Home Again

by Shirlee McCoy

  “Mom had her own string of lovers, and she knew Dad was a collector of all things. Words. Stories. Herbs. Women. Kids. She didn’t care. He was thirty years her senior, and she was nearing forty when they met. She was attracted to his brilliant mind and his unique way of viewing the world. Or so she says. Neither of them were expecting to add to their families, but here I am.”

  “Life is full of surprises,” he said, glancing at the farmhouse filled with kids who should never have become his responsibility. Matthias had been the youngest brother. He’d lived in the safest place. He should have survived long enough to see his kids grow up, graduate college, have kids of their own.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “It is. Do you want me to talk to Heavenly for you?”

  “No, but if you want to take her clothes shopping, I wouldn’t be opposed.”

  “Clothes shopping?”

  “She says she needs to buy some, and I’m about as good at shopping for girls’ clothes as I am at keeping kids from escaping.”

  “That’s why she was out here? Because she wanted to go clothes shopping?”

  “She was out here because she was going to walk to town for a youth group prayer meeting. At least that’s the story she’s telling.”

  “There’s one at the diner every Saturday morning. I see the group every time I go there,” she said, confirming at least part of Heavenly’s story. “Six or seven kids all sitting at tables talking and laughing loudly enough to annoy the hell out of anyone who goes there for a quiet breakfast.” She smiled to take the sting out of the words.

  “Is that why you go there? For a quiet breakfast.”

  She snorted. “Every one of my breakfasts is quiet, so that’s not something I’m going to leave the house searching for. I go to trade alpaca yarn for Ms. Robinson’s fresh eggs and homemade jam. I could live off that stuff. And coffee. I need that, too.”

  “I can make a pot, if you want some.”

  “I need to get back to work. I just came over because I wanted to ask you if you . . .” Her voice trailed off and her cheeks went a pale shade of pink.

  “What?”

  “Got the keys from Sim,” she continued. “But I suddenly realized that wasn’t your job. I should have gotten them before I ran out.”

  “I got them.” He dug them out of his pocket and held them up. “And you didn’t run. You had work to do.”

  “Right.” She grinned. “That’s what I told myself as I was sprinting away. But I do have to work. It shouldn’t take longer than a couple of hours. I’ll bring Heavenly to the diner after I finish the field. When she’s done there, I’ll bring her to the little boutique on Carlisle. She should be able to find something to wear.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” he said, but he sure as hell would appreciate it if she did. He couldn’t imagine walking into a boutique with a teenage girl, trying to help her choose appropriate clothes.

  Just thinking about it made him break into a cold sweat.

  “I owe you for getting rid of Sim,” Clementine said, bending to pull a vine-like weed from the bottom stair rail. “Now, we’ll be even.”

  “I’m pretty certain you could have handled Sim on your own.”

  “Sure I could have, but it was nice not to have to. I’ll be back at ten. Can you tell Heavenly to be ready?”

  “Sure.”

  “See you around, Porter.” She strode away, her long braid bouncing against the middle of her back, her pant legs swishing through ankle-high grass. He should have turned and gone back inside. Instead, he stayed where he was. Just watching the way she moved, strong and graceful and at ease, and thinking about how different she was from other women he knew. No polish or paint. No colored hair or high heels. No artifice or facade. Just herself.

  Which was nice.

  Probably better than that, but he wasn’t going to put another word to it.

  * * *

  Porter was watching her go.

  Which was fine with Clementine.

  She’d never been nervous about being the center of attention. She traveled all over the country as a guest lecturer and storyteller, and she was almost never nervous before a gig.

  According to her father, true storytellers didn’t have to be nervous. What they did was organic, natural, and comfortable. Their stories weren’t just part of them. They were them. Woven into nerve and sinew and bone, sunken deep into DNA. A person didn’t become a storyteller. He was born one.

  Clementine had scoffed at the idea, of course.

  Unlike her father, she’d always had both feet planted on solid ground. She loved the ancient stories the same way she loved the ebb and flow of all spoken word.

  But that didn’t mean she believed in myth, legend, or lore.

  She climbed back onto the tractor, the sun brighter now, the little rancher glowing, the field brown and gold and ebony earth. This she knew. This she could do. Line up the tractor with the stake she’d planted the previous day, keep her focus on that as she drove. No need for fancy gizmos or brand-new technology. All she needed were her eyes and her hands. One row. Turn. Another row. Dry weeds uprooted, dark soil revealed, insects and worms scurrying and sliding through the fertile ground. It smelled like spring and like life, like hope and happiness.

  It smelled like home, but she couldn’t allow herself to think too much about that, because she’d already decided that home was going to be Seattle, with its gray skies and wet weather.

  Her mother, Lillian, still lived in the pretty home she’d bought in the seventies, close to the university where she taught anthropology three days a week. At sixty-three, she still enjoyed a robust social life. During school breaks, she traveled the world with her live-in boyfriend, Gallagher Mendelson. They’d been together for five years.

  A record of which Lillian was both proud and appalled by.

  Clementine wasn’t expecting it to last, but she liked Gallagher. She liked Seattle. She liked gray skies and cool rainy days. She liked seeing her mother once a week and driving to Pike Place to buy fresh herbs and artisan cheeses.

  She wasn’t sure if that was enough to build a new life on, but she’d give it a shot, because she wasn’t going to sit around feeling sorry for herself.

  And she sure as hell wasn’t going to let Sim walk back into her life. She couldn’t believe he’d been in the house, couldn’t believe he’d actually opened his arms and expected her to walk right into them.

  “Jackass,” she whispered, finishing the last row and turning off the tractor. She shifted in the seat, surveying the field. It looked like it should—rich soil ready for planting. The beauty of it was almost enough to take away the sting of Sim’s unexpected visit.

  Almost.

  She glanced at her watch as she climbed off the tractor. It was nearly ten, and if she was going to pick Heavenly up at the house, she’d have to hurry. She jogged to the rancher and unlocked the door, bracing herself for the stale smell of coffee, cologne, and cigarettes. It was a scent she knew well, as familiar as winter chill or summer heat. It was one of the first things she’d noticed about Sim, and one of the first things she’d liked.

  Now, it beat out skunk on her list of top ten smells she hated. She wrinkled her nose and walked to the window above the sink, cracking it open to let in some cool fresh air. She dumped the coffeepot, filling it with soap and water before she ran into her bedroom and changed into yoga pants and a fitted T-shirt. She pulled a wool vest over the long-sleeved shirt, grabbed two skeins of alpaca yarn from the basket near the spinning wheel, shoved her feet into running shoes, and grabbed her purse from the hook near the door.

  She flicked off the lights, closed the curtains, told herself she wasn’t afraid of coming home and seeing Sim again, because he wasn’t coming. And, if he did, she’d take the pot of stinky, soap-filled water and dump it on his head.

  She didn’t want him around. He had no right to be around.

  Period.

  End of story.

  And, unless he had her half
of the money he’d taken from their joint savings account, she had nothing to say to him. Not now. Not ever.

  She climbed into the old Pontiac she and Sim had purchased when they’d moved east from Seattle. It was a heavier car than Sim’s sporty Porsche and could easily pull a small hauling trailer. She’d almost been excited when they’d signed the paperwork to sell their house and left for the land Sim had described as beautiful. He’d told her about deep streams and thick forests and twenty-five acres of cleared field. She’d been pissed, but she’d been willing to go along with things. They’d been married seven years by that point, and she’d begun to realize that the opposites who’d attracted all those years ago were drifting apart.

  He liked to watch sports on the weekends.

  She liked to hike.

  He hated indoor pets.

  She wanted a dog.

  He liked his meals at a certain time every day. She enjoyed spontaneity. She saved money. He spent it. He liked bars. She liked theaters. She wanted a couple of kids. He wanted freedom.

  The list of their differences had been longer than the list of guests they’d invited to their wedding.

  They’d drifted so far apart, she hadn’t thought they’d ever be able to bridge the divide. She’d been willing to try, though. Her parents might have had countercultural ideals, but they’d both believed in fulfilling obligations and promises.

  They’d taught her to do the same.

  Otherwise, she’d have probably walked away the day Sim showed her photos of the property he’d purchased and asked her to take a leave of absence from her professorship to help him build his dream.

  She started the Pontiac and headed to the farmhouse.

  It had been quiet there earlier. Now it was bustling with activity, an older heavyset woman standing in the shade of two giant birch trees, hanging wet linen from a clothesline.

  A playpen was a few feet away, little Oya standing up and looking over its side, her chubby cheeks and rosebud mouth hidden by vinyl, just her clear blue eyes and fine white hair visible.

  “Hello there!” the woman called cheerfully. “You must be Clementine. Porter said you were coming. He and Heavenly will be out in a minute.” She swiped her right hand across a frilly apron and offered a handshake. “I’m Rosie Whipple. I’m helping out with child care until Sullivan and Rumer return.”

  “It looks like you’re helping with a little more than that,” Clementine responded, grabbing a pillowcase from the basket at Rosie’s feet and hanging it quickly.

  “Doing laundry is part of child care. So, is cooking and cleaning. Kids are messy creatures.”

  “I’ll take your word for that.”

  “You don’t have any?”

  “No. I did have a lot of brothers and sisters.”

  “Younger?”

  “No. I’m the youngest.”

  “In that case, it’s not the same thing,” she said as Clementine grabbed a fitted sheet and hung it next to the pillowcase. “I see you’ve done this before.”

  “A couple of times,” Clementine agreed.

  “Raised in the country?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hereabouts?”

  “Wyoming. Right outside the Wind River reservation.”

  “I know it. Can’t say I ever spent much time there. Me and Harold used to travel, though. Always by road and always in his RV. He loved that beastly house on wheels. Me? I preferred home.”

  “When did he pass away?” she asked, hanging a fitted sheet and then a baby blanket.

  “Who?”

  “Harold?”

  “He didn’t pass away, hun. He left me twelve years ago. I’d probably forgive him for it, if he hadn’t left me for Alabama Winslow.”

  “I’m sorry, Rosie. That must have been difficult,” she responded. Thanks to Sim, she knew just how difficult.

  “Alabama is a man.”

  “A man?” she repeated.

  “Yeah.”

  “I doubt that makes it easier.”

  “Eh. I wasn’t too bothered by it. Leaving is leaving, right? Fortunately, I’ve always known how to take care of myself, and I’ve never needed a man to help me get through life. I sure as heck didn’t miss cleaning up the messes Harold was always leaving around. Dishes in the sink. Socks on the floor.” She shuddered.

  “So, you weren’t heartbroken?”

  Rosie snorted. “Nah. It wasn’t even a little emotional. We’d been married for twenty-two years. The marriage had run its course. We both knew it. We were just habits to each other. I’d be able to forgive and forget, if Alabama didn’t have better legs than me. Damn his scrawny hide.” She laughed. “I joke about the situation, but I suspected Harold was gay long before he figured it out, and I wasn’t surprised when he sat me down and told me. I wasn’t angry or upset, either. I figured he had a right to his happiness.”

  “That’s big of you.”

  “What good does it do to be small? The way I see it, we only get to walk on this earth once. We might as well do it the best way we can.”

  “You’re right about that. So”—she took another sheet from the basket—“where are Harold and Alabama now? Traveling the country in Harold’s RV?”

  “Four months out of the year, they are. When they’re not doing that, they live next door. We have summer barbeques and grand holiday parties together.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “It sure as he . . . ck beats boring, right?” She smiled again, her gaze dropping to Oya. “I need to watch my mouth around the little one. She’s starting to talk. She said Mama yesterday. Clear as day. It’s a shame her mother wasn’t around to hear it.”

  “Hopefully, Sunday will be home soon.”

  “Wouldn’t that be great? In the meantime, the other kids and I are trying to record it. Next time they visit their mom, they can play it.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  “I have them occasionally.” She lifted Oya from the playpen and pulled a cell phone out from the apron pocket. “Looks like it’s time to wrangle Moisey into her dance gear. She’s not so keen on going to class today. She says ballet is boring.”

  “Maybe she should stay home then?”

  “Porter thinks it’s best if she goes. I agree. Stability of routine is important for kids. Especially when they’ve been through trauma.” She turned toward the house, her tight curls bouncing merrily. “I’ll prod Heavenly into moving while I’m inside. That girl is slow as molasses in the winter. Thanks for helping with the hanging.” She hurried away, tickling Oya as she went.

  The baby giggled, the sound like the beat of a butterfly’s wings. Delicate and light.

  Sunday was missing all this. The wash on the line, the giggle of her baby, the drama of teenagers. She was missing milestones and birthdays, and she didn’t know it.

  While her kids grew and changed, she lay in a bed in a rehab facility, barely aware of her surroundings.

  “I’ll go visit her today,” Clementine vowed, lifting the basket and carrying it to the porch. “Even if it’s hard. Even if I don’t want to do it. Even if it breaks my heart a little.”

  “Even if what breaks your heart a little?” Porter asked, and she realized he was stretched out on the porch swing, knees bent, feet flat on the worn seat, hands behind his head.

  Sexy, relaxed, confident.

  Dangerous.

  “Visiting Sunday,” she replied, turning away, pretending to look at the field, the horizon, the sheets fluttering in the soft breeze.

  “The kids and I were there yesterday. We’ll head over again tomorrow after church.”

  “You’re taking the kids to church?”

  “Moisey begged me.”

  “Moisey?”

  “She thinks if she can get a piece of wood from the cross at the front of the church, she can stick it under Sunday’s mattress and that will wake her up.”

  “Where did she get that idea?”

  “Where does Moisey get any of her ideas?” he responded
, the old chains creaking as he shifted.

  She glanced his way, of course, telling herself the noise had drawn her attention. “She gets a lot of them?”

  “Since her mother was hospitalized, yes. Whether or not she had a lot of them before that, I don’t know. Unfortunately, I didn’t spend a lot of time with her before the accident.” He stood and stretched, running tights hugging muscular thighs and calves, a blue compression top clinging to his abdomen and shoulders. He had a narrow waist and a flat stomach, and she thought she could see a six-pack through the thin material of his shirt.

  “I’m planning on going for a run while Heavenly is doing her thing,” he said, and she met his eyes.

  “I was planning the same.”

  “There’s a great trail behind the church. We can go there after we drop her off.”

  “We?”

  “I want to meet the youth leaders, and I want to make sure Heavenly knows that I’m going to be sticking my nose in her business a lot. She’s a pretty kid, and she’s vulnerable. I’m going to make sure no one takes advantage of that.”

  “If you’re going, then I’ll stay here and do some more work in the fields,” she said quickly, trying to extract herself from the situation. It was one thing to take a teenager to a clothing boutique. It was another to go running with a guy who looked like he’d stepped off the pages of a fitness magazine.

  “Why?” he asked as the door opened and Heavenly stepped out.

  “Why what?” she asked, her lips stained purple-red, her eyes thickly lined. It looked like she’d applied her makeup with a trowel, and Clementine wanted to grab a wet rag and wipe her face clean.

  “Clementine and I are planning to go for a run while you’re hanging out with your friends.”

  “They’re not my friends. They’re the youth group from church,” she corrected, hiking a faux leather purse up on her skinny shoulder. She wore skinny jeans that were an inch too short, black pumps that looked a size too big, and a white eyelet shirt that sagged low on her chest. Her coat looked like it had fit her two years ago, the hem falling to her thighs, the sleeves hitting her at mid-forearm.

  Clementine didn’t know much about teen fashion, but she didn’t think this was it.