Home Again

by Shirlee McCoy

  She needed time.

  That’s what the doctors, nurses, and rehab specialists were saying, but time wasn’t something Sunday wanted to give herself. Every day, she called the house to talk to the kids. Every day, she asked Sullivan and Porter to bring her home. Every day, she pushed herself too hard.

  She was doing more harm than good to her already broken and patched-together body. But telling her that was like telling a winter rose that it was trying too hard to bloom.

  “Damnit! Life shouldn’t be this complicated.” He dropped the paint roller into the paint tray and surveyed his work. Butter-yellow paint on smooth walls. Satiny white trim. Beautiful hardwood floors gleaming in chandelier light. The music room was the last room to be renovated. And now they were officially done.

  “What’s the cursing for? It looks great,” Mayor Ann Williams exclaimed, walking in from the dining room. She wore coveralls, high heels, and a smile that most people found contagious. At forty-two, she was the youngest mayor to ever get elected, and the only woman. She seemed to love the job and the town, even though her family hadn’t arrived in Benevolence until her senior year of high school.

  “It’s far from perfect, but thanks.”

  “You’re being modest.”

  “I’m being honest.”

  “You’re offering an opinion, and that’s the last we’re going to say on it,” she countered, grabbing a pen that she’d tucked behind her ear and checking something off on the clipboarded pages she carried. She’d been working as hard as anyone on the team, but she didn’t have a splash of paint on her clothes or a hair out of place.

  “One way or another, it’s done. And fortunately, everything looks better in firelight,” he said, glancing at his watch. Six in the morning. He’d been up most of the night working, but then, so had a dozen other people.

  “Right. Fires. We had the chimneys inspected and cleaned, right?” She glanced at the clipboard. “I wouldn’t want to burn the place down while we’re in the middle of an auction.”

  “Burning it down might not be such a bad idea.”

  “I hope that’s a joke. This place is on the historic registry. It’s also an icon of the town and of the Northwest.”

  “You might be reaching a little far on how iconic it is. I doubt anyone outside town knows or cares about the Lee Harris house.”

  “Thomas doubted, too, and he was proven wrong.”

  He snorted.

  “What? It’s true. We’ve got two-hundred and fifty people coming to the auction tonight. Only half of them are from around here. Everyone else is from Seattle or Portland or some other city far away from our quiet little slice of the world.”

  Something about the words made his mind skip back in time, made him think about the night he and Clementine had lain in the grass side by side looking up at the stars.

  It had been beautiful.

  She’d been beautiful, and he’d wanted to pull her close and tell her all the things she needed to hear to make her want to stay.

  Instead, he’d told her to go pursue her dreams.

  Maybe he was an idiot for it, but he’d wanted her to make her choices and to be happy with them. No pressure from him. No guilt or remorse. She’d left the next day, stopping by the house and telling him that everything she’d wanted to accomplish at the farm was done, Harley was going to take over as farm manager, and she was heading back home. She had planning to do for her classes at the college, an apartment to find. And she had to see if it fit, the life that she’d been imagining. If she could put it on and wear it like a second layer of skin and feel like every part of herself had finally come together.

  And he’d understood that.

  He had.

  She’d kissed him before she’d left and said she’d see him soon. He was pretty sure his heart had broken into about fifty different pieces, but he’d let her go. He hadn’t tried to stop her. She’d been married for ten years to a guy who’d cared nothing about her hopes and dreams.

  Porter was going to be the opposite of that.

  Even if it killed him.

  “Hey, earth to Porter. You still with me?” Ann asked, waving the clipboard in front of his face.

  “Yeah. Just thinking.”

  “About how fantastic this place looks and how much money selling it will bring you and your family?”

  “I don’t think I ever mentioned selling it.”

  “I’m not just your mayor, I’m also a real estate agent,” she said, her eyes twinkling with humor. “I’ll be very happy to do that for you.”

  “What? Sell it?”

  “Mention a sale. Tonight. At the auction. I’ll ask around and see if anyone would be interested in purchasing the house to use as either a home or a destination wedding venue. It cleaned up very nicely, and you and your brothers should be able to get top dollar.”

  “First, I don’t recall mentioning that we’re interested in selling.”

  “You might change your mind. For the right price.”

  “Second, Benevolence isn’t a destination,” he continued, without acknowledging her comment.

  He, Flynn, and Sullivan had already discussed selling.

  They’d already agreed it wasn’t the right time.

  Yet.

  Eventually, they might unload the place to someone who was interested in turn-of-the-century Gothic revival. For now, it was a decent place to get a good night’s sleep. Even with all the bad memories associated with it.

  “You’re mistaken again,” Ann said. “We’ve got the river, the mountains, the chocolate shop. Lots of people would love to come here to get hitched. Or even for a wine-tasting event. A theater night. I can think of a hundred ways this place could draw a crowd.”

  “Tell you what, how about we just concentrate on tonight and worry about everything else at a much later date?”

  “Right. Just putting a bug in your ear. This place has always fascinated me, and I’m thrilled that you and your brothers agreed to open it to the public eye.”

  “Hopefully, you’ll still feel that way when this event is over.”

  “Oh, I will. I love Sunday. She’s a beautiful, warm, and loving mother. She deserves a little nest egg to tide her over while she recovers. How is she doing, by the way? Prep for this has been so hectic, I haven’t had time to go visit. I heard she’s actually talking and walking? Getting herself around?”

  “She’s doing better than we could have hoped a week ago.”

  “But not as well as you’d like?”

  “Not as well as she’d like. She’s pushing herself too hard, and we’re afraid she might have a relapse.”

  “Sunday pushing herself is no surprise. She’s been working her butt off at that farm since her folks died, trying to keep it from going under. It probably would have been easier for her to sell it. I mentioned it once, and she thanked me but said the farm was doing just fine.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Yes. I know. It doesn’t take an agricultural degree to recognize when fields are fallow and orchards are overgrown. Poor Sunday. She’s always been so sure she could change the world, but she couldn’t even get a handle on her home.”

  “What about Matt?” he asked, the same way he’d asked Clementine, and just like she had, Ann stiffened.

  “What about him?”

  “He lived on the farm, too.”

  “Right.” She walked into the kitchen. Maybe she was hoping he wouldn’t follow, but he wanted to know just what his baby brother had been doing in the years before he’d died. He wanted to understand the dynamics of the family he’d left behind.

  “Ann, I’m not asking you to fling dirt on my brother’s grave. I’m just asking you to tell me what he was doing while Sunday was working her butt off.”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It sure is,” she responded, tucking the pen behind her ear and meeting his eye. “You asked me what your brother was doing. I told you. If you’re not satisfie
d with that, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “So you’re saying he literally did nothing?” Porter asked, feeling sick at the thought of Sunday taking care of the kids, cooking the meals, and trying to make her farm succeed. Alone. Even while she was married.

  “To be fair, he probably thought he was working. He did lots of things for other people. He helped fix cars and mow lawns. He painted the Farmington house the year Elmer died. He loved the town, and we loved him.”

  “But you didn’t respect him.”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “It’s hard to think highly of someone who leaves his wife at home to handle all the problems.”

  “He loved Sunday. He loved his kids. We respected him for that, and for all the things he did to help people who needed it. We all just wondered, though. You know?”

  “Wondered what?”

  “Why he didn’t do the same at home.” She shrugged. “Anyway, he’s gone, and that’s painful enough for you and yours. Why rub salt in the wound? The caterer is going to be here shortly to start prepping. The tents will be delivered a little after that. The planner is taking care of the exterior decor. She’ll be setting some things up inside, too, but I thought we’d leave it more authentic and let the period furniture do the talking. Doors open at seven. Everyone in your family has free entry. If anyone else tries to get in without paying, you can play bouncer.”

  “Why me?”

  “You’ve got the muscle. I’m just the pretty face.” She smiled. “I’d better get going. I’m meeting an appraiser at the church. We’re going over the itinerary for the sale. See you tonight.”

  “See you then.” He waited until she was gone, then cleaned up and put away the paint, walking through each room and checking to make sure everything was exactly like it should be. The crew had carried furniture down from the attic, and the old house actually looked like a home. Chairs. Sofas. Tables. Framed paintings hung. Vases on the fireplace mantels. And the old rocking chair that his mother had loved.

  He ran his hand over the varnished wood, wondering what her life would have been like if she hadn’t married his father. Not as hard, he didn’t think. Or as sad.

  “What are you thinking about, Uncle Porter?” Twila asked.

  Surprised, he swung around, searched the room until he spotted her, sitting on the window seat nearly hidden by thick brocade curtains.

  “I think the better question is, What are you doing here?”

  “Rosie dropped me off.”

  “Why would she do that?” He crossed the room, pulled back the curtains so he could see all of her, not just a little hint of her face.

  “Because I told her you needed my help before school.”

  “You lied.”

  “I didn’t.” She had a book in her hands, and she tucked it into the neat little purse she’d brought with her. “You do need my help.”

  “I don’t recall asking for it.”

  “Asking for it is often the hardest thing to do. That’s why Daddy didn’t help around the farm. Mom never wanted to ask. She said he was too tired from all the work he did for everyone else, and she said they all needed the help more.” She stood, brushing invisible dust from her thick black tights.

  “If you hadn’t been hiding behind those curtains, you wouldn’t have heard that conversation.” And he was glad that what she’d heard had been appropriate for little ears.

  “I wasn’t hiding. I was reading.”

  “Do Rumer and Sullivan know you’re here?”

  “I might have forgotten to tell them.”

  “Forgotten?”

  “Last night, Rosie said she was going to run to Spokane to get the boys suit jackets for tonight. She said it was totally inappropriate to show up at a black-tie affair in jeans and sweatshirts.”

  “What does that have to do with you not telling Sullivan and Rumer you were leaving the house? We had this conversation, remember? You’re never to go anywhere without an adult knowing.”

  “Rosie knew.”

  “Da-ng it! Twila, you know that’s not the same thing.”

  “It seems like it is.”

  “Not if you told her that you had permission.”

  “I didn’t,” she hurried to say. “I heard her talking about it, and she told Uncle Sullivan and Aunt Rumer that she’d leave really early and stop for doughnuts on the way and make a morning of it. If they didn’t mind.”

  “I take it they didn’t mind?”

  “They never mind things. They said Rosie could leave as early as she wanted and stay out as late as she needed.”

  “You took advantage of the situation to hitch a ride into town.”

  “No. I hitched a ride to you. I said you needed my help, and Rosie never asked if I had permission.”

  “I guess you had a reason for doing this?”

  She dropped her gaze, her glossy braid falling down the center of her ramrod-straight back. Her shoes were polished, her dress pressed, every seam falling exactly where it should. But there was something off about her this morning. Something restless and unsettled.

  He crouched, brushing too-long bangs away and looking into her eyes. He saw the tears then, sliding down her cheeks.

  “Twila? What is it, sport? Why are you crying?”

  “Because everybody leaves. Everybody.”

  “I didn’t leave. I just came here for a while. There’s a lot of people in the farmhouse. And I didn’t want to sleep in the chicken coop. That’s all.” He tugged her into his arms and was surprised when she didn’t push away. Was even more surprised by the hard knot of grief lodged in his throat.

  This was what he’d tried explaining to Clementine.

  This is what he’d never understood until now.

  That love could be so strong for someone who was so new to you. That when a child’s heart broke, yours could, too.

  “You’re going to leave. Heavenly said so. She said adults always do. She said that you just told us you were staying here so that you didn’t have to feel bad about going back to LA and abandoning us.”

  “Heavenly doesn’t always know the facts. Next time she tells you something, maybe you should check with an adult before you act on it.”

  “You didn’t say you weren’t going back to LA,” she whispered so quietly he almost didn’t hear. “You didn’t say that. And when an adult doesn’t say something, it’s because he doesn’t want to lie.”

  “I’m not going back to LA,” he assured her. “I quit my job there. I moved here. I’m going to be working for the sheriff.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need a job.”

  “No. Why did you quit your job and move here?”

  “Because you guys need me, and I need you, and we’re a lot better together than we are apart. So, I’m staying, and now that you’re here, you’re going to help me set up for tonight. That way what you told Rosie won’t be a lie.” He took her hand and was rewarded with a tentative smile.

  “Thanks, Uncle Porter.”

  “Don’t thank me until after you see the horrible jobs I’m going to make you do. Scrubbing floors with toothbrushes. Cleaning windows with newspapers. Chasing the rats out with giant brooms.”

  “Are there really rats?”

  “No. Just a lot of old stuff and a few dust bunnies.”

  And a million memories that were going to have to move aside to make room for new ones.

  Chapter Ten

  The problem with chasing dreams is that sometimes they let you catch them.

  Clementine could hear her father’s voice as clearly as if he were sitting in the passenger seat of her overstuffed Pontiac.

  She couldn’t argue with the adage.

  Not when she’d caught the dream she’d been chasing after for five years. The one where she went back to Seattle and picked up where she’d left off. The one where she had everything she’d thought she wanted, a cumulation of all of her dreams.

  She’d caught that dream.


  She’d held it in her hands for a few days.

  She’d lived it and breathed it and told herself that she was thrilled with it.

  But the earth in Seattle didn’t smell like home.

  The gray-blue sky didn’t showcase the stars.

  And Porter was in Benevolence.

  And she was alone.

  If that’s what catching the dream had brought her, to hell with it. She’d find a new one.

  She hummed along with the radio, surprisingly happy for someone who’d just said good-bye to something she’d spent her entire adult life trying to achieve.

  She’d still teach online classes. She’d still be part-time faculty. It would take her a lot longer to pay off her debt and rebuild her savings, but she could sell yarn online and, maybe, sweaters, hats, mittens, and scarves at farmers’ markets.

  Maybe even at Pleasant Valley Organic Farm.

  They’d be selling cider and jam, pickles, fresh produce.

  Why not add beautiful hand-knit mittens? Brightly colored hats?

  When she’d left the farm, she’d asked Sullivan and Porter to let Harley move into the rancher; she’d suggested that they also put her in charge of the farm. The young woman had learned quickly and was an apt student. She’d been excited to be part of Sunday’s vision, but she’d been nervous about doing it alone.

  Now she wouldn’t have to.

  Because the farm was just ahead, fields stretched out beneath the moonlit sky—a patchwork of soils that told the story of what would be planted there. Corn. Alfalfa. Potatoes. Carrots.

  She could almost feel the land rejoicing at the harvest.

  She pulled down the gravel road that led to the rancher, headlights illuminating the familiar path. How many times had she driven it? Hundreds? More?

  When she’d been there with Sim the house had been a cage of her own making, a place where she’d only been trapped because she’d been too afraid to fly.

  She could have opened the door at any time.

  She could have walked out into the cold, sweet breath of freedom.

  Even back then, when she’d been fighting with Sim and fighting for sanity and trying to keep the creditors at bay, she’d loved the land. She’d loved the expansive fields and the distant mountains and the snake-like curve of the river.