Take Me Home

by Inez Kelley

  “Yeah. He’s written a dozen letters to Santa.” He floundered. How polite they were. So stiff and formal no one would ever guess they’d once lay with arms and legs intertwined, breath mingling, bodies joined.

  There was so much he wanted to know, wanted to ask her. Had she lost any plants to the first frost? Had she put winter tires on her van? Was she seeing anyone? Did she miss him at all? Could she ever forgive him?

  The only thing that would come out was meaningless. “How’s Four?”

  Her smile ripped the air from his lungs. “Getting bigger and into everything. She keeps climbing the Christmas tree.”

  Where had she put a tree? In the living room by the picture window or in the corner beside the bookshelves? Was she buying gifts for a new lover? Did she roll over at night and reach out to an empty pillow and think of him? Or was that something only he did?

  “I hired the Dobson brothers to help me with the sugar season.”

  The early-twenty-something twins had a reputation as hell-raisers but hard workers. They normally worked construction but winter was a slow time for that. Matt nodded. “They’re rowdy but decent. Should do a good job for you.”

  “One split-pea soup to go.” Molly handed her a paper sack.

  Kayla took it and glanced at him. “Well, I better get going.”

  “Yeah.” He fisted his hands to stop from reaching out to her. “Good seeing you.”

  “You, too.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Merry Christmas, Matt.”

  Denial shrieked through him. He’d kissed every inch of her body, been inside her, held her so close that not even air could get between them. Now he couldn’t even touch her hand.

  “Merry Christmas, Kayla.”

  He stood there like an idiot as she walked away, disappearing out the door with the tinkle of bells. His teeth clamped so hard they ached. He’d give anything to talk to her, not stupid pleasantries but real talk, real words. To open his heart and spill out every dark, shameful syllable, the abracadabra that would make this hell end and bring Kayla back to his arms.

  But he couldn’t make them come. They were buried so far in his soul that they could never be exhumed. Fuck a buzzard.

  He slapped a five on the counter and headed out the door, ignoring Molly calling after him that he forgot his change. He threw himself in the truck. Huge gulps of frigid air stung his lungs. Gripped in his hand, his wallet was a lump of distorted leather. It no longer held its shape and more often than not, the bills spilled out.

  Frustration erupted and he threw it against the dashboard. So much for being made of sharpened steel. Without Kayla, he was nothing but a battered lump of has-been dreams.

  * * *

  Kayla slid the mini-quiche cups out of the oven, quickly transferring them to a wire rack to cool. The hands-free earpiece carried Molly’s voice over a background of Christmas carols. She tested each quiche with a fingertip.

  “These have to cool completely. I’d say about thirty minutes or so. Then I’ll head over.”

  Last Christmas Eve, she’d stayed in her pajamas, watched every old classic she could stream and stuffed herself with single servings of lamb ravioli. This year, she was headed to Molly’s mom’s house. It sounded like there was a horde of extended family echoing through the phone. She needed that noise, that mind-blanking cacophony of music, voices and screaming children.

  Every time she thought she was moving forward, some stupid memory floated to the surface and reminded her of Matt. A stray T-shirt tucked in the laundry basket, a forgotten beer bottle shoved to the back of the fridge, a neon earplug found under the bed. He was everywhere.

  But seeing him a few days ago had ripped apart any semblance of healing. His hair was longer, almost too long. There’d been a small cut under his chin, as if he’d nicked himself shaving. So tall and proud, he stood like a mighty tree that had survived the thunderstorm with nothing more than a few ravaged leaves. She slapped the dishtowel against the counter. He could have at least had the decency to look as if he’d suffered a little bit.

  “Matt came in to the diner this morning before he and Abby flew to Florida to see their mom.”

  Four meowed for attention. Kayla absently petted her head as she climbed the steps. “Did you say anything to him?”

  “Told him that you were hooking up with a real estate dude from Kingwood and giving him sex toys and lube for Christmas.” Molly snorted. “Told him you were coming to Mom’s, dummy.”

  Kayla chuckled. “You’re twisted.”

  “You’re just jealous because the voices talk to me.” There was a high-pitched squeal and a child crying in the background. A muffled conversation ended in a loud promise to call Santa before Molly came back on the line. “It’s Christmas, the time to forgive and all that happy shit. Why don’t you call him?”

  She should drink eight glasses of water and floss between meals, too. She’d rather face dehydration and gingivitis than swallow any more of Matt’s lies of omission. “It’s not like he broke my favorite vase, Mol. He lied. I could never trust him again. Let it go, pick a new subject.”

  “All righty then, which reindeer do you think is hung better, Dasher or Dancer?”

  “They’re female. Only female reindeer have antlers this time of year.”

  “No shit? Wow, learn something new every day.”

  Kayla changed her clothes and rolled her hair into a festive updo while Molly described various extended family members in colorful and, Kayla hoped, highly exaggerated imagery. After ending the call, she tossed the earpiece on the bed and dug out her new snow boots.

  Snow was swirling outside, gathering at the edges of the windows in a picture-perfect formation. Kayla boxed the mini-quiches and tugged on her coat. Anxious to get on the road, she slung her purse over her shoulder and grabbed the quiche box. Molly’s mother lived a good forty-five minutes away and she wanted to arrive before the sun set.

  “You stay out of the tree, little miss.” She shook her finger at Four.

  The cat cocked her head as if to say, “Who, me?”

  Juggling the box and her keys, Kayla opened the front door and froze. A wooden rocking chair topped with a huge silver bow sat directly in front of her door. She searched but the snow had obliterated any tracks. She hadn’t stepped outside today and had no idea how long it had sat on her front porch.

  It was gorgeous. Not a department store cookie-cutter piece, the craftsmanship screamed handmade. A glossy finish brought out the red undertones in the maple wood. The back, rockers and spindles were carved in graceful curls and curves. The box nearly fell from her hand as she reached to stroke the cold, satiny wood. Using one finger, she sent the chair rocking in an easy move. A rocking chair for rocking babies, for rocking in old age, for sitting beside a window that looked out at the same scenery for generations.

  There was no card but she didn’t need one.

  “Oh, Matt.”

  She slid the box onto a stand by the door and tugged and pulled the chair across the threshold. The perfect spot waited, right beside the tree and positioned to view the snow spiraling from the sky. She lowered into the seat. It curved to fit her body as if made especially for her.

  Despite the darkening sky, Kayla rocked and wept.

  * * *

  McCreedy’s parking lot was a soupy, slushy swamp. Snow melted, dripping off the eaves and trees with a steady plop plop plop. Matt’s mood was black. It wasn’t winter and it wasn’t spring and everything was gray and damp. He’d been up to his ears in mud and sludge for days. Logging this time of year was a dirty job, filled with slippery slopes and half-frozen patches of ground that made it dangerous to operate a saw. All he wanted was a hot cup of coffee, a sandwich to go and a steaming shower. Then he’d fall into bed and zone out for the weekend.

  The bells over the door chimed as he steppe
d inside and was greeted by a three-foot cupid aiming a glittery arrow right at him.

  “Whoa!” He caught Molly before she toppled from the step stool. The cardboard cupid bent and showered them both with red and silver sparkles. A shamrock banner slithered from around her neck to pool at his feet, soaking in the dirty wet puddles.

  “Sorry.” She tore the winged baby in half and tossed it in the fifty-five-gallon garbage can beside her. “Who in the hell decided some psychotic toddler needed to play with weapons, anyway?”

  “Bad mood, Mol?”

  “You could say that.” The shamrocks were ruined so she tossed them on top of the dismembered cupid. “The banner was stupid so no loss there. Maybe I should get some little pots of gold for the tables or something.”

  His decorating skills stopped at hanging posters with thumbtacks so he just shrugged. “Whatever you want, I guess.”

  She massaged her temples. “I want a cup of coffee. This crap can wait. Come on.”

  He followed her inside the dining room and took a seat at the counter. She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving another waitress to take his to-go order. He idly flipped through a weekly paper someone had left behind until the paper sack slid in front of him. The side seam on his wallet had come apart again and he fished in his pocket for cash.

  “They’re delinquents, what’d ya expect?” said one of two older men, faces wrinkled like newspapers and dotted with age spots, who sat at the far end of the counter nursing half-price senior coffees and slabs of apple pie.

  “Gonna drive their mama straight into her grave. I tell you, if I’d’ve pulled half the shit they do, my old man would’ve knocked me into next week.”

  “Feel bad for that nutty food lady though. Poor gal’s gonna lose the rest of the season thanks to those bums.”

  Matt’s head jerked up. He took his bag and his coffee and moved down the counter. “‘Scuse me, you talking about the Dobson brothers? What happened?”

  “Damned fools went and got themselves thrown in the clink for joyriding.”

  “In a state trooper’s car.” One old man slurped his coffee. “Weren’t nothing but a prank but it’s their third or fourth time and the magistrate, he was fed up with ‘em.”

  Outside, across the street, the local Miners and Merchants bank sign flashed the temperature. Thirty-six degrees. The hair on the back of his neck rose. “How close to done is the sap run they were working?”

  The second old man shook his head. “Don’t know, but it ain’t forty yet. I’d expect another week or so ’fore the sap turns. Damned shame for that spice lady. She’s fixin’ to lose a heap of money because of those idiots.”

  “Thanks,” Matt muttered. His mind tumbled with thoughts, each one coming faster and faster as he walked to his truck. No one could work the amount of trees Kayla had alone. It wasn’t her fault the Dobson twins got arrested but she’d pay the price in lost revenue. Revenue she was counting on. Revenue she needed to keep the property and her business.

  The gloomy gray light of near evening caught the red and silver glitter on his hand. It rubbed off on the ragged edge of his wallet. Why was he still carrying this thing? It had outlived its usefulness years ago and now was more of a pain in the ass than anything. He traced his fingers along the outside leather. It was smooth in most places but the corners were jagged. There was a tear in the center crease.

  After his father’s funeral, he’d claimed the pocketknife and the wallet as reminders of how to live his life. The pocketknife had become a great metaphor for how different he was from his father. But the wallet? That was another story.

  Originally, it had been a visual clue that every dollar mattered if he wanted to succeed. Every time he put money in or took money out, he had to be responsible and not make frivolous choices. It was a talisman of his past.

  He caught his reflection in the rearview mirror and huffed. His dad stared back. Carl Shaw had been a poor man with a rich family life. Matt had money in the bank and an empty house.

  The eyes that reflected back to him seemed haunted. Matt whispered, “You were wrong. You’re better than me. You gave up everything for us. I couldn’t give up anything for the woman I love.”

  You stepped up, acted like a real man. You’re not a boy anymore. I’m proud of you.

  Strength and assurance welled from his gut and spread to his bones. “Time to step up again, Dad.”

  He pulled his license, his credit cards and the cash from the broken-down wallet. First stop, the leather goods store. Then, Webb’s house. He wanted to tell his boss in person that he was taking his vacation, effective immediately. He had a homestead to help save.

  Chapter Ten

  Sugar On Snow

  2 1/2 cups maple syrup

  1/3 cup unsalted butter

  large bowl of fresh snow

  Heat the maple syrup and butter over medium heat until it reaches the soft ball stage (approximately 235°F).

  Spoon 1 tablespoon of the syrup onto individual bowls of packed snow.

  Eat.

  Gritty-eyed, Kayla scrubbed her face with a damp glove. Every muscle in her body ached. Damn the Dobson twins to hell and back. She’d counted on them and they’d left her hanging. She hadn’t even known they’d been arrested until she called their house and Mrs. Dobson told her.

  Maple water sloshed in the bucket as she carried it to her four-wheeler and the portable tank on the wagon behind it. Okay, so it was one of the Dobson’s four-wheelers but it wasn’t like they were going to come and get it since they were in jail. She emptied the bucket then arched her aching back, letting the burn spread up her spine. Once that bucket was replaced on the spile, she emptied every bucket in walking distance.

  Snowmelt dripped off the branches in a steady rhythm. Beneath her feet, slushy mud sucked at her once-pink boots. Several of the buckets were overflowing, leaving a wet puddle around the tree trunk. She tried not to see it as money flying out of her pocket but couldn’t help it. The sap was flowing faster than she could work.

  “God, get me through this year and I promise to install the polyethylene tubing next year and spare Your ears all those four-letter words I’ve been saying.”

  The tubing was expensive but it was far more efficient than hauling pails. Especially if she couldn’t get reliable help.

  Returning to the sugarhouse was slow. The holding tank was heavy and the ground mushy. She used the pump to suction the maple water into the stationary tank, letting the machine do the work as she leaned on the framework and closed her eyes in exhaustion. She still had the entire west side to empty and haul before dark.

  Once the sun set and temperatures dropped back to near freezing, she’d fire up the pit and start boiling. She eyed the tank, trying to judge how many hours she had ahead of her. Her head angled in confusion. The holding tank was more than three-quarters full. She didn’t think she’d hauled that much water today.

  Her eyes landed on fresh tire tracks heading away from the tank and toward the west. Hope sent a bolt of energy through her. Had the Dobson twins made bail and come back? She unhooked the pump from the storage tank and climbed back on the four-wheeler, barely feeling her thighs ache. She followed the fresh tracks west.

  Snow clustered under trees and in small gullies. Although above freezing, the wind was still cold and her cheeks tingled with the bite of the wind. Her work gloves held the chill in the wet material and stiffened her fingers. With both men back, she could slip over to her house and take a hot shower, maybe even crash there and get a solid couple hours’ sleep. The thought was enough to bolster her mood.

  Until she crested the ridge. There weren’t two men below gathering sap. There was one. A heavy brown Carhartt enveloped him to his hips, and a blue-and-gold WVU knitted cap covered his head. He carried two buckets at a time and dumped them into another temporary ta
nk hauled behind his four-wheeler, not an ounce of weariness in his stride. She couldn’t say her excitement fled. It changed, became something cautious and guarded. Her heart raced, thudding against her ribs like a cannon.

  The jagged edge of hurt hadn’t faded one bit, and it screamed when he looked up and caught her eye. She headed down the slope to where he was waiting for her. The urge to run into his arms nearly knocked her from the seat.

  “Hey, pretty lady.”

  “Matt, what are you doing?”

  “Hauling sap.” He marched past her and replaced his empty buckets with two full ones.

  “I didn’t ask you for help.”

  His nose was red and his cheeks flushed from the wind but his eyes shone with golden heat. “Yes, you did. You asked me to teach you and I didn’t follow through on that. But I’m here now. You need the help.”

  She did and hated that she did. Her reserves were just low enough that she didn’t have the strength or desire to argue with him. “For the weekend.”

  “I’m here until the sap turns.” He dumped the pails into the tank. “I told you I wouldn’t let you lose this land and I won’t.”

  Damn him, she couldn’t handle this noble crap from him when she was so bone-tired she couldn’t think straight. Wiping her running nose on her wrist, she sniffed and looked into the winter-kissed mountains. The forest was a family of ghostly skeletons reaching for the clouds. In a matter of weeks, the first green buds would appear and she’d start her yearly plots, planting herbs and spices, grains and vegetables. But for now, the product was in the trees, trapped behind thick bark.

  God, how she wished she could grow bark, a tough woody barrier between her heart and Matthew Shaw.

  “I’ll take your help with the syrup and say thank you. I appreciate it. But I can’t... Just work, Matt, okay? What we had is gone.”

  His nod was sharp. “I understand that.” There was no animosity in his tone, no sarcasm or malice. He walked away from her, spine straight and chin high.