by J. L. Berg
As the music finished and Reverend Brown stepped up to the pulpit, I felt someone slide in next to me. Molly didn’t say a single word as she took her seat beside me. She simply stared straight ahead, doing her best to ignore me as the reverend began to speak. My mouth opened, but I couldn’t find the words. Instead, I just followed her lead, giving my attention to the front of the church.
The reverend spoke of my father’s service and dedication to the community, his charity work, and his love for Jesus. He mentioned the deep devotion he’d had for his late wife and how proud he had been to see his son following in his footsteps.
“May he find his everlasting peace with the heavenly father,” he said as a final thought.
The church echoed with their amens.
It was a nice service with people from all over speaking of his accomplishments and his love for the island.
At the end, I sat, unmoved and rigid. As the music began, Molly rose, faltering for a brief second, and then she was gone without a word. I didn’t stay after that. I knew I should have, but in doing so, I would have had to endure the masses of people ready to offer up their words of condolence.
And I simply wasn’t ready for that yet.
So, instead, I snuck out the back while the little old ladies from the congregation rushed around, preparing the potluck that was to follow.
Hauling ass to my car, I revved the engine, and I drove.
I drove from one edge of the island to the other and then back again until, finally, I made my way up the familiar street. The one I’d memorized after years and years of walking down its dusty trail. I knew exactly how many trees lined each side. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d ridden my bike up and down it during the sweltering summers while my father worked up the road.
Pulling into the driveway, I took a moment to look up at it.
Nothing had changed since I said good-bye. Same blue paint my mother had spent weeks agonizing over, determined to pick the perfect color.
“I want it to look like the sky, Jake. Help me find the sky.”
Being all of five years old, I’d happily pointed up, and she’d laughed and held me close. In the end, she’d done it because the house truly looked as blue as the horizon.
But, like all things, the years had taken its toll on it. And what had once been a bright, vibrant color had now faded into something less than ideal.
Stepping out of the car, I dragged my feet, not wanting to enter, knowing I had somewhere else to visit before I could do so. Veering to the left, I entered the small garden my mother had tended. To my surprise, it was just as full and green as the day she’d left us.
“At least you got one thing right, Dad,” I murmured, grateful for the respect he’d given this place. No doubt our next-door neighbor was to thank for this.
As I walked on, I found it.
My mother’s memorial.
It had weathered some since I was last here, but I could still see her name as clearly as the day it had been installed.
Maggie Jameson.
Kneeling, I brushed the front of the large boulder, feeling the grit of dirt beneath my fingers as I traced each letter, remembering the day we carved them.
It was the only thing my father and I had agreed on—making sure her memory lived on in this garden.
We’d spent days chiseling each letter with painstaking precision.
And when it was finished, we released her ashes into the wind, spreading them amongst the flowers she’d loved so much. It was the last time I’d been in this place.
“Looking good, Ma,” I said, fidgeting with a small flower that had been placed next to her name.
I wasn’t sure what else to say. I hadn’t made it a habit to speak to the dead. Usually, I was doing my damnedest to keep them alive.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the church, young man?”
The familiar voice brought a smile to my face as I turned.
“Heard the ladies made a real nice spread. And you look like you could use a little homecoming.”
My hand rested on my flat stomach. “And maintain all this?” I grinned. “I don’t think so. Besides, you’re one to talk. Looks like you’re skipping out as well.”
“Bad back,” she replied, her hands resting on her hips as she took a place next to me.
Terri had been our neighbor since I was barely able to walk. Her husband had died before I could remember, and since then, it had always been just her.
And her giant garden. She’d been my mother’s mentor when it came to growing, and a friend when it came to everything else.
“Good to see you,” she said, not bothering to hug me like everyone else had.
“I take it this is your doing?” I asked, pointing to the fresh vegetables and fruit popping up all around us.
She shook her head. “No,” she answered. “This was all your father’s work. After you left, he came to me, drunk as all hell, and asked why all the plants were dead. I smacked him across his stupid face and told him you had to water the damn things. The next day, he returned, sober as a priest in church, and apologized, asking for help to honor your mom’s legacy.”
I swallowed hard, trying to imagine it.
“He didn’t touch the stuff from that moment on. But the damage had already been done. He got the cancer several years later.”
I nodded, remembering the letter he’d sent after he was diagnosed with liver cancer. At the time, I’d thought it served him right. God knew I’d spent several years of my adolescence trying to pry a bottle from his hands.
“He never told me he’d quit,” I said, not bothering to hide anything from this old woman.
Neighbors knew everything.
At least, on this island.
“Doesn’t surprise me. It was a hard battle for him. He fought the temptation every day until his death. Besides, it wouldn’t have made a difference. You had your life by then. He didn’t want to disrupt it.”
I let out a sort of snort.
“That’s why he dragged me back now? Because he didn’t want to disrupt my life?”
She bent down, tending to a few weeds intruding on the small lettuce crop. “Ah, well, I’d wager he was hoping you’d do it on your own. Guess he was wrong.”
My body exhaled in a sigh. “I’m not sure I can do this, Terri.”
“Fancy doctor like you? I imagine you’ll do just fine.”
“Not maintaining the practice. I mean, I’m not sure I can do this,” I said, pointing to the house.
“Too many ghosts,” she said simply. “Well, I’d tell you just to buck up and face them, but I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. Best advice I can give: do what feels right, and just like your daddy, take it one day at a time. It’s all you can do.”
She didn’t bother saying good-bye. Instead, she just briefly patted my shoulder and headed back out the way she’d come. Terri wasn’t big on formalities and always spoke her mind—whether I wanted to listen or not.
Today, however, I chose to listen.
Saying a silent good-bye to my mother, I pivoted on my heels in the direction of my rental car.
And I never looked back.
THERE WASN’T A SINGLE PART of me that wasn’t tired. From my head all the way to my toes, I felt like a walking, talking zombie.
Since the accident on the ferry, I’d slept a grand total of ten hours. It had been the longest week of my life, but I knew it was nothing compared to Dean’s.
He’d awoken in the small hospital room, our eyes focused on him as he tried to remember how he’d ended up there. Suddenly, like a lightbulb had blinked on in his brain, his focus had shifted to the right side of the bed, and we’d watched in horror as that great big bear of a man cried out in terror.
The tears had fallen down his bruised and battered cheeks as the realization set in.
He’d never give one of his famous bear hugs again.
He’d never drive his old stick shift jeep down the beach.
&nbs
p; Every single day would be a constant struggle.
We’d supported him, taking shifts at the hospital, hoping he’d come to terms with his new reality.
Several hospital officials had been to his room, counselors and specialists, all trying to help him cope. They’d spoke about what to expect during physical therapy and when he could expect a prosthetic.
But he’d wanted none of it.
His only request was to be left alone.
And then the silence had begun.
It was deafening.
I’d begged and pleaded, asking him to open up.
To just tell me what he was feeling.
Instead, he’d stared straight ahead, never wavering. I’d placed a tiny kiss on his cheek and headed back down the coast.
It had gone on like this for days, and now, as the weekend approached, I felt nothing but exhaustion in every inch of my body.
Thankfully, most of my guests had canceled for the upcoming week. With the reliability of the ferry service being up in the air the majority of the week, many travelers had decided to postpone or try again next year.
The only couple who remained was the Lovells. After Mr. Lovell had demanded to stay, I’d comped their room for the week and allowed the old man to help as much as he was able. I thought it made him feel useful even though, in turn, it made me feel useless. He’d been going above and beyond, making trips to and from the island, gathering supplies like a bona fide local. It was more than I deserved.
Now that the sun was setting and I’d collapsed in my favorite chair on the deck with a glass of merlot, I’d never felt more worthless and alone.
Worthless that I couldn’t help Dean.
Worthless that I couldn’t keep my business running without help.
My parents had never needed it.
And so alone, my body ached from the weight of it. Even amid this crisis, when everyone was pitching in to help—from guests to my parents—I sat on that deck, overlooking the water, and felt as if I were the only person on the island.
And I had no idea why.
After two glasses of wine and an hour of feeling sorry for myself, I decided I’d had enough self-pity for one day. Rising from my cozy chair, I took one last look at the sparkling water as the moon rose high in the sky. How one could ever get used to a view like that, I’d never know. I’d been raised in this house, and still, it never ceased to take my breath away.
After a quick stop by the kitchen sink to rinse out my glass, I headed to the large pantry, deciding I needed a little baking therapy to pass the time. Although the Lovells had offered to take care of their own meals since I comped the room, I decided to treat them for their help over the last week.
As much as I hated to admit it, I couldn’t have done it all without them.
Grabbing flour, sugar, and a few more items, I settled on a family favorite recipe—zucchini bread. I’d added my own little flair to it over the years, but the basic recipe was still the same.
There was something almost restorative about the process of mixing ingredients. With no need for a recipe anymore, I found myself humming a song I’d heard on the radio earlier in the day, and my mood began to lift.
That was, until the doorbell rang.
Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I checked my appearance in the hallway mirror, rolling my eyes at the flour that coated my cheeks.
My mom always said I was a messy baker. I guessed some things never changed.
Putting on my best face possible, I prepared myself, morphing into the hostess with the mostest. It didn’t always happen, but every now and again, I’d have unexpected visitors. People who’d missed the last ferry and were in desperate need for a place to stay or others who had just fallen in love and didn’t want to leave.
In every case, I always found a place for them, sometimes even giving up my own rooms to accommodate them. Pulling open the door, I greeted the late-night visitor with a bright smile. But, the moment I saw his face, that familiar rugged jaw and piercing blue eyes, my smile faded into something less than pleasing.
“What are you doing here, Jake?” I nearly snarled.
“Is that any way to greet a guest?” he replied sluggishly. He was clearly drunk.
“Did you drive here in that state?” I asked, looking over his shoulder to make sure a car wasn’t wrapped around the neighbor’s tree.
“No,” he answered. “Waited until I was parked outside before I popped open the bourbon. Did you know, if you park right there”—he pointed behind him, making his sloppy posture even worse—“you can see the backyard? You still like to sit out on the deck, huh?”
My cheeks heated with anger as I realized my private moment of sulking had been witnessed by none other than hotshot Jake Jameson. I sighed, noticing the way his eyes followed mine.
“What do you want?” I finally asked, averting his gaze.
“I’m a wayward tourist in need of a place to stay.”
My arms folded across my chest as he made himself at home, breezing past me to stumble into the sitting room. His large body seemed to melt into the couch as I tried not to think about all the things we’d done in this room while my parents were out of the house.
“You have a place to stay, Jake,” I reminded him. “And, no matter how much you try to convince yourself, you’re no tourist. Not even a fancy degree could change that twang in your voice.”
He laughed, a sound that made my spine tingle. “You’re right. I can’t seem to shake it. But it does do me some favors every now and then.” He gave me a quick grin and a wink, causing me to nearly spit fire.
The idea of him using his stupid accent to get women into bed—it shouldn’t have affected me so, but it did.
It really did.
“Look,” I said, feeling my never-ending river of patience suddenly drying up, “it’s late, and I know you’ve had a rough day, but—”
“I tried, Molly. God, how I tried.”
“Tried what?” I asked, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“I tried to forget you. But I never could. I tried to forget this place and all it represented, but the memories never faded. You never faded.”
My heart galloped a little faster, but luckily my anger won the race. “You’ve got to go, Jake. You can’t stay here.”
“But I can’t go back there, Mols. I can’t go back to that house. There are too many ghosts. Too many memories. It hurts.”
The way he’d said it reminded me of the scared boy I’d once held in my arms as he wept for his mother. It tugged at the few remaining heartstrings I had for this man, and suddenly, I found myself caving.
“Fine.”
He instantly perked up, turning his head, as his bright blue eyes found mine again.
“But you will pay double, and don’t expect any special treatment.”
He nodded as he tried to stand, swaying back and forth. I ran forward, keeping him from crashing into my antique coffee table. The generosity I’d felt just moments before was already starting to bite me in the ass.
“Got it,” he said as my hands wrapped around his muscled biceps. That intense stare of his was back as his fingers found mine. “You won’t even know I’m here,” he whispered, the smell of bourbon on his breath.
“Highly unlikely,” I grumbled, pulling my hand from his. The heat of it remained, like a brand against my skin. “Now, you can take the—”
“Yellow room,” he said, finishing my sentence.
It had always been a favorite of his. Mine, too.
“Fine,” I replied, trying to seem unaffected by his demand. “I assume you still remember the way?”
He held up his palm in front of his face. “Like the back of my hand.”
“That’s the front, Doctor.”
He laughed, sounding drunker than I’d ever seen him. “Right.” Taking a few steps forward, his body brushed against mine. “I like it when you call me doctor.”
I took a deep breath, putting some much-needed space between us.
“You would. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have bread to bake.”
“Bread!” he nearly shouted before chuckling under his breath. He said in a hushed tone, “I love bread.”
“Go to bed, Jake.”
“You first.”
Those two words were like a cold bucket of water. His gaze suddenly sharpened as a tingle went down my spine. Both of us knew he wasn’t talking about sleeping, and for a moment, I let him know it.
No eye roll or quick-witted comeback. I just stood there, letting myself indulge in a single moment that signified a lifetime of memories.
And then the jerk threw up on my shoes.
The next morning, things only got worse.
After tossing my shoes in the garbage and cleaning up after my drunk ex, I’d helped him up the stairs to the yellow room. He’d fallen asleep before I could even flip on the lights.
Unfortunately, sleep had eluded me, and I’d watched the sun rise the next morning, already several cups of coffee deep into the day.
My head was pounding, which wasn’t fair because I hadn’t been the drunk one. But a week or more with little to no sleep had my body running on fumes, and I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.
Especially when my mom breezed through the kitchen door as I was pulling out an assortment of jams.
“Good morning,” she said, placing a sweet kiss on my cheek. “I wanted to come over and see if you needed a hand with breakfast.”
I held back my sigh. Of course she’d chosen this morning to stop by.
“I’m fine, Ma,” I replied, watching as she inspected the bread I’d finished up earlier this morning.
She took a quick whiff, pride beaming on her face.
Her attention moved toward the fridge, and she opened it for inspection. “You might want to keep drinks better stocked. Guests like to—”
“Grab them before they head out to town,” I said, finishing her thought. “I know this, Mom. I did grow up here.”
“I know, I know,” she said. “I just don’t want you to forget anything with all you have going on.”
