The Right Move (Mable Falls Book 1)

by Amy Sparling

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Copyright © 2018 Amy Sparling

  All rights reserved.

  First Edition September 2018

  Cover design by Cover Design by Paper & Sage

  Typography from Font Squirrel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems -except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews-without permission in writing from the author at admin@amysparling.com.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Chapter 1

  In the first second after waking up, I peel open my sleepy eyes slowly, not wanting the happiness of dreaming to end just yet. Then I shoot up like a fire dart in bed and check the time on my phone. It’s after ten o’clock in the morning!

  In the next second, harsh reality doubles me over and I lean back against my fluffy, down feathered pillows, slinking back beneath the sheets with a cumbersome sigh. Here I am, a week later and still waking up each morning thinking I need to jolt out of bed and gather Grandma’s morning pills, make her a mug of coffee, retrieve the newspaper from the driveway and help her change into an outfit for the day.

  Only this time, like every morning for the past week, Grandma is gone. Whatever needs she has now are out of my realm of expertise, passed on to whoever takes care of her in the afterlife. I glance out the window as the pain of missing her falls over me. It’s going to be a bright, sunshiny type of day regardless of how much my heart hurts.

  The dancing morning sunlight spills into my bedroom in rectangular forms of light that scatter and dissipate across the tired, sandy blonde wood floors below. It’s like the sun is mocking me, telling me to get over it. It’s not so easy. It’s been a week since I lost her. A whole seven days, and four more after the funeral. I lived with her for the last four years, and it’s going to take longer than this to forget my morning routine.

  Well, I’m up now. I might as well jump into what’s familiar to me … routine and chores.

  Yawning, I morph into a glorious stretch and plant my bare feet on the cool floor. I wiggle my pink manicured toenails, a treat I just gave to myself before Grandma died. Although normally I’m a simple, no frills type of twenty-two-year-old female, I was in a good mood that day and thought I’d splurge. Funny, how you never know what sadness lies waiting for you around the corner.

  I shuffle to the kitchen and fumble through the pantry until I find my favorite Italian blend of coffee. I make a single cup since Grandma isn’t here anymore to enjoy the peaceful morning with me. She used to drink two or three cups in one sitting, and I was always refilling the coffee maker.

  Gazing out the window above the sink, I’m entranced by the splendor of a bright new day. If only Grandma was here to enjoy it with me. I hate how these thoughts are the first ones that come to mind. She practically raised me, and in the end, I took care of her. She was my best friend. My closest family member. It sounds kind of pathetic, I guess, but I’m lost without her.

  Grandma’s house is tucked away on two acres of land, off the beaten path and away from the suburbs. Off of the back porch a few yards away, there is a charming little duck pond that sits on the edge of her property. We used to take strolls around it back when she was feeling up to it, before her health started failing her.

  Today, it seems like any other ordinary day, only the void of her passing still lingers and swells in the tides of my heart. It’s been exactly a week since we buried my sweet grandma. From ashes to ashes, dust to dust. That’s what my aunt on my mom’s side had said, when she had read her beautiful eulogy at the funeral.

  I startle when the coffee pot beeps, announcing that my hot brew is finally ready. I grab my coffee mug that says, “The Alamo” in black letters with a black picture of the structure on the side. Walking with the cup cradled in my hands, I take a leisurely stroll down the hallways of Grandma’s house, in nostalgic limbo of what to do next. It’s been like that every day since the funeral. I wake up, make coffee, and pace around, not really knowing what to do with my life.

  Oh, right…I forgot about the chores. I might as well get them over with before the day gets excruciatingly humid. Mable Falls, Texas in the springtime can either bring on relentless, shirt soaking heat or a chill through your bones with a cold rain. It just depends on the day, really. Texas weather is like that.

  Either way, the magnolia trees that line the property are beautiful and blossoming with the buds of new white flowers and a fragrant aroma. Nature doesn’t mind the weather changes. Wandering around, I clean up a few dishes in the sink that I was too lazy and tired to wash last night. I wipe off the counters and distractedly sweep away the dirt and dust that leaves a subtle coating across the wood floors.

  I walk to the laundry room and put a load of clothes in. The sound of the water hitting the basin inside of the washer fills my ear drums, the only sound in the otherwise eerily quiet house. I take a deep breath and close the laundry room door behind me. Yes, it’s going to take quite a while for me to adapt to the silence around here.

  Perhaps I need to take up a hobby of some sort to keep my fussy mind busy.

  Grandma was the only person I had in the world, and now that she’s gone, a stagnant feeling of the in-between gnaws at my subconscious. My mom died from a lung infection when I was just a kid. Well, I was hardly a kid back then, but compared to now I suppose I could consider myself one at the time.

  Going through high school without a mama to support me, do my hair, or help me dress for prom had been a nightmare. I missed her so terribly, but the extra time I got with Grandma made the memories with my mom fuzzy. Grandma had a knack for keeping my mind preoccupied. She swiped the pain away like somebody ripping off a security blanket, but I needed to be hit with a fresh dose of reality at the time, and she knew it. Grandma had loved me unconditionally, and up until the day she died I had full confidence that she would have jumped in front of a train for me if it ever came down to it.

  I still remember coming home that fateful day of my freshman year. Mom had been sitting at the kitchen table, an antique that had been handed down from my grandma on my dad’s side. A fresh arrangement of wild daisies sat in a white, ceramic milk jug in the center of the table, representing happiness.

  Only, as soon as I caught a glimpse of the expressions on my parent’s faces, I knew that all of the joy had been stolen from the room. My mother hung her head, her shoulders shook with sorrowful sobs. My father’s eyes were blotchy and blurry, giving away that he had been crying, too.

  My father never cried when I was growing up. Never saw the man reveal much of any emotions, to be honest. As soon as they told me the terrible news, that my mother had an incurable lung infection, their words beca
me muffled. I didn’t hear anything else.

  I was numb, for a long time. The pain was fresh, for years.

  Of course, it didn’t help matters any that my father left me a year later. He remarried to some big haired floosy who smelled like cigarettes and hair spray. It was as if my mom’s place in his life didn’t matter anymore. He’d swapped her out for some other woman and went on with his life.

  I never understood my dad’s attraction, or maybe it was infatuation, to his new wife Melinda. Either way, he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me, and he’s nothing more than a stranger to me seven years later.

  Grandma kept me full, happy, and busy to say the least. Sure, I had ways to stay distracted and all, especially when Grandma started to succumb to her own health issues as she aged. Taking care of her was what I lived for. I had my day planned out to a tee. First, I would begin each day by helping her out of bed.

  Then, we would enjoy our cup of coffee and I would help her change into a pair of sweatpants or something.

  Grandma loved to do crossword puzzles in the morning while she scratched behind the ears of her beloved tabby cat, Felix. Felix is peach colored with white swirls intermixed. Honestly, he reminds me of a big fluffy piece of angel food cake. Felix doesn’t like me much, but every time his cat food hits the metal bowl, he comes running with gratitude at the sound.

  Anyway, Grandma would be out on the front porch, enjoying the day and I would always come and retrieve her for her afternoon soap operas. I found Grandma’s love affair with the characters on those shows to be a bit silly, but whatever made her happy I was fine to go along with. Hell, my love life sucks so badly, maybe I need to start watching those dramatic romances as well.

  I would start afternoon supper around four o’clock, and would usually have it on the table around five. Grandma loved to eat vegetable beef soup and corn bread, even in the summer time. She was a pistol, and I will truly miss our conversations … some of which would stretch well into midnight. She always told me I’d find a wonderful guy one day. I always thought she was just trying to make me feel better, because I’m a pretty lost cause when it comes to love.

  Going back to the present, I climb into the outdated yet cozy pink tiled shower and stand here for what seems like hours, letting the steam fill the room. It spreads like a fog to cloud my emotions and the issues I don’t want to think about anymore. I allow the hot water to roll down my back, giving me more pleasure in that simple little act than anything else in my entire day.

  After I freshen up a bit, I pull a lavender t-shirt over my head and climb into my favorite pair of skinny jeans. By now, I know the mail man has already made his way down our long and winding drive, on his short route in our remote area in rural Texas.

  I throw on a pair of flip flops and open the front door, surprised to be hit with a gentle and welcoming breeze that flows through my hair and tickles the back of my neck. I walk to the mail box, taking my time because I love being outside, one with nature. The sky is a perfect light blue, and there are a few fluffy, soft clouds that move through the air, skirting across the canvas of the atmosphere.

  When I pull open the mailbox, it’s so full of envelopes, cards and magazines that a few pieces fall and plop down onto the overgrowing grass. Since I’ve been in mourning most of the week, I guess I’ve let the mail pile up, and the grass grow too long.

  I make a mental note to get back to the grind of the outdoor chores as well. Thankfully, there’s a riding lawn mower in the garage and I can handle it by myself, just like I have had to learn to do for most of my life after my mom passed away.

  I thumb through the mail absentmindedly while I stroll back to the front porch and sink down into a rocking chair. I close my eyes and savor in the creaking sound the chair makes as it hits the wooden planks of the porch.

  I take a time out, a peaceful moment to engage with my own personal serenity and then I decide to jump right into the next task at hand … the mountain of mail that’s currently weighing in my lap.

  There are a ton of sympathy cards. Some from distant relatives, some from family members I just saw at the funeral. There’s a blend of both in there, among a few utility bills and a couple of Grandma’s favorite magazines like Southern Living and a Soap Opera Digest.

  I glance out at the horizon. What am I supposed to do now?

  Taking care of Grandma had been all I knew for so long, and now I don’t have to answer to anybody but myself. What did I want? Back before I quit my young life and came to take care of her? I don’t even remember who I was back then.

  Real life plagues me, and frightens me when I think of having to scrape by and endure the struggle alone. All of my old friends are married now, or in committed relationships. They’ve graduated college or are pursuing master’s degrees and have lives that are totally different from mine. I haven’t even been on social media in months because every time I checked it, I felt further and further behind from my old life.

  I walk back inside and glance at my reflection in the mirror. My straight, short blonde hair falls into a perfect bob that sits just above my shoulders. My mom used to joke that I had the best hair ever because I never had to worry about it. It just stayed silky smooth all the time. When I was a kid, I didn’t think much of it, but now I know what she meant. I do have awesome hair. At least that’s one thing guys might find attractive about me.

  My brown eyes stare back at me expectantly as if I’m searching the window of my own soul for answers. Grandma always told me I didn’t have brown eyes, that I had chocolate colored eyes. She said that was a prettier word for a girl like me. I wasn’t regular, I was special. Of course, she might be the only person who thinks that.

  Grandma humbled me and made me blush with her compliments, and fed me self-confidence that always ran to hide in the closet along with the dusty old jackets after her departure.

  I don’t have a job, because taking care of Grandma was my full time job. I only had one semester of college under my belt, but I had given up that dream when Grandma got sick and I moved in to be her caregiver.

  In the back of my mind, the idea of being a kindergarten teacher still has the ability to stretch a smile across my lips, but now it seems like an old dream that I am too tired to chase.

  I love children, and have a passion for teaching, but I have no real way to get started. I suppose I would have to sign up for college again and reapply for classes, but honestly the whole idea gives me an enormous headache and I can’t think about that right now.

  It’s still too soon. Too fresh, I tell myself. I’ll put my dreams on the backburner for another day.

  I walk to the fridge and pull out a bottle of water, glugging it with the intensity of a wild animal with a thirst that hits me out of nowhere like a ton of bricks.

  “Ahh,” I sigh and lean back against the fridge, relishing in the cool liquid as it rolls down my throat. I’m feeling a little better, so long as I ignore the whole “what the hell am I going to do with my future” thing. If I just shove my problems aside for one more day, I can pretend they don’t exist. If only I weren’t so bored…

  Then, the perfect option dawns on me. Something I haven’t done in a few weeks.

  I grab my keys and head to my car, deciding that I’ll honor Grandma’s legacy today by doing what she loved best before she got sick. I’m going to Sweets Bakery to grab a cupcake. Who doesn’t love a little self-indulgence every now and then?

  Chapter 2

  Driving onto Main Street, it’s everything you come to expect from a small Texas town like Mable Falls. Cute boutiques line the sidewalks, and window shopping is a favorite pastime for many retirees in the area who love to relax and take afternoon strolls down the peaceful and quiet streets.

  The air smells clean and fresh with the vibrancy of the blooming hydrangeas and camellias in pots that line the sidewalks of Main Street. I find a parking spot right by the barber shop that’s been there over fifty years. An American flag swings proudly, billowing in
the wind next to a fountain in the middle of the street where a roundabout begins for incoming and outgoing traffic. This is the cutest little town ever. I can totally see why my grandma chose to move here for her retirement, even though I’d never move here myself. It’s not exactly a happening place for people in their twenties.

  I shut the door of the car and inhale a deep breath. There’s a charming, cozy quality to Main Street in Mable Falls that seeps into your skin and gives you a feeling of safety and contentment.

  Not to mention, the delicious aroma of baked goods is wafting through the air and sending a fragrance frenzy up my nostrils. My mouth begins to water before I even approach the cute little building tucked in the center of Main Street, Sweets Bakery.

  Grandma loved sweets. She had a real pension for the lemon bars. It brings a smile to my face to remember our weekly tradition before she got sick. The cute bakery popped up a couple of years ago and has since become a cherished favorite to residents and tourists alike, including my grandma and me, who fell in love with it the first day we went.

  At the time, I had taken grandma to the doctor, just a simple routine checkup. After her hip surgery, she couldn’t walk much, but she loved to take a drive down Main Street, so with a crawling speed, I let grandma absorb the sights, sounds and smells of her little town.

  Grandma loved to people watch and observe her surroundings, a personality trait that I definitely hold in common with her.

  “Good afternoon ma’am,” an elderly man tips his hat to me as I smile warmly and greet him.

  “It’s a good afternoon, indeed,” I chime back and pick up a bounce in my step. Grandma would want me to enjoy my day, not mourn it.

  The cupcakes at Sweets Bakery are my kryptonite, I just can’t get enough of them. They are like little clouds of fluffy sweetness that explode with flavor inside my mouth and send my taste buds on a wild ride. I’m grateful that grandma and I discovered this gem of a bakery and determine that I’ll still intend to visit and not be a stranger, even though grandma is gone now.