Nice to Come Home To

by Liz Flaherty

  “Yes, as in Cassandra G. Porter, author of The Case of the Missing Footprint in which a certain ex-cheerleader with a prosthetic foot is accused of a really yucky homicide—”

  “How long have you known?”

  “How many former cheerleaders do you know with prosthetic limbs? I caught it right away.”

  Cass led the way into the office. “But you never told? You never contacted me?” She gestured toward the chair on the opposite side of her desk from her office chair and set the plate of cookies between them.

  “That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  “It was.”

  Holly tilted her head, and Cass remembered with an inward giggle how much she’d envied those long, thick lashes when they were in high school. Jesse, ever the artist, used to threaten to cut them off and use them for paintbrushes.

  “But now you don’t?” Holly asked.

  “What makes you say that?” Cass bit into a snickerdoodle.

  “Did you call me tonight? Did you ask me a question about writing no one else on the lake has ever asked? Is the top of your desk not a maze of cryptic notes that would make no sense to anyone besides yourself?” Holly laughed. “Have you ever sat in a fast-food place with your writers’ group and plotted a murder in full hearing of half a police department?”

  “My writers’ group is online, so that last one is a no. Did that really happen?”

  “Not to me—I don’t do mystery—but my friend Terri does. I thought she was going to get us thrown out of the place. Or arrested.” Holly stopped midlaugh. “Where on earth did you get that author photo on your back cover? Have you thought of suing the photographer?”

  Cass nodded. “Terrible, isn’t it? It was to help satisfy curious readers at the same time as it kept me out of the public eye. It helped.”

  Holly looked thoughtful. She took a drink of coffee and another cookie. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why any of it?” Holly held up a hand. “And, yes, I know it’s none of my business, but way back in school when we started the Write Now group, we talked about how a writer’s curiosity wasn’t mean or even nosy—we just want to know how stories turn out. I’m thrilled to pieces that you’re back on the lake, but I don’t have enough of the middle to put together how your story is turning out. You know, the part we all struggle with when we’re writing it?”

  “I don’t think it makes sense. It would need a horrendous amount of revisions.”

  Holly rolled her eyes. “There were…how many? Thirteen of us in that wreck that night, counting the guy who caused it, Jack and Tucker’s dad? Not much of what’s happened in the years since has made sense. Even those of us who stayed here had trouble putting things behind us. Not just some things, but all of them. All of our dreams changed. No one became what they planned on being. There was so much guilt—”

  Cass’s voice was harsh when she interrupted. “What?”

  “Guilt.”

  “Why would anyone have felt guilty?” Anyone but me, that is.

  “We all had our reasons. I felt guilty because as much as I loved Daddy, I knew he was Arlie’s birth dad, so she had to feel worse than I did when he died.”

  “That’s crazy. Dave loved you both the same, just like Gianna did. I was so jealous.”

  “It is crazy, but that’s how I felt. We all had different things.”

  “Like what?”

  Holly shook her head. “Their stories belong to them. There aren’t any real secrets anymore, other than yours, but it’s up to them to tell you. If you tell me yours tonight, it will stay with me. I know you go to Arlie’s clinic, but she’s a professional—if she knows anything about your life, she keeps it to herself.”

  “You wanted to be a dancer and to teach dance in your own studio,” Cass remembered. “But first, you wanted to be a cheerleader at Ball State.”

  “Right. I did go to Ball State and I do teach dance in classes at the lake’s summer camp. But while I was in rehab, learning to walk on a prosthesis, the English teacher from high school—remember Mr. Andrews?—brought me a notebook and some pens. He told me I had plenty of time to get a jump on the next year’s writing assignments. But I didn’t. I read a Nora Roberts book—the first of a gazillion or so—and thought writing romance novels looked a lot more interesting. I filled that notebook with the most horrible manuscript ever conceived of.”

  Cass laughed, delighted with the story. “No, no, that would be mine. I wrote it the first year I was married, when I had absolutely no idea what to do with myself. It was so bad my husband couldn’t even finish reading it, and he liked mysteries.”

  Holly chuckled, as she’d meant her to, but the other woman’s expression was one of waiting. Patient, but waiting nonetheless.

  Cass went into the kitchen for more coffee. She filled their cups, set the empty carafe to one side and sat down. “I never came back because of that guilt you mentioned. That and family issues. Nana and Grandpa died. My mother and Aunt Zoey were pretty much estranged. I got married at eighteen.” She shrugged, looking down at the top of her closed laptop. “Lots of reasons. Lots of excuses.”

  “Was that why you used a pen name? So no one from the lake would know?”

  “No. I used the name because my father was embarrassed by what I did. Tony, my husband, didn’t want business associates to know about it, either, although I think he might have liked it if I’d become famous. It was just easier to use the pseudonym, although social media made keeping it a secret quite a challenge.”

  “Were you embarrassed by it?” Holly’s smile was only half there. “I gotta admit I’ve had a few covers I’d rather not talk about. But let’s talk about writing. You having trouble?”

  “I am. You want to read a couple of chapters and see what you think?”

  “Sure do, if you’ll make more coffee.”

  “I can do that. Or open a bottle of wine.”

  “Even better.”

  Zoey, Damaris and Royce came home while they worked, waving goodnight through the French doors that led inside.

  Royce, wearing pajama pants and a ragged sweatshirt, came back down with Misty and a few of Holly’s books and begged her to sign them. “My friends in California won’t believe you live here on the lake.”

  Holly’s dimples flashed. “I don’t. I live in a duplex in Sawyer with my cat. But don’t tell them that. It’s not nearly glamorous enough.”

  Royce nodded wisely. “I know author glamour. I live with Sister Fuzzy Socks.” With a gasp, she stepped back, her eyes wide when they met Cass’s. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what made me forget. I know it’s a secret.”

  “Holly made you forget. Getting to know her is pretty exciting.” Cass got up and hugged her little sister. “It’s been a secret long enough. If Dad can’t deal with it by now, it’s too bad, isn’t it? We don’t have to make any public announcements, but if word gets out, it just gets out.”

  “Maybe your sister and I could pay a visit to a Write Now meeting one of these days,” said Holly. She beamed back at Cass’s glare. “Just saying.”

  Royce left the room laughing. Holly went back to reading and Cass returned the favor. Neither of them went anywhere without a laptop in tow, so it was easy to exchange stories.

  A bottle of wine and a pot and a half of coffee later, Holly closed the file she was reading. “You have an alarming tendency to use the word look, don’t you? With me, it’s just. I always say I have to write an extra two chapters to make up for all the overused words I have to take out.”

  “Yes.” Cass waited a beat. “What do you think?”

  “I think Cass Gentry’s writing this book, not the oh-so-perfect Cassandra, and I think you should let her rip the way you did in The Case of Daisy’s Ashes.” Holly laughed. “Even the coffee shop Lucy goes to is your coffee shop, not some generic one on a nameless street somewhere in central Indiana. She’s sold her condo and survived breast cancer and fallen in love. Bring her to the lake and give her a new and
better life. This is your best ever.”

  “She hasn’t really fallen in love.” Cass shook her head. “She’s just met this guy she likes.”

  “You just keep telling yourself that.” Holly got up, stretching. “I can’t believe how long we’ve sat here. It’s been great talking to another writer.”

  It had been great. Friendship with other writers was a luxury Cass’s secret self had been denied too long. Being reassured was another one.

  “Do you think so? That this is my best book, I mean,” she asked. “Really?”

  “Really. And I’ve read them all.” Holly grinned at her. “Looking for more references to that cheerleader.” She nodded at Cass’s open laptop. “Or to an orchardist who plays guitar.”

  “Not going to happen.” Cass lifted her hands in supplication. “What would happen when we break up? He’d sue me for defamation or something, right?”

  Holly clapped a dramatic hand to her forehead. “Oh, no, that means I shouldn’t have written the book about the vet!”

  “Speaking of the vet, will you give him a message for me?” Cass couldn’t face Jesse with what she wanted to say, but maybe if the words came from the woman he loved, he’d forgive the loss of the girl he’d loved first.

  Holly looked thoughtful, and softened her eyes. “No,” she said. “We survivors have had to learn to talk to each other, to say what needs saying without a go-between. You made a big first step, asking me to come over tonight. I don’t know what you want to say to Jess, but I imagine saying it to his face needs to be your next big step.”

  “I thought…” Cass’s voice trailed off when she hesitated. “I thought coming back was my first big step.”

  “I don’t think so.” Holly hugged her. “In your heart, I don’t think you ever left.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “SHOTS?” CASS LOOKED dubiously at the little cat sitting on the windowsill beside her desk. “Surely she’s still a baby.”

  “I looked it up. Just like a people baby, she needs shots.” Royce grimaced. “She might need a hysterectomy, too, but it seems awfully early for that.”

  “I don’t think they call it that in cats.” Cass knew they didn’t, but she was too entertained by her sister’s serious devotion to Misty to come right out and say so. “Maybe we could give her some hormones instead. You know, to control the hot flashes and mood swings.”

  Royce picked up Misty and cuddled her. “Sister Snarky Person is in high gear, isn’t she, kitty?” She looked at the clock and set the cat down on the desk. “I got an appointment this afternoon for her shots. But Aunt Zoey has to take Mom to rehab and I need to stay after school for a Write Now meeting. Can you take Misty to the vet? It’s just out on Lake Road by the winery.”

  Cass knew very well where it was. And who it was. Jesse Worth had been very polite to her the few times they’d met since she’d come back to the lake, but others had always been around. Would he be able to bear the sight of her on his home turf?

  “Oh, honey,” she said, “I was going to write this afternoon. I’m still trying to make that deadline.”

  Royce’s face fell, but only for a moment. “I didn’t even think of that,” she admitted. “I’ll call and change it.”

  I don’t know what you want to say to Jess, but I imagine saying it to his face needs to be your next big step. Holly’s words were as loud and clear as Royce’s.

  Maybe louder.

  And maybe there wouldn’t be that many more opportunities. Her appointment for blood testing and scans was coming up. She felt all right except for the persistent arm pain, but good health wasn’t something she took for granted. Not anymore.

  “No.” Cass shook her head. “I’ll take her. It’s okay. You go on and have a good day. What time’s the appointment?”

  “Four. I think it’s the last one of the day, but the lady on the phone said sometimes they run behind.”

  “I can do that. I get off at the coffee shop at four. I’ll just take Misty to work with me and save time. She loves it there, anyway.” She shook a finger at her sister. “But when I get home, the rest of the night is mine. If it’s my turn to help with dinner, you’re taking it. Deal?”

  “Deal.” Royce blew her a kiss. “But does Luke know the rest of the night is yours? I’ve noticed that whenever he calls or comes over, you drop everything.”

  “He still doesn’t know about Cassandra and the books.” Cass felt heat in her face. She was embarrassed that she hadn’t told him. “I’m afraid he’ll look at me differently.”

  “Oh, Cassie, you know that’s not true.” Royce suddenly looked both older and wiser than she should have at sixteen. “He’s not Tony, you know. Or Dad.”

  “I know.”

  “If I told Seth I changed my mind about going to the holiday dance, you can tell Luke you write books.”

  “It’s not the writing books. It’s that thing of being two people. I’ve been showing him the Cassandra persona for the most part—the businesswoman who doesn’t screw up. What if he doesn’t like Cass?”

  Royce frowned, stroking Misty’s fuzzy belly while the kitten went into paroxysms of ecstasy. “Do you only like me when I’m like I am in California, or do you like me now, too?”

  Cass returned her scowl. “That’s just silly.”

  “Uh-huh. It is, isn’t it?” Royce set the cat on the desk and waved, winking broadly in the process. “See you later, Sister Silly. Thanks for taking Misty to the vet.”

  Cass put Misty into the quilted carrier Lovena Beiler had made and rode her bicycle to work with the kitten riding peacefully in the basket on her fender. It was only a few miles to Jesse’s clinic, and the blue sky promised a beautiful day. October had been kind this year.

  The day at the coffee shop seemed to drag, something that had never happened in the weeks since it opened. She had time to think more than she liked, recalling Linda’s crush on Jesse in heartbreaking detail.

  He was so quiet no one knew for sure how he really felt, but Cass still remembered him placing Linda’s prom princess crown back on her head after the accident. He’d bent his head and kissed her and held her until Father Doherty had drawn him away so the emergency personnel could prepare her body for transport.

  Half a lifetime later, Cass’s heart broke again with the memory. When she pushed her bike into the rack at the barn that housed Jesse’s veterinary practice, she had to stand for a minute and look over at the grapevines growing where the vineyard abutted Worth Farm. It was a peaceful view and she was glad for it.

  The clinic was a busy place. “We’re running behind,” said the office manager apologetically. “We’re always running behind. I warned your sister on the phone, but she said you needed to sit down and take a break more anyway.”

  After Misty weighed in at two pounds, seven ounces, and had her personal fact sheet created on the office computer, Cass took a seat beside a man with a miniature dachshund in his lap. A few minutes later she found herself to be a contributor in a discussion regarding the changing school schedules. She was surprised to have her opinion asked and even more surprised to discover exactly how strong her opinion was. Had Royce been there, she’d have been calling her Sister Long-Summer-Advocate.

  By the time Jesse stepped out and beckoned her to follow him to an exam room, it was over an hour past her appointment time and the waiting room was empty. Misty had already used the litter box behind the desk and taken a rude swipe at the dachshund when he tried to be friendly.

  Cass wasn’t sure how people did it who had to take recalcitrant children to pediatricians. Especially in small communities, where before you knew it you found yourself volunteering to work for the blood drive because a woman with a Siamese cat who’d supported her school schedule views was with the American Red Cross.

  “I’m sorry to be so late,” said Jesse. “It gets crazy in here sometimes.” He took Misty from her and smiled into the cat’s face. “I see where you got your name, kitty. You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?�
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  While he examined ears and gave injections, they talked about Cass’s return to the lake, about both his and Holly’s and Libby and Tucker’s upcoming weddings and about the orchard and coffee shop. Admittedly, Jesse listened much more than he talked, but he was friendly. If he held a grudge against her, it was hidden under a professional demeanor.

  “Luke’s a nice guy,” he said at one point. “It’s really cool what you and he are doing at the orchard. Holly’s getting me attached to your coffee.”

  “Thank you.” She looked around. “This is great, too. I never knew—was this always your plan?”

  “No.” He smiled, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “I was going to go to Paris and be a starving artist until I made a lot of money and became a rich one.” He shrugged. “Life got in the way. You know how that goes.”

  “I do.” Just tell him you’re sorry. Don’t make a federal case out of it.

  He stroked the cat, not meeting her eyes. “Holly said you wanted to talk to me.”

  Cass chuckled, although it sounded hollow to her own ears. “Actually, I wanted to just have her give you a message, but she wouldn’t do it.”

  “Yeah. Come on up front.” He led the way to the office area behind the counter in the now-empty waiting room, gesturing for her to take a chair on one side of the partner desk while he sat in the one across from it. “Most of us who were in the accident have learned that we’re better off with the direct route.”

  “Better, maybe, but it’s still hard.” Her voice shook in spite of herself. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I know it’s a long time after the fact, but…”

  He set Misty down and leaned forward, his elbows on the polished surface of the desk. “What are you sorry for?”

  What was he saying? How could he not know? “Linda. I should have been sitting where she was. You lost her because of me.”

  He was silent for so long she thought he wasn’t going to even acknowledge her apology, much less accept it. She started to get up, reaching for the kitten who’d made herself at home in the in basket on the desk.

  “Please.” He made a downward motion with his hands. She sat back. “Tell me that’s not the reason you’ve stayed away from the lake all this time.”