frowned on Lakin, telling his son that he could have done better. Ironic, really, since Jason had never managed to please his father, but somehow, suddenly, he was too good for his bride?
Meanwhile, Jana ignored her new sister-in-law, deeming her “trashy.” On their rare visits to Guntersville, Jana barely acknowledged Lakin.
And Jason’s mother would not challenge her husband or Jana. Joyce Rich was polite. She sent a wedding gift. But she never embraced Lakin as her daughter-in-law.
Lakin probably could have handled being rejected by Jason’s family, but Jason couldn’t. Nor could he get on board with his wife’s desire to have a family of their own. As the years went by, he worked more and drank too much. He wouldn’t commit to having kids and, eventually, was unfaithful. If he were honest, he knew he had given Lakin no choice but to divorce him. He’d damn near begged her to do it with his actions.
And when his father had died thirty days after the divorce became final, he’d felt something inside himself snap. He’d become a ship without a rudder, slowly self-destructing until he drank three Bloody Marys before the deposition of Eileen Frost.
And now here he was. Staring at the boxes that held the ruins of his former life. Regardless of whether he took Jana’s case, what was he going to do with the rest of his life? If he was honest with himself, there was nothing for him in Birmingham anymore except his law firm, which had run fine and dandy without him around. Hell, maybe he was holding Izzy back.
You’re the brand. He could hear his persistent partner’s voice in his head. Maybe so, Jason thought, as he locked the door to the apartment.
But that’s about all I am anymore.
He rode down the elevator gazing at the tile floor, trying to quiet his thoughts. When he stepped back out into the muggy night, he saw a familiar face leaning against the side of the Porsche.
Harold Michael Davenport wore a black T-shirt and faded jeans. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, which he dropped and stomped out as Jason approached. “Don’t tell Izzy, aight?” he asked, glancing down at the flattened nicotine stick.
“Hear no evil, see no evil,” Jason said, holding his fist out, which Harry nudged with his own.