Idlewild. Treasure Hernandez

      Chapter 1

      Summer Home

      Desiree looked over at her snoring teenage son, Tyree, and wondered if she was doing the right thing. For sixteen years, her life had consisted of protecting him from the evils of the world, even from her own family. On the night he was born, she’d whispered in his ear, “I will never let anyone hurt you. You are my soul.”

      Thinking about it now made small bumps crop up on her arms. She swallowed hard. She’d worked so hard to protect him. She’d been a fierce force in his life, like a superhero swatting away all obstacles every time things got rough for him. She hadn’t let kids in school bully him with their insensitive comments about never seeing his daddy. She hadn’t backed down when the mothers of his little friends asked too many questions about their situation.

      Desiree had never let her son go places without her unless she trusted that the other parents or chaperones were either in her same boat or understood not to pry. Desiree’s entire life had changed the day she chose her son over everything else, including her once close-knit family. When everyone had told her having a baby would ruin her life and her family’s good name, Desiree hadn’t cared. She’d given up an easy life for a hard one, but Tyree was worth it. So worth it. He was all she had. Desiree sighed and battled the tears welling up in her eyes as she thought about the amount of love she had inside her for her only child—from the tight dark curls on his head to the tiny cleft in his chin.

      Sometimes she couldn’t believe that he was actually hers. She’d actually have to stop and chant, “He is my son and my son alone,” a few times to get her mind back on track. The fact that the older Tyree got, the more obvious his looks got hadn’t helped either. He was one of those babies that made old women say to her, “Girl, you ain’t have nothing to do with that baby, huh? He must look just like his daddy.” Yes, that was the problem. Tyree looked like a complete replica of his father . . . well, her sperm donor. Desiree often wondered if the donor thought about her at all, if he cared about what had happened to her, and if his mind ever wandered to their summers in Idlewild and their sneaky trysts in Chicago during the school year. She wondered. But every time she wondered about him, she made herself sick.

      Desiree shook her head now and cleared those thoughts right out. She didn’t have time to wonder. She’d told herself years ago—sixteen years ago, to be exact—that wondering about him was detrimental to her mental stability. She and Tyree were just fine and were content to live a modest life in a small, tight-knit suburb in southern Indiana, many miles from where Desiree had grown up. She didn’t need the donor, his family, or her own family. She’d carved out a nice life for herself and her son. It was something her family had thought she could never do, since she’d been so pampered and sheltered from the real world while she was growing up. Desiree worked, had what her family would consider a regular job, and made an honest living.

      She hadn’t asked her family for anything since Tyree was born. There had been many days when she’d gone without dinner just so her son could eat and have things that other kids in their community had. It was a far cry from the lavish way she’d grown up, but that was fine with her. Anything to protect the love of her life. Desiree didn’t consider herself isolated or estranged, as some of her relatives had referred to her situation. She’d become used to the fact that Tyree was her only family now. He was all the family she needed.

      As Tyree continued to snore in the passenger seat, Desiree stared out the car’s windshield, and her mind began racing in a million directions.

      “Damn you, Junior,” she mumbled, thinking about the call she’d received a few days ago, the call that had prompted this long drive.

      Desiree had been standing at her kitchen sink, preparing Tyree’s dinner before heading to work, when her cell phone rang. She’d dusted her hands on her apron and rushed over to the phone. It was a number she hadn’t recognized.

      “Hello,” she’d huffed after struggling to get the phone to her ear without getting any of the remaining flour on her hands