Home with You

by Shirlee McCoy

  Sullivan didn’t move. His palms were sweating, damn it. As if he were the one standing up on the stage waiting to sing the first note.

  Rumer leaned toward him, her lips tickling his ear.

  “She’s going to be fine,” she whispered.

  “What if she forgets the words?” he whispered back. “Or gets so scared, she can’t sing? What’s that going to do to her? I should have told Mrs. Myers she couldn’t do it. I should have—”

  Heavenly began singing, the first stanza so perfectly pitched, so lovely, the audience stilled. No murmurs now. No rustling.

  “Holy crap,” Rumer breathed, her fingers curving around his. He could feel the goose bumps on her forearm, the wild slushing of blood through her veins.

  He knew how she felt. Amazed. Awed. Surprised.

  He felt the same. He’d bet every person in the audience did.

  Because, no kid Heavenly’s age should be able to sing like that—face to the heavens and arms opened as if she were waiting for her lover to walk into them. No inhibitions. No self-consciousness. She was singing to a phantom audience in some faraway place in her mind, singing perfectly, displaying her soul for the entire room to see.

  And, God!

  All he could think was that she needed someone standing behind her, holding a shotgun, a baseball bat, a bowie knife, making sure every damn loser in the world stayed away.

  When she finished, no one moved.

  Other participants had gotten applause and catcalls and shouts of encouragement. She got silence as the last note faded, as the tin whistle played the coda.

  He watched as she came back to herself, her focus shifting from the song to the audience. She scanned the crowd, and he thought she might be looking for her family.

  He’d be damned if she didn’t see it.

  He stood, tugging Rumer up with him. She was already clapping, the sound breaking whatever spell had fallen over the audience. One by one, people stood, Rumer’s applause turning into the thunderous sound of the audience’s approval.

  He knew from watching the other participants that Heavenly was supposed to bow to the audience, to the judges, and then to the musician.

  He knew she was supposed to walk off stage to the left, and disappear into the wings.

  Instead, her face crumbled, all the coolness disappearing, her eyes flooding with tears. She lifted the dress up to her knobby knees and ran down the stage stairs, barreling past Mrs. Myers and out the auditorium’s side exit.

  The audience was silent again, and Sullivan was moving, handing Oya off to Flynn and running up the aisle, slamming open the exit door, Rumer right behind him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They found her in the school playground, sitting on a swing, the hem of the dress dragging in the dirt. She wasn’t crying anymore, but she looked so sad, so lost, that Rumer wanted to bundle her in the truck and take her back home, let her hide out from the world like she seemed to want to.

  “Sunday was supposed to be here,” she said before either of them could speak. “She promised me she would be. Matt did, too, but he wasn’t the one who taught me the song. He wasn’t the one who was going to buy me a dress.” She shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

  “She would have been here if she could have,” Sullivan said, taking the swing beside hers, his long legs stretched out, his heels pressed into the soft earth.

  “I know.” She pushed off, swinging back and then forward, the dress kicking up clouds of dust, her hair and face silvery in the moonlight.

  She sang like an angel, or, like an old soul. Like someone who had seen everything there was to see and still found reason to dream. But, she was still just a child, one who was trying to figure out the world and her place in it.

  “We can tell her about it tomorrow,” Rumer suggested, settling into the swing on Heavenly’s right. “I have it on good authority that one of your siblings made a secret recording of the performance. We’ll go to the rehab center and play it for your mom.”

  “You have the day off tomorrow. Besides, it’ll be too late by then.” She leaned back in the swing, arms outstretched, fists tight on the ropes as she stared up at the sky.

  “Too late for what?” Sullivan asked, his hair inky black in the darkness. It had grown longer in the past two weeks, the dark ends brushing his nape. He still hadn’t shaved, and she wondered if he planned to.

  And, if he’d still be around when he did.

  His life was in Portland, after all.

  Eventually, he’d go back to his job and his home there.

  A strange thought, because she couldn’t envision the farm without him on it. She couldn’t picture the kids without imagining him beside them. She couldn’t think of the future without wondering where he’d be.

  “The photo.” Heavenly pushed off again, her head nearly brushing the ground as she leaned even farther back.

  “What photo?” Sullivan asked.

  “Everyone who participated in the festival gets to have their picture taken with the judges. You stand in the middle of the stage and hold your certificate or your award. Then, the judge gets off the stage, and the parents come on, and the photographer takes a photo of that. Mrs. Myers said everyone who sings gets one picture free with their entry fee. We were going to hang it in my room.” She’d stopped swinging and was just hanging there again. “But, I don’t have a father, and Sunday can’t be here, so . . . no picture with family. I’ll just hang the one of me and the judge up, I guess.”

  “Your dad may not be around anymore,” Sullivan said, standing up and offering Heavenly his hand, “but, you’ve got three uncles who will stand on that stage with you.”

  “I think they only let parents,” she said, but she’d accepted his hand, was allowing him to pull her to her feet.

  “I don’t plan to ask who they allow. I plan to walk up there and take my spot,” he responded, putting his hand on her shoulder and looking in her eyes. “If anyone complains, I’ll tell them to take a hike.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Yeah. I will. We’re going to get the picture together, and then we’ll make copies so you can have one on your wall, and I can have one on mine.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Sullivan.”

  “You may not be thanking me when you have my ugly mug hanging on your wall.”

  She smiled, and he chucked her under the chin.

  “That’s it, Heavenly. That’s the way you’re going to face the world, okay?”

  “What way?”

  “With a smile and a mean right hook. I’m going to make sure I teach you that skill. Just in case you ever need it.”

  They’d started walking back toward the school, and Rumer was still in the swing, watching them go, seeing the way Sullivan’s hand rested protectively on his niece’s shoulder, the way she seemed to lean just a little into him.

  She knew what she was seeing.

  She’d seen it before, felt it before.

  It was the beginning of family—two disparate paths coming together to create one single journey. Strange how that worked. How one minute you were alone, trying to find your place, and how the next, you were walking beside someone who was doing the same exact thing. How suddenly, in that moment, you became part of something bigger than yourself.

  They stopped at the edge of the playground and turned toward her.

  “Aren’t you coming, Rumer?” Heavenly called.

  “It’s a beautiful night. I thought I’d sit out here and enjoy it.”

  “Then we will, too,” the teen said, heading back in her direction, Sullivan right beside her. His hand was still on her shoulder, but his gaze was on Rumer. She felt the weight of his stare, the warmth of it.

  He smiled, and her heart tripped, her breath caught, and her soul stirred, whispering something that she’d never heard before. Not anytime. Not with any man.

  Home, it seemed to say.

  And, suddenly, she knew the truth of the way things were. She understood what she hadn’t befor
e. She wasn’t falling for Sullivan. She was falling in love with him.

  And, God help her, that intrigued her as much as it terrified her.

  “You okay?” he asked, pulling her to her feet. They were just inches away, and if she’d wanted to, she could have taken half a step forward and been in his arms.

  “I . . . think so.”

  He frowned, pressing his palm against her forehead. “No fever. Do you have a headache?”

  “It’s a heart problem, Sullivan. Not a head problem,” she admitted.

  “Yeah?” He tugged her that half step into his arms. “Maybe I can help with that.”

  “Geez,” Heavenly said with an exaggerated sigh. “Are you going to kiss her again?”

  “Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?” he asked, staring into Rumer’s eyes, waiting for her to tell him to stop.

  Or not.

  They were just a breath away from each other, and then they weren’t. He tasted like coffee and mints and sunrise and hope. He tasted like all the dreams she’d given up on because she’d been certain they could never come true.

  “Heavenly!” a woman shouted, an edge of panic in her voice. “Heavenly Bradshaw! Where are you?!”

  “Over here, Mrs. Myers,” Heavenly called. “At the playground.”

  “Thank God!” The choir director raced around the corner of the building, her hand on her chest, her lungs heaving. “You have to get back inside. Now!”

  “Why?” Heavenly responded, but she ran toward her, her dress wafting out behind her.

  Sullivan took Rumer’s hand and dragged her in the same direction.

  Dragged because her legs barely seemed to be working.

  Her brain didn’t seem to be working, either.

  Or, maybe it was working overtime, because she could swear she saw the Bradshaw bunch coming at her from all different directions. Flynn, Maddox, and Milo sprinting across the parking lot. Porter, Moisey, and Twila jogging out of the building. Clementine hurrying along the edge of the playground, Oya in her arms.

  “You found her!” Moisey shrieked, breaking away from Porter and running to her sister’s side. “This is the best thing ever. Isn’t it the best thing, Heavenly?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, dwe . . . Sis,” Heavenly responded as they ran to the front of the building.

  “You won!” Mrs. Myers responded, grabbing her hand and sprinting back toward the building. “Not just for your age group, either. They’re giving you the Exceptional Promise Award. That’s a ten-thousand-dollar college scholarship and free tuition to attend vocal training summer camp at the Peabody Institute this summer.” She was panting and wheezing, but she wasn’t slowing down. The group hit the front doors at a full-out run. “I’ve been doing this for seven years, and I’ve never seen them give out the Promise Award.”

  “Is that why we’re running?” Heavenly asked as they bolted into the school lobby.

  “We’re running because of some archaic rule about being there when they present the prize. You don’t show up, you don’t get it. Fortunately, the adjudicators saw how upset you were, and they’re taking their time awarding fourth, third, and second place,” Porter explained, yanking open the auditorium door and nearly lifting Heavenly off her feet to get her inside.

  They made it with three minutes to spare, and when Heavenly walked up to accept her award, Rumer thought her heart would burst with pride. It didn’t matter that Heavenly’s hem was dusty or that she had tear tracks on her cheeks. It didn’t matter that she didn’t offer a hint of a smile as she shook the adjudicator’s hand. It didn’t matter that she was bound to cause more trouble before her growing up was finished. All that mattered was the way she scanned the audience, the way her gaze landed on her family.

  That’s when she smiled, a soft, sweet curve of the lips that seemed to encompass them all.

  “She’s quite a kid,” Sullivan said, still holding her hand. Such a simple thing, something that she’d done with every guy she’d ever been with. It felt different with Sullivan, though. It felt like today and tomorrow and yesterday, all of it rolled into one perfect moment of connection.

  “You’re quite an uncle.”

  “I haven’t done anything but be here for the kids,” he responded.

  “Like I said,” she responded. “You’re quite an uncle.”

  “We’ll see how that works out in a year or two or ten,” he muttered.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, studying his face the way he always studied her, wishing she had the talent to pick up a sketch pad and pencil and re-create the lines and angles and emotions she saw there.

  “Forever is a long time to not turn into my father,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck and watching as the adjudicator stepped to the podium.

  “Forever isn’t any time at all. Not when you love someone, and you love these kids,” she replied. “So, it’ll go in the blink of an eye. One minute, we’ll be here watching Heavenly accept her award, the next we’ll be walking her down the aisle.”

  She realized what she’d said a moment too late, realized that she’d plunked herself right down in the middle of a story that wasn’t hers.

  She might be falling in love with Sullivan. Heck, she might even already love him. That didn’t mean he had any obligation to love her. It sure didn’t mean that they’d be together for any longer than it took for tomorrow to come.

  “We?” he asked, but the adjudicator was giving a speech about the Promise Award and the moment was lost.

  She was happy to let it go.

  She didn’t want to have deep conversations with Sullivan about their future. She didn’t want to hash out rules of engagement or try to figure out what the next few minutes or years would mean for them.

  She just wanted to be there right now and not think about anything but the moment, because if she thought too hard, if she let her brain go too far into the future, she’d start seeing the end instead of the beginning.

  * * *

  They drove to Spokane and found an ice cream place that was still open, because that’s what Heavenly wanted to do. Sullivan had braced for the worst. Six kids in a tiny ice cream joint an hour past their bedtime was bound to be a disaster, right?

  To his surprise, the kids had all been on their best behavior. Even the twins had seemed determined to act angelic.

  That was Sullivan’s only excuse for what happened next.

  First, Heavenly had suggested going to the rehab facility so that she could tell Sunday her good news. Second, he’d agreed.

  After that?

  Things had gone downhill rapidly.

  Sunday had been sound asleep when they’d arrived. She’d woken when the nurse had opened the door and announced them. Her confusion had seemed worse than usual, her focus vague, her smiles forced. The kids’ joy had gone from epic Christmas-morning proportions to trying-to-be-happy-for-the-sake-of-the-adults.

  Rumer had been the one to cut the visit short, because Sullivan hadn’t been able to do it. The kids had just been so desperate to make it work, talking and laughing too loudly and too much. Sunday, on the other hand, had seemed content to lie in bed and watch them, her smiles forced, her words few. He hadn’t wanted that to be the last memory of the night. He hadn’t wanted the kids to fall asleep with that image of their mother in their heads. So, yeah, he’d stayed longer than he should have. Apparently, he could present lectures to auditoriums filled with students, write research papers that were going to be peer-reviewed by men and women a hell of a lot smarter than he was, but he couldn’t take control of a situational failure and figure out how to make it a success. Not when it came to the kids.

  That didn’t bode well for his future with them.

  He frowned, staring up at the living room ceiling and listening to the house settle. Flynn and Porter had left at midnight, both of them heading to the airport to red-eye it home. They’d be back in a month, or when Sunday was released from rehab. Whichever came first.r />
  And, Sullivan? He should have been sleeping, because mornings came quickly when there was a baby in the house. Instead, he was lying on the living room couch, watching through the window as the moon drifted lazily toward the horizon and thinking about all the ways he might fail his brother’s kids.

  A floorboard creaked in the upstairs hall, and he tensed, expecting to hear Moisey screaming or Twila sneaking to her parents’ room to grab a book from one of the shelves. She’d been doing that weekly, picking one of the ancient tomes that either Sunday or Matt had collected. He’d looked through the leather-bound first editions of books that were published in the eighteenth and nineteenth century. Some of them had hand-colored illustrations. Some had old maps folded up in their pages. They weren’t cheap yard sale finds. These were masterpieces, works of art from a bygone era in the book publishing world. He didn’t think a kid Twila’s age should be rifling through them, but he hadn’t had the heart to tell her to stop.

  Which seemed to be a theme with him.

  He didn’t want them hurt any more than they already had been, but if he wasn’t careful he would hurt them more. There had to be boundaries. There had to be rules. There had to be structure without anger, discipline without rage. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to give those things consistently. Hell! He’d already lost his cool with Heavenly and with Rumer, and maybe that was why he was still awake. He was replaying those moments in the truck when he’d been frantic to get to Heavenly, when he’d been so terrified that words had spilled and he’d had absolutely no control over them.

  The floorboards creaked again, the soft rustle of fabric drifting down the stairs. Seconds later, the loose board on the landing groaned. Someone was coming down, and that was unusual enough to bring Sullivan to his feet.

  He waited, expecting a towheaded boy to appear and maybe sneak to the kitchen for an early morning snack.

  Instead, Rumer was there, hurrying into the kitchen without even a glance in his direction. He heard her pad across the floor, knew she was slipping her feet into the old galoshes that were sitting near the sink in the mudroom. He imagined she was grabbing her coat, too, sliding her arms into it. Imagined her hair caught in its collar and the way it would feel to pull it out, let the silky strands slide through his fingers.