Home Again

by Shirlee McCoy

  “Why? Because she didn’t think she could do the same?”

  “I don’t know, Clementine. I wish I did. I wish I’d spent more time getting to know her and less time believing I did.”

  They reached the top of the hill, and she could see the fields that had once been—dotted with scrawny pine trees and tangles of field grass and weeds, stretching to the horizon, abandoned and unused.

  But the moon was high and kissing the abandoned field with yellow-white light, and she could sense the hands that had once toiled here, imagine the strength of the men and women who had tamed it. She inhaled the loamy earth and the cool spring night, her eyes burning with the beauty of it.

  God, she’d missed this.

  So much.

  The connection to the land, to the men and women who’d walked the earth before her. To the story that was all humanity—toil and heartache and joy and triumph. Life and death and all the small and wonderful moments in between.

  “The cemetery is this way,” Porter said, taking her hand and leading her toward a hill that arched up toward the moonlit sky. They walked side by side, through the grass and up the gently sloped ground, and finally she saw a narrow, paved road that meandered through the overgrown field.

  They stepped onto it and turned left.

  And like a magical kingdom in a fairy tale, the cemetery appeared. A hundred yards away. Wrought iron gate open, rows of headstones gleaming in moonlight. Unlike the field, it was well-tended, a few large trees interspersed between stones that shone white-gray against the dark grass.

  “It’s beautiful,” she breathed as they approached.

  “You may be the first person to ever say so.”

  “What? Cemeteries can’t be beautiful?”

  “It’s not the cemetery. It’s what it represents.”

  “Death is simply life transitioning into another realm.”

  “Your mother?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “It sounds like something a person who clears chakras might say.” He walked through the gate and led her along a path paved with smooth river rocks. It meandered between headstones and past a statue of a crying angel, curved around a tree and . . .

  Sunday was there, lying on her side beside a marble headstone, her hands beneath her cheek. Eyes open. Face pale.

  She didn’t move as they approached. Just watched them come, her eyes black orbs in her colorless face. She could have been a statue, a monument to grief. She was that still, that silent.

  “Sunday?” Porter said, shrugging out of his jacket and laying it over her. “Are you okay?”

  “Just a little . . . lost,” she said, her voice raspy.

  Clementine thought she might have been referring to more than just not being able to find her way home. She might have meant that she was unanchored and uncertain and not sure how to find her way back to the person she’d once been.

  “I understand,” she said quietly, brushing a few dry leaves from Sunday’s hair and urging her to sit up. “Sometimes, it’s really hard to find your way home. We’ll help you, though. Won’t we, Porter?”

  “Of course. We’ve been worried sick about you, Sunday. The whole town has been,” he responded.

  “I’ll text Sullivan and let him know we’ve found her,” Clementine said, pulling out her phone as Porter helped Sunday to her feet.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry anyone. I thought I’d just . . . come for a few minutes and then go back to the house,” Sunday murmured. “But I got here, and then I couldn’t get back. I kept following the bank of the river, but I swear someone covered the bridge with an invisibility cloak. I finally just came back here. I thought I’d sleep, and when the sun came up, I’d be able to find the bridge and get back home.”

  “It’s a cold place to sleep,” Clementine said, putting an arm around Sunday’s shoulders. “Especially for someone who’s still recovering from serious injuries.”

  “I really didn’t have much of a choice. I walked to the street, but it’s just a country road. Not a house or person in sight. I figured it was better to stay here than risk getting really lost. My memory is too shaky to be depended on.”

  “It would have been better if you’d stayed at the rehab center,” Porter said gently. “I could have busted you out for a few hours and brought you here, if you really wanted to come.”

  “I needed to do this alone.”

  “I would have given you time by yourself. I know how important that is when you’re grieving.”

  “Maybe you do,” she said. “But you don’t know what it’s like to wake up every morning wondering if something is a dream or a memory,” Sunday said. “You don’t know what it’s like to forget that you’ve lost someone and then remember again. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like a part of your life never really happened. Like you fell asleep and woke up a hundred years later. And everything had changed.”

  “No. You’re right. I don’t,” Porter agreed. “But none of that is unusual for your situation. The doctor said—”

  “Stop.” Sunday shook her head. “I don’t want to know what he said. And I’ve probably heard it a hundred times before, anyway. I know I have a traumatic brain injury. I know that causes glitches. I know it all, okay? But that doesn’t make me feel better when I wake up in the morning and have to try to remember who he was. Sometimes, I can’t even remember his face.” She opened her hand, the broken wedding ring in her palm.

  And Clementine wondered if she’d been resting her head on it, trying to dream of the one she’d love forever.

  She shivered, running her hand over Sunday’s silky hair, feeling the soft bump of the scars on her scalp.

  “It’s going to get better,” she told her.

  “Says the woman whose name I can never remember,” Sunday said, half laughing, half sobbing the words.

  “It’s Clementine, and we only knew each other for a couple years, so I’m not insulted that you forget. I promise, if I ever lose my memory, your name will go right along with it.”

  “I may not remember your name,” Sunday said, leaning her head against Clementine’s shoulder, “but I remember your jokes and your laughter. We could have been sisters, in another lifetime.”

  “Maybe we were. Come on. It’s chilly, and you need to get home. Do you think you can walk back?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Porter’s got enough muscle for ten people. He can carry you if your legs hurt.”

  “Hurt? Hurt is when you stub your toe on the corner of the wall. This is more like battery acid dripping straight into my veins. But I’ll walk, because that’s the only way I’m going to get better.”

  “Or hurt yourself more,” Porter chided, sliding his arm around her waist. “You have rods in both your femurs, Sunday. Your left foot was crushed. It’s okay to work slowly toward improving function.”

  “You know what I remember?” she said, ignoring his comment and limping along like a wizened old woman.

  “What?” Clementine asked, stepping into place on the other side of her, hooking her arm around her just like Porter had.

  His arm was beneath hers, his fingers brushing her hip as they walked.

  And for God’s sake! Poor Sunday was limping along, and all Clementine could do was think about his arm, his hand, the way his lips had felt against hers.

  “I remember seeing the truck.”

  The words were a splash of ice water in the face.

  Every thought about Porter fled, and her hand tightened on Sunday’s waist.

  “It was a quarter of a mile away, and I saw it swerve toward the side of the road and almost clip a tree. I wanted to turn off until it passed. I don’t know if I said that to Matt. I don’t even remember him being there. I just know I saw the truck swerve, and I was so scared.”

  “Sunday,” she began, not sure what she wanted to say, but Porter nudged her, and she knew she had to stay silent, let Sunday speak her truth.

  “And then it wa
s in our lane. This bright bright light, and I thought I’d died. I thought I’d left all the kids on their own, and the pain of thinking about that was so horrible, I just . . . I guess I just slipped away for a while.”

  This was the memory she had to carry? Not memories of fun times with Matt or days spent with Heavenly. Just the horrible, wretched moment of despair.

  God! If Clementine had the power to take it away, she would. If she could wrap her fingers in pink tape and raise her hands to heaven, if she could have that tiny bit of faith that made things happen, that is what she’d do—she’d take away the memory of the accident and she’d replace it with memories of love.

  “I think I might have stayed away forever, but Moisey . . .” She shook her head. “She just kept popping into the gray emptiness of my brain, waving her pink fingers in my face and telling me to come home.” She laughed. “At least I had some amusing dreams while I was out of it.”

  “Yeah. Right. Dreams,” Clementine repeated, but Porter nudged her again, so she pressed her lips together and stayed silent for the rest of the walk back to the truck.

  * * *

  It took a half hour to make the ten-minute walk back to the truck. A half hour of feeling the tension in Sunday’s body as she braced for every painful step.

  He’d wanted to carry her, but he had to respect the boundaries she’d set. This was her trauma and her recovery, and he couldn’t dictate how it went.

  No matter how much he wanted to.

  By the time they reached the truck, Sunday was shaking with fatigue and pain, and he was shaking with the effort to not take control of the situation. He helped her into the backseat, pulling a blanket from his emergency kit and covering her with it. “We’ll be back soon.”

  “Home? Or rehab?” she asked, her eyes closed, her lips so pale they blended with her skin.

  “I want to say rehab, but you worked too damn hard to get here for me to force you to go back. We can hire a team to come to the house to help with your physical therapy and recovery. As long as the kids will leave you alone enough to let you heal.”

  “Thanks, Porter,” she said without opening her eyes.

  He shut the door, turned away, found himself in Clementine’s arms.

  “You did good,” she whispered, her lips brushing his ear, heat shooting through his blood.

  “I didn’t do a damn thing,” he growled, but his hands were gentle as he slid them up her back, pulled her so close there was no space between them. Just the warmth of their bodies flowing together.

  “And that was the most difficult thing of all. Like I said, you did good.” She kissed his chin and stepped away before he could capture her lips. “We’d better get her home. That’s the best place for her.”

  He nodded, opening her door and waiting as she climbed in—long arms and legs and curvy body, beautiful words and selfless actions and all dozen things he hadn’t known he was missing until he’d found them.

  He shoved the key into the ignition, starting the truck and turning the heat on high before heading back to the farmhouse.

  Only it wasn’t just that any longer.

  It was that place on the globe, that pinpoint location where hearts beat for the same purpose, where lives collided and meshed and interlocked. Where love became a thing that was as real as the silent breath of a new morning. A place he’d never understood and that he’d never expected to be. But there he was. Stretching himself to fill the spot that Matt had left, and finding it was his place called home.

  He pulled up in front of the house, the windows dark, the yard silent. The search party had left. Gone home or gone back to the silent auction. It was just past one, and the farm had the quiet, restful vibe of a hard day’s work completed.

  “She’s asleep,” Clementine whispered, and he glanced into the back.

  Sunday lay stretched across the bucket seats, eyes closed, breathing even, her hand tucked beneath her cheek.

  Was she still holding the broken ring?

  Was she seeing Matt in her dreams?

  He hoped, for her sake, that she was. That somehow the power of wanting something enough would make it happen.

  “You get the doors,” he whispered back. “I’ll carry her in.”

  Clementine nodded, running up the stairs to the front door. She had a key. Just like Rosie. Just like Rumer had even before she’d become family. This was a house where doors swung open wide for anyone who wanted to enter. He could feel that in every corner, every comfortable room.

  And it was what he wanted for the Lee Harris house.

  To replace all the dark shadows with light.

  He lifted Sunday gently, careful not to jostle her too much. Her body had been knit back together by careful surgeons and by time, but it would take years before she was herself again.

  If she ever was.

  Clementine held the door open as he walked through, and they crept through the dark living room and up the stairs to the room where Matt and Sunday had once slept together.

  “I hope she’s okay when she wakes in here,” Clementine whispered.

  “I was thinking the same,” he responded. “Should we put her in another bed?”

  “There isn’t one. With Rosie here, the place is filled to capacity. This is going to have to be okay.” She pulled back a heavy quilt and motioned for him to set Sunday down. “Let’s just pull off her shoes and cover her up. Anything else, and she might wake.”

  He nodded.

  They worked well as a team, hand brushing hand as they tugged off Sunday’s shoes, bodies sliding past one another as they pulled sheets over her fragile frame, eyes locked as they plumped pillows, pulled up the quilt, and moved away.

  Clementine was the other thing he hadn’t expected.

  The gift he hadn’t asked for.

  A sweet melody drifting into the silences. Laughter drowning out the sounds of even the harshest storm.

  “You didn’t tell me why you came back,” he said as they walked down the stairs.

  “For the same reasons you did. It felt right.”

  “How long are you planning to stay?”

  “For as long as they need me.”

  “Just them?” he asked, tugging her close.

  “You don’t need me, Porter,” she said. “You just like having me around.”

  “I’m not Sim,” he said, and she stiffened.

  “I know that.”

  “Do you?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “I’m not flattered.”

  “And I’m just being honest. I have baggage. Ten years of being treated like a personal assistant by the love of your life will do that to a person.”

  “Is that what Sim was?” he asked, his hands sliding into her hair, tilting her head so she’d look into his eyes. “The love of your life?”

  “That’s what I wanted him to be.”

  “I’m sorry, then.”

  “For what?”

  “For the fact that he turned out to be a huge pile of pig slop on a hot summer day.”

  “Pig slop on a hot summer day?”

  “I was going to say horse shit, but there are a bunch of big-eared kids in the house.”

  “Shhhh!” She laughed, and he caught the sound with his lips, tasting the brightness of her joy.

  “Why don’t you come back to the house with me, Clementine?” he murmured against her lips. “We can make a bid on that year’s worth of chocolate and dance the last set of the night together.”

  “Everyone is probably gone by now.”

  “They’re closing down the bands at two. We still have time.”

  “It’s probably not a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m trying to think of a reason,” she responded. “Because I still want to protect my heart.”

  “Protecting your heart feels like a noble thing. Until you realize you’ve missed out on something wonderful because of it.”

  “I don’t want to miss out on you, Porter. I just
want to take things slow. I want to go on dates and dance in the moonlight and walk in the orchards before dawn.”

  “Did you take things slow with Sim?”

  “Do we have to keep discussing him?”

  “You’re the one with the baggage,” he reminded her, and she smiled.

  “You’re quick, Porter. I like that.”

  “I’m also persistent. Did you take things slow?”

  “No. He swept me off my feet, and then—”

  “Dumped you on your ass?”

  “You’ve read my story,” she said.

  “Not all the way to the end.”

  “Spoiler alert,” she replied. “He empties our bank accounts and leaves me for a college student.”

  “That’s not the end of the story, sweetheart. It’s only the beginning.” He touched the hollow of her throat, feeling the quick, soft thrum of her heart there. And, then, he kissed her. The way he’d wanted to the moment he’d seen her in Sunday’s room at the rehab center. The way he planned to every day for as long as she’d allow it.

  Upstairs, a door opened, creaking softly on its hinges. Bare feet padded on the floor, fabric swishing as someone walked through the hall.

  “Moisey,” Clementine mouthed.

  He nodded, motioning for her to follow him up the stairs.

  They reached the landing just as Moisey disappeared into Sunday’s room, a long blanket trailing along behind her.

  “Should we get her?” Clementine whispered in his ear.

  “Maybe—”

  Another door opened, and Clementine jumped back, dragging Porter with her. Her forearm slammed across his chest, pressing him up against the wall. As if they were two spies in enemy territory about to be discovered.

  He scanned the landing, saw the twins slipping out of their room, blankets tied around their necks like capes. They moved more quietly than Moisey, scurrying nearly silently into Sunday’s room.

  “What? Are they having a party in there?” he muttered.

  “Shhh. Here comes Twila.”

  And, sure enough, she was coming. Stepping out of the room she shared with Moisey and running for her mother’s doorway, a pile of what looked like folded blankets in her arms.