Home Sweet Home

by Sarah Title

  He meant a lot to her. She didn’t want to admit that, but it was true. Now that the storm had passed, he would probably want to talk, want some explanation about why communication had petered out, want to know if they’d pick up where they left off. She wanted to, but she wanted it like it was in the beginning: fun and a little distant.

  She stacked books for a while, arranging things in neat-ish piles along the walls. When she came across the box, she stopped. Jane had given it to her at Christmas, even though Grace didn’t want it. It was one of those small photo boxes from a craft store, and Grace had teased Jane that she was turning into one of those Pinterest moms. Then she opened it up and tried to give it back. Jane closed it for her, but made her take it home with her to Willow Springs.

  The box was full of photographs. There were maybe fifty in there, stacked unevenly because of the different sizes and weights of paper. The one on top was a couple in a very early eighties wedding, complete with big hair and poufy shoulders. But Grace didn’t laugh. She recognized it immediately.

  It was her parents’ wedding picture.

  Jane had hers framed and hanging on the wall next to a picture of her and Dev at their beach wedding, mixed in with snapshots of Priya playing in leaves, next to a snowman, a sandcastle, face covered in ice cream. It was part of Jane’s life. Grace was not so ignorant of symbolism to realize the significance of the fact that Jane had her picture on display, while Grace’s copy was in a shoebox.

  It wasn’t the greatest picture of either of her parents. Their smiles were too wide and her dad, especially, looked like he had a double chin. The lighting was weird and made her mom look like her hair was thinning under her enormous veil. The whole thing would have been a family joke if it weren’t for the eyes. Both of her parents were looking at the camera, and you could see in their eyes their happiness, their unadulterated joy, at the fact that they were finally married.

  Grace remembered that when her dad came home from long business trips, he’d give each of his girls a kiss, then sit in his chair. Inevitably, Grace or Jane, or both, would climb on his lap and he would pick up the photo from the side table and tell the girls about the happiest day of his life, when he married their mother. Their mother would blush and try to shush him, but eventually he would shoo the girls off his lap and dance her around the living room. When Jane turned twelve, this kind of mushy behavior disgusted her to no end, but Grace liked it. It made her happy to see her parents so happy, and it made her feel safe that there was such a thing as love in this world and that two people could find it and create more people, and more love, and it would last forever.

  “Who’s that?”

  Grace jerked her head up to find Jake standing before her, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. She wanted to put the picture on the bottom of the pile, shove the box out of his view, but he’d already sat down next to her. Their knees touched and he reached for the photo.

  “My parents,” she said, and started shuffling through the rest of the pictures. Ballet recitals, soccer teams, father-daughter square dance. Ugh—Grace with braces. Just what she wanted to relive.

  “They look really happy.”

  Grace snorted. That was an understatement. They looked psychotically happy. “They were.”

  “Where are they now?” It was the first time Jake had asked any questions about her family beyond Jane.

  “Dead.”

  He sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry.”

  Grace shrugged.

  “They must have been young.”

  Grace took the picture back, but didn’t return it to the box. She nodded.

  “What happened?”

  She looked up at Jake. He was being nosy, and she was tempted to tell him as much, to tell him to mind his own business and leave her alone. But that wasn’t what she really wanted. She wanted him here, in her life, her best friend, and it wasn’t fair that she keep this from him. Maybe this would help him understand why they could never be more than friends.

  “My dad died first. He was traveling for work. He worked for a software company so he was always on the road, setting up systems with different companies. I didn’t really understand all that he did, but he was away a lot.”

  “Must have been hard for you.”

  She shrugged. “It just was. And when he was home, we had him all to ourselves. I don’t even think he had any friends, outside of work.”

  “He was a good dad?”

  “The best. Patient. And funny. And . . . I don’t know, just the best. I never felt unsure around him, you know?”

  “Not really, but it sounds nice.”

  “It was. And he loved my mom. They were nuts about each other, as you can see by the crazy wedding face.” She held the picture between her fingers, almost lowering it into the box, but not quite ready to let it go yet.

  “He died in a car accident. He was hit by a semi. The driver fell asleep. My dad was killed instantly, so I guess that was good.”

  Jake didn’t say anything. She saw him lift his hand, as if to put it around her shoulder, but he stopped and rested both hands on his lap.

  “My mom was devastated. We all were, of course. I was a junior in college, and Jane had just started her freshman year. We were at opposite ends of the country, my mom by herself in the middle. She was alone when she heard.”

  “And you went home to her?” Jake prompted.

  “Of course. I flew in from California, and Jane drove from Virginia. She got there first. When she picked me up from the airport, she told me she was really worried about Mom, that she wasn’t eating or sleeping. I tried to be the big sister, told her that was normal, and that we would take care of her.”

  Grace’s voice broke and this time Jake did put his arm around her. She leaned into him for a second, but sat up straight again. She wanted to finish this story.

  “When we pulled into the driveway, I remember telling Jane to put on a smile, let Mom know we were happy to be there with her, for her. I don’t know why I thought it was important that we smile—our father had just died—but it seemed vital at the time.”

  Grace put the picture away and put the lid on the box. She closed her eyes and continued. “It didn’t matter. When we got inside, Mom was taking a nap. Only she wasn’t. She wasn’t asleep. Jane lost it, and I remember going into some kind of super-mode. I called 911, I tried CPR. When the paramedics got there, they started asking us questions about pills and alcohol, but there was nothing in the room. We tore the place apart later, but there was nothing. She just . . . died.”

  “Oh, Grace.” He rubbed her back while she wiped her eyes on her sleeves.

  “Officially, it was a heart attack. I remember at the funeral—we buried both of them at once—I overheard a neighbor saying that it was romantic, that my mom couldn’t live without my dad and she died of a broken heart.” Grace let out a strangled laugh. “I had never heard such utter bull in my entire life. It wasn’t romantic. To be so tied to someone that you literally cannot live without them? That’s only romantic in books and movies. In real life, it . . .” For once, Grace couldn’t come up with the word she wanted.

  “Sucks?” offered Jake.

  She smiled, keeping her eyes on her fingers entwined in her lap.

  “Yeah. It sucks.”

  This time, when he pulled her close, she let him hold her, let his murmurs soothe her. She felt better, telling him.

  “So, now you know,” Grace said, sitting up.

  “Now I know,” he said, softly, wiping an errant tear from her cheek.

  “And now you know why I don’t do love.”

  He didn’t say anything, just nodded and kissed her last tear away.

  The house felt heavy and lost. Grace and Jake were back together, but sitting in the hallway swapping sad stories was not what the house had in mind. The house had never been wrong about a couple in over one hundred years, and it wasn’t going to start now.

  Chapter 22

  It had been no ordinary thunderstorm. It
was a derecho, and there were snazzy news graphics to prove it. Most people in Willow Springs didn’t really care what it was called, they just wanted electricity. A week after the storm, only about half of the town was back, which was pretty good, considering the number of trees that had been uprooted and thrown around like toothpicks.

  The power on Grace’s block came back the next day. Grace took the happiest shower of her life, then went to fetch Mrs. Wallace, whose power was back on, but who now had a tree where her kitchen sink used to be. Grace probably wouldn’t have noticed had she and Jake not gone exploring the morning after the storm.

  So Mrs. Wallace and Lucy were staying in Grace’s room and Helen was staying in the office, boarded up windows and all. Grace was sleeping on the couch. Mr. Bingley was staying wherever Lucy wasn’t. It was an awkward arrangement, and as it entered its second week, Grace was amazed that she wasn’t pulling out her hair. But she never felt crowded, even when Mrs. Wallace dried her knee-highs on the dining room chairs. The house, somehow, made room.

  Nobody thought of the arrangements as relief efforts; it was just neighbors doing what they did. The Red Cross came in and administered some much-needed first aid and distributed water and food, but the emergency shelter stayed largely empty. Grace was pleased to see a few of her students around town—apparently the Pembroke population had cut their spring break short to come help. She began to see them everywhere, wearing borrowed work gloves, dragging tree limbs, delivering meals, and generally doing what they were asked.

  Everyone was pitching in. People kept coming up to Grace and telling her how great Jake was, using his connections to get construction equipment, and he was spotted all over town operating a tree-removing crane. Grace just smiled even though it had nothing to do with her. And she thought it was pretty short-sighted of people to thank the man who gave Kyle a chainsaw.

  But in the end, it was Kyle who cut up the tree in Mrs. Wallace’s kitchen, and he rallied the Pembroke rugby team into loading the pieces into the back of his truck.

  The damage that upset people the most, though, was the destruction of the Library Window. Henry was particularly devastated, especially when he heard that Grace’s turret windows hadn’t survived either. But to his credit, he sprang into action. There was a glass artist in West Virginia, apparently, who studied the Tulley school of stained glass, and who would be able to travel to Willow Springs to restore the window. Henry sweet-talked her into cutting her rates and staying in a local home instead of an expensive hotel, but the estimate was still more than anyone in the town could imagine paying.

  “Such a shame about that window,” said Mrs. Wallace as she, Grace, and Helen sat around the dinner table. “It brought such joy to so many people.”

  “I learned to read under that window,” said Helen. “And poor Henry.”

  “Yeah. Poor Henry.” He had been coming over every day, devastated. At first Grace was glad to try to help, although she didn’t think she was doing much aside from listening to him complain about the tight-fistedness of the library board. Knowing some of the library board as she did, Grace knew it wasn’t a matter of not being willing to pay, but it was either the window or staff salaries. Five years of staff salaries. It was not a choice Grace envied.

  But it was a beautiful window, and Grace felt the same frustrated impotence that there was, apparently, nothing to be done.

  “Did you hear Miss Fairway’s first grade class had a bake sale?” Helen asked.

  “That’s so sweet,” said Grace.

  “They raised a couple hundred dollars,” said Mrs. Wallace.

  “What?!” said Helen and Grace.

  “That’s a lot of cupcakes,” said Helen.

  “No, people just came out, paid ten bucks for a cookie, that kind of thing. The library board agreed to start a fundraising campaign. They’re going to announce it tomorrow.” Grace was always amazed at how Mrs. Wallace knew what was going to happen before it happened. She was either a psychic or incredibly, efficiently nosy.

  “I wish we could do something to help,” said Grace. She could make a donation. It wouldn’t be much, but it would be something.

  “Another bake sale?” suggested Helen.

  “How about a bikini car wash?” suggested Mrs. Wallace, and Grace slapped Helen on the back so she didn’t choke on her lasagna.

  “Maybe we can throw a party. Serve a lot of booze and leave a tip jar out,” suggested Helen, once she recovered.

  “It would be nice if we could do something with a book theme,” Mrs. Wallace said.

  “A book sale?” Grace suggested, lamely.

  “No, too many sales. I like your party idea, Helen. What about a tea party?”

  “That will only appeal to half the town. You’ll never get men to a tea party,” said Helen. “Believe me, I know.”

  They all slumped in their seats, fresh out of ideas. Until Helen gasped and jumped out of her chair. “I’ve got it!”

  “What?” asked Mrs. Wallace, clutching her chest.

  “I like the party idea, Mrs. Wallace. And I like the book idea, Grace. So what kind of theme party can we have that will draw a lot of people? Something that combines an author who is appealing to members of the community and a topic that, say, we have a local expert on?”

  “Um . . .” Grace wasn’t sure where Helen was going, but it was making her nervous.

  “Jane Austen! We can borrow costumes from the Pembroke theater department and have dance lessons and then have a big dance party at the end! We’ll do some traditional English country dances!”

  “Sounds boring,” said Mrs. Wallace.

  “Afterwards we can have a DJ,” added Helen.

  “Okay, I’m in,” she said. Lucy barked.

  “Grace?”

  Grace thought about the fast-approaching end of the semester, the conference paper, her two unintended roommates. She had a lot on her plate. But then she thought about her roommates again, and Mary Beth and Marilyn, Missy and Kyle, Henry. She thought about how great it felt when she moved to Willow Springs and signed up for her library card, and how surprised she was by this great piece of art, just living with the public.

  And her traitorous heart thought about Jake, and how Jake could be counted on to help out, especially if they got Mary Beth involved. And how she would have to spend time with him since she was the resident Jane Austen expert, consult with him on decorations and maybe even get him to dance. Would he dance? He liked to dance, he said, but this probably wasn’t what he meant.

  “Grace? Hello?”

  She couldn’t decide if the Jake thing was good or bad. Either way, she wanted to do something for Willow Springs.

  She looked across the table at Helen and Mrs. Wallace, and nodded. “Okay. I’m in.”

  A string of little boys was following Jake.

  The day after the storm, Jake paid almost all of what he’d made in Miami to rent a crane. He didn’t know for sure that anyone would need it, but he’d been through enough storms in Willow Springs to know that, sometimes, you just needed some heavy machinery.

  He started with his mom’s house. Her tree was just blocking the driveway, so there was no major property damage, but it had been a while since Jake had operated a crane, so he wanted practice. He didn’t tell Marilyn that. He hoped his certification was up to date, because he didn’t have enough money to bribe Todd to keep his mouth shut.

  Before the tree even hit the ground, there were kids gathering across the street. Parents, too, wanting to know if Jake was available to come down to their yard or if they could drive that thing (yes; no). But the kids were the ones who followed him. They stayed at a safe distance—he wouldn’t run the machine unless they were all across the street—but as soon as the crane started lifting, he could hear squeals and “Awesome!” and it always made him smile. He remembered what it was like to be that little kid, completely fascinated by heavy machinery. And his dad had taught him everything that was safe for him to learn. Well, mostly safe. Jake remembered
a few instances when his dad snatched his hand away from something, warning him not to tell his mother.

  But he still had all his fingers, he could operate a crane, and he was the daggun pied piper of Willow Springs. Which was a literary allusion, he thought proudly. He wanted to tell Grace. Not about the literary allusion, although he probably would because she’d appreciate it. But about the kids and crane. He hadn’t seen her since the day after the storm, not really. He’d seen her in passing, corralling some Pembroke kids at a free lunch or riding her bike with supplies under her arm. A few days ago he saw her standing up on the pedals so she could see over the giant pack of toilet paper she had in the basket. He should have stopped to offer her a ride, but by the time he got finished admiring those strong legs of hers, she was gone.

  He heard from his mother that Helen and Mrs. Wallace were staying with her, and thought that was nice, although he wasn’t thrilled about the idea of spending an evening with Mrs. Wallace. But he and Grace were friends. They cared about each other, even if they didn’t love each other. They had a connection, and it didn’t feel right with these long spaces between seeing each other. And she’d opened up to him about her parents.

  He’d spent a lot of time in Florida thinking about Grace, despite his best efforts. She hurt his pride when she told Jane that she didn’t love him. But, really, that was what he wanted. He wasn’t about to make a life with a professor, and now more than ever, he understood why she was not interested in any kind of forever with anyone. It made sense. They were perfect for each other.

  But heavy machinery made him feel like a man, and when he felt like that, it was nice to have a woman around.

  Chapter 23

  Grace was carrying a mug of tea up to her office when someone knocked on the door. Startled, she spilled some hot tea on her hand. Then the hotness made her hand jerk, and she sloshed half the cup on her foot.

  “Dammit!” She set the tea on the flat end of the banister. Mr. Bingley beat her to the door. He was meowing and pawing like he couldn’t wait for her to get it open.