Home Again

by Shirlee McCoy

  “His business?” he asked, but he already knew the answer. His friend had run the criminal background check on Simeon Galloway. The guy had no criminal record, but his name was affiliated with half a dozen defunct businesses and a bankruptcy that had happened three years before he’d married Clementine.

  “Our business. We were planning to open an online shop that sold high-quality homespun wool and fleece yarn. He got the idea from watching me spin wool. It’s a hobby I picked up when I was a kid.”

  “That’s an interesting hobby.” And unusual, but then, everything about Clementine was atypical. Her clothes. Her hair. Her knowledge of farm equipment and planting seasons.

  She was a beautiful package of eclectic skills.

  Skills that, in Porter’s opinion, Sim had tried using to his advantage.

  “Not if you grow up like I did,” she said. “Anyway, spinning the wool was the easy part of the business. I had to find wool and fleece suppliers until we were able to purchase property to raise our own sheep and alpaca. That’s not as easy as it seems. We wanted organic, and there are only a few places that offer that.”

  “You mean Sim wanted organic?”

  “Well, yes, but I agreed it was a good idea. People love to know they’re getting healthy, wholesome products. Even if it’s product they’re wearing.”

  “So you spent a lot of time tracking down organic alpaca fleece and sheep wool, spinning it into yarn, and readying it for sale.”

  “Not just spinning. The product is raw, straight from the animal. I washed and carded it to prep it for spinning. It’s a long and involved process.”

  “And Sim did what? Spent time on the property in Idaho?”

  She stopped, her eyes blazing in the darkness. “The purchase of that land isn’t common knowledge, Porter. How did you know about it?”

  “I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

  “Dealing with? Is that what you call what we’re doing?” she asked, a hint of something that sounded like hurt in her voice.

  “I call what we’re doing getting to know each other,” he responded. “I call keeping an eye on your ex dealing with him.”

  “Why would you be keeping an eye on Sim?” she demanded.

  “Because he’s a jackass, and I don’t trust him,” he responded honestly.

  “You met him once.”

  “Once was plenty.”

  She smiled. “I wish I’d thought that the day he subbed for my Anthropology of Ancient Worlds class,” she said. “It would have saved me a hell of a lot of time and aggravation.”

  “How long were you two married?”

  “You don’t already know?”

  “Actually, I do, but I didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good date by pissing you off more than I already have.”

  “Is that what this is?” she asked, walking again, her hands shoved into her pockets. “A date?”

  “Is that what you want it to be?”

  “What I want, Porter, is for my life to go back to the way it was before I married Sim. I want to teach at the college and go home to a simple little house on a tiny little lot, and I want to be happy with what I have instead of always wanting more. Simplicity is the beginning of freedom. My dad used to say that all the time. I finally understand what he meant.”

  “Funny,” he said, dropping his arm around her shoulders, because she looked cold and tired and too lonely for his liking, “my mother used to say something similar. Christmas morning would come, and we’d each have one present under the tree. Picture books that she’d made herself because she couldn’t stand the thought of us getting nothing. Which is what my father would have preferred. We’d sneak downstairs, and she’d be sitting in the rocking chair staring at the tree, looking sad as hell, but she’d always smile when she saw us, hand us our presents and say, They’re just simple things, boys, but simple things are the best kinds.”

  “Porter,” Clementine began, but he shook his head.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me, Clementine.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Liar.”

  “I feel sorry for the boy you were. I don’t feel sorry for the man you’ve become. You turned out a lot better than Sim, and his parents would have given him the moon if he’d asked.”

  “How about yours?”

  “My dad taught me a million skills, but the only present he ever gave me was a beaded deerskin dress and a pair of beaded moccasins made and worn by my great-great-great grandmother. She was the first storyteller in the family. I’ll probably be the last. Unless one of my nieces or nephews shows up on my doorstep asking to learn the ancient tales.” She smiled, but there was an edge of sadness in her voice. “Anyway, I used to keep the dress and moccasins in a box on the top shelf of my closet. One day, I wore them to a lecture on Native lore. The guy who was presenting pulled me aside after class and asked if I knew how much they were worth.”

  “Did you?”

  “I didn’t care. They were priceless to me, but apparently there’s a lot of intrinsic value in Native artifacts. Fifty-thousand dollars’ worth back then. They’re worth a few thousand more now.”

  “You still keep them in your closet?”

  “No!” She laughed. “They’re in a safe deposit box. Along with my engagement ring. Which is also worth a small fortune. It belonged to Sim’s grandmother. A three-carat mine-cut diamond surrounded by sapphires and pearls.”

  “Sounds . . . fancy.” And not exactly the kind of engagement ring he would have given a woman like Clementine. An opal was more her style. Or turquoise. Tiger’s eye. A stone that was earthy and warm. Set in a platinum band engraved with the symbol for eternity.

  “It is. I wore it maybe three times. Then I bought a fake diamond ring and put the real engagement ring in the safe deposit box.”

  “You’re sure it’s still there?” he asked, because he couldn’t imagine a guy like Sim not selling a valuable piece of jewelry.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Sim likes to spend money. Even when it’s not his. I imagine if he thought he could sell your things, he’d do it without a second thought. Especially since he still probably views the engagement ring as his property.”

  “It’s not. According to my divorce lawyer.” She twirled a piece of hair around her finger. “But you’re right. Sim probably does think the ring is his. Fortunately, he doesn’t have access to the box.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “About as sure as anyone can be about anything.”

  “Who’s listed as co-lessor?”

  “Just my mother. Why?”

  “Is she able to access it without you being present?”

  “My mother would never steal from me, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m asking, because people are prone to get away with what they can. If Sim could convince someone who looked like you or your mom to play along, all he’d have to do was get a fake ID, get a copy of the key, and send her in to retrieve the items you’ve stored.”

  “He wouldn’t do that,” she said, but he didn’t think she believed it.

  “What bank are they stored in?”

  “Benevolence Federal. I moved them there after I rented the house.”

  “Does Sim know that?”

  “Probably. Now, how about we change the subject? Talking about Sim is ruining my mood.”

  “We weren’t talking about him,” he said, shifting the conversation because she wanted him to. “We were talking about simple things, and about how happy they can make us. Those books my mother made? They are still my favorite gifts.”

  “Did you keep them?”

  “The last time I saw them, they were in a box in the attic, hidden away so that my dad wouldn’t destroy them like he destroyed everything else I owned.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  No questions. No exclamation of sadness. Nothing.

  But her arm slid around his waist and she tucked herself in close, soft
curves pressed against his side, her hair floating in the cold breeze, tickling his neck and chin.

  And, God!

  It was just about as perfect as anything had ever been.

  He hadn’t ever wanted this kind of closeness. He hadn’t ever needed it, but he sure as hell enjoyed it. He wasn’t sure what that said about him or about Clementine or about what they were together. All he knew was that he’d have walked this path a million times if it meant having her beside him.

  They reached the corner of Evergreen and Main, the old wrought iron fence gleaming dully in the streetlight, the house jutting up from behind overgrown hedges. Someone had left a ladder lying in the yard, a riding mower beside it.

  Preparation was already underway.

  He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

  He’d called the mayor two days ago, asked enough questions to understand exactly how important opening the house to the public was going to be. A successful silent auction meant a secure future for Sunday and her kids. The town council wanted to attract bidders from all over the region, men and women who were interested in seeing the legendary opulence of the Lee Harris house and who had pocketbooks deep enough to bid high on a wide variety of items.

  A cruise for two offered by Martin and Sheila Crandell.

  A year’s supply of fudge from Chocolate Haven.

  A trip to wine country and a stay in a bed and breakfast.

  A hunting excursion. Deep-sea fishing. Day spas and trips to Silver City. The mayor had listed one item after another. Big ticket items and smaller ones. Everything donated by someone in the community.

  That had surprised Porter, because it had never occurred to him that anyone in town cared. Sure, they’d attended Matt’s funeral and they’d given lip service to grief, but when push came to shove, they were the same people who’d turned their backs on the abuse and neglect he and his brothers had suffered.

  In his mind that made them culpable.

  But maybe it only really made them human.

  After all, Daniel Bradshaw had ruled his home with an iron fist. He’d kept the world out and his family in. He’d never broken bones or bruised faces. He’d never raised his voice in public. He’d put on a good show of being a great husband and father, and Porter couldn’t blame people for believing it.

  Hell, he’d have believed it if he hadn’t lived the truth.

  He and his brothers had never said a word to anyone about their father. When they were young, they’d kept his secrets because they were afraid. As they got older, they kept them because they didn’t believe anyone in the community cared enough to help.

  It was possible they’d been wrong.

  It was possible that if they’d given neighbors and community members a chance, things would have changed. Maybe Daniel would have gone to jail and the boys would have been sent to foster homes. Maybe the old house would have been sold and the town would have whispered about the scandal forever after.

  Maybe a dozen things would have happened, but he and his brothers had kept their secrets. The town had been ignorant or pretended to be. Daniel had lived and died as a bitter, hateful human being.

  And all of that had brought Porter here. Back to the town he’d despised and to the house he’d have been happy to burn to the ground.

  “It looks like someone’s been working on the place,” Clementine said, stopping near the fence and staring into the yard. She looked like she belonged to the house, her long wool coat nipping in at the waist and brushing the top of black leather boots, her face austere and aristocratic. All she needed was a corset, a hooped skirt, and a parasol.

  “What?” she said, brushing her hand over her hair and frowning. “Haven’t you ever seen curly hair in the wild?”

  “In the wild?”

  “Free-form? Unconfined? Springing in every conceivable direction?”

  He laughed, tugging one of the strands and watching as it sprang back. “I like free-form and unconfined.”

  “You wouldn’t be saying that if you were sleeping next to it. Sim used to . . .” Apparently, she’d realized what she was saying. “Never mind.”

  “Why?”

  “I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details.”

  “The details sounded pretty interesting to me,” he responded, setting his hands on her waist and studying her face. With her hair down, she looked young and sweet and soft.

  Hell, she didn’t just look soft.

  She was soft.

  Everything about her. Eyes. Hair. Body.

  His gaze dropped to her lips, his hand tightening a fraction as he remembered just how velvety they were. Just how warm and inviting.

  “This is not a good idea, Porter,” she said, her hands resting on his shoulders, tentative and light, as if she weren’t sure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

  “I’m pretty sure you’ve said that before.”

  “And I meant it as much then as I do now.” She sounded scared and vulnerable, nervous and unsure.

  Not at all like the woman who could fix tractors, plow fields, and knit dresses out of homespun yarn.

  He let his hands drop and took a step away.

  “I called the mayor a couple of days ago,” he said, watching as her muscles relaxed. “My brothers and I agreed to let the town council use the house for the silent auction. It’s planned for the end of the month, so there’s a lot of work to do.”

  “That’s fantastic, Porter! It’s going be a wild success. I mean, who wouldn’t want to visit a place like this?” She turned toward the house again. “Have you been inside?”

  “Not yet. I’ve been a little busy picking suspended kids up at school, changing diapers, keeping teenagers from mauling brothers.”

  “And bringing crying little girls to urgent care?”

  “That, too.”

  “Well, we’re here now. No suspended kids, angry teens, dirty diapers, or cut fingers. Want to check it out?”

  He planned to say no.

  As far as he was concerned never was too soon to step inside the mansion.

  But Clementine looked eager and excited, her eyes gleaming with enthusiasm, and he found himself nodding instead of shaking his head. “Sure.”

  “You have the key?”

  “The mayor put a lockbox on the front door. I have the combination.”

  “Perfect. Come on.” She grabbed his hand, and he could feel the calluses on her fingertips and palms from years of planting fields and spinning wool. He could imagine sitting beside her as she worked, watching as she pulled the fibers into long strands.

  Damn. He had it bad.

  Whatever it was. He didn’t know, and he couldn’t seem to make himself care.

  “How about we make a deal?” he responded, stopping as they reached the cracked driveway and the listing gate.

  “What kind of deal?”

  “I bring you in the house, and you show me how to spin wool.”

  She laughed, the sound fading as she met his eyes and realized he was serious. “You’re not kidding.”

  “Why would I be?”

  “Because watching someone spin wool is like watching a slug climb a cornstalk. Painfully boring and tedious.”

  “Is that how you feel about it? Or how Sim feels?”

  “I don’t give a damn what Sim feels about anything,” she said, stalking up the driveway, her hair floating in a cloud of curls as she moved.

  “But he was the one who told you that, right?”

  “Does he have to be part of every conversation?”

  “Your refusal to answer is answer enough.”

  “Fine. Yes. He said that. And I can’t say he’s wrong.”

  “I can.”

  “Based on what? Have you ever watched someone spin fibers?”

  “No, but I’ve met Sim. As far as I’m concerned, every word out of his mouth is suspect. So, are you going to show me?”

  “Why do you want me to?”

  “Because”—he lifted her hand, ran his
thumb over the calluses—“I want to know where these came from.”

  “They came from decades of work, Porter. But I’ll show you how to spin if it’ll make you happy.” She yanked her hand away and walked to the front door.

  “You think that was an insult,” he commented as he opened the lockbox and retrieved a set of skeleton keys.

  He didn’t want to go inside.

  Everything in him was screaming that he shouldn’t.

  There were too many memories there, the walls and floor steeped in decades of hatred and fear.

  “Wasn’t it?” Clementine asked, and he focused his attention on her because that was easier than remembering the past.

  “Is it an insult if I tell you that there’s not one thing about you that I don’t find intriguing? Not your wild hair or your callused hands or the neat way you fit against my side.”

  “If it is,” she said, her eyes wide with surprise, “I can’t say I mind.”

  “Good to know,” he responded, edging in close, his blood hot with the kind of longing that didn’t leave room for anything else.

  “Porter,” she began, her voice husky, her pulse thumping wildly in the hollow of her throat.

  “If you’re going to tell me this isn’t a good idea, you’d better do it quickly, because from where I’m standing it seems like the best idea I’ve had in years.”

  She laughed, a little breathless. A little nervous, but she didn’t tell him to back off, and he couldn’t make himself do it.

  He leaned down. Just enough to taste her lips. Once and then again, his left hand splayed against the door near her head, his right hand still clutching the keys.

  And then her arms were around him, her hair sliding across his forearms, and he was lost in her touch and in that kiss. The house gone. The memories gone.

  All of it fading to make room for this. Whatever it was. Whatever it was going to be. He didn’t know, couldn’t put a name to it, but right then, standing in the shadow of the house he hated, it was all that mattered.

  Chapter Five

  Something dropped on the porch floor near her feet, the quiet clank of metal breaking into the foggy haze of desire that had chased every rational thought from Clementine’s head.