Home Again

by Shirlee McCoy

  “That should be it,” he said, because Oya was still in a crib, and there was no way Heavenly would want to sneak into Sunday’s room.

  Only, apparently, she did.

  Her door creaked open the same way Moisey’s had—with a soft groan, and then she was gliding across the landing, Oya on her hip, a pillow under her arm.

  She walked into Sunday’s room, and there were no hushed voices, no under-the-breath bickering. There was nothing but the house settling into quiet again, the siblings apparently settling with it.

  “What do you think they’re doing in there?” Clementine asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe we could check.”

  “Or leave them alone? They’re being quiet. That’s a good thing.”

  “Or a really bad one. Come on.” He took her hand, and they crept across the landing. Just like all six of the kids had done.

  Chapter Twelve

  Clementine wasn’t sure what she’d see when she looked into the room. Maybe the kids standing around the bed, watching their mother as if she might disappear if they turned away.

  What she wasn’t expecting to see was a sleepover in progress, blankets and pillows and kids on the floor, Sunday still resting peacefully.

  Clementine counted heads from the doorway. Milo and Maddox near the foot of the bed. Twila to its left. Moisey beside her. Only Heavenly wasn’t on the floor. She was laying Oya on the bed near their mother, putting her close to Sunday’s arm.

  Somehow, in her sleep Sunday sensed it.

  She reached out, curving her arm around the baby and pulling her close. Heavenly turned away, and probably would have left the room or slept on the floor, but Sunday’s voice drifted into the darkness.

  “It’s a king-sized bed,” she said. “There’s room for all of you.”

  And like sea wraiths rising from the ocean floor, four pajama-clad bodies rose from the ground, crawled onto the bed, and found their spots.

  “You, too,” Sunday said, holding her hand out to Heavenly. To Clementine’s surprise, the teen sank to the bed, curling her body toward Oya and Sunday.

  There was a little wiggling, a little twisting, the rustle of clothes, and then, the steady, deep breathing of sleep.

  “Come on,” Porter whispered. “Before they realize we’re out here and all hell breaks loose.”

  She turned away, following him down the stairs and out the front door.

  “They missed her,” she said.

  “She obviously missed them, too. Not many parents would want all six of their kids sleeping in their bed.”

  She smiled, walking to her car and unlocking the door. “I guess I’d better go back to the rancher. Tomorrow will probably be a long day.”

  “How about I come over and help out for a while? What are you and Harley planning to work on?”

  “I’m thinking of going across the river and taking a better look at the property there. I’d like to see if it’s still suitable for cattle.”

  “You’re not thinking we should have a dairy farm, I hope. Because that sounds like a hell of a lot more work than any of us has time for.”

  “I’m not thinking that we should have anything but a very successful organic farm. But there’s no harm in doing a little research.”

  “All right. I’ll go with you,” he said, and she smiled, because she’d thought he would.

  Porter was like that: steady and reliable, one of the few men she’d ever known who could always be counted on.

  “While we’re there, I want to take a look around the cemetery. If the chapel’s foundation is still there, we can get the kids to help rebuild it. I’m sure there are photos somewhere of what it looked like.”

  “You think the kids can help you rebuild a chapel?” he asked.

  “They helped with the coop.” And they’d done a great job. The structure was sturdy, the facade attractive. If she were a chicken, she’d want to live there. In a few days, the baby chicks would be delivered, and she’d show the kids how to set up warming lights and feeding stations. She’d show them how to keep the coop clean and take care of any babies that were being henpecked by their peers. And then the kids would be on their own, because that was the best way to teach them. Let them try and fail and succeed and grow.

  “That was a rectangular structure, Clementine. It’s a pretty simple thing.”

  “And the chapel is a pretty simple thing, too, because it’s not about building something great. It’s about building bonds. Plus, it will be a cool attraction, if we do expand the farm.”

  “If you’re thinking about having visitors over on that side of the river, we may have to fix the bridge sooner rather than later.”

  “We?”

  “You didn’t think I was going to sit around twiddling my thumbs in the mansion, while you worked your butt off on the farm, did you?”

  “I thought you’d be busy with your new job.”

  “It’s part-time for now, remember? I’ll still have plenty of time to spend with you and the kids.”

  “I thought we were talking about the farm.”

  “We were. Now, we’re talking about us. I don’t know about you, but I find the subject a lot more interesting.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead and climbed into his truck. “I’d better head back. Things should be wrapping up soon, and I have a feeling there’s going to be a lot of cleanup to do. If you change your mind about that last dance, you know where to find me.”

  He closed the door and drove away, and she stood where she was for a moment, just watching him go.

  He was a low-pressure salesman. The kind who knew the value of his product. He hadn’t pressed her to go to his place, and she liked that about him.

  She liked him and all the things he represented: family, love, home. She liked his approach to life—the passion and commitment he had to the things that were important to him.

  Mostly, she just liked spending time with him, watching the way he interacted with others, the way he moved through the world. All those things were their own words and phrases and paragraphs, creating the story that was Porter.

  It was a story she thought she would never be bored with. One so filled with scenes, she thought she could read it for the rest of her life without ever having to say the end.

  That scared her.

  And it intrigued her. Because she’d never felt that way before. Not with anyone. And she wasn’t sure if that made it more real or less so.

  She drove back to the rancher, classical music playing on the radio, all the leftover bits and pieces of her life with Sim sitting in boxes behind her. She wouldn’t unpack tonight. She had all the time in the world to settle in.

  She climbed out of the car, snagging her suitcase from the backseat. Harley was sitting on the front porch, a cigarette dangling from her lips, the end glowing amber in the darkness.

  “You’re finally back,” she said, flicking an ember onto the ground and rubbing it out with her foot. “How’s Sunday?”

  “Tougher than most people probably give her credit for.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “Women, you mean?”

  “Nah! Human beings in general. We’re born into this crazy-ass world, and then we have to somehow find a way to survive it. All of us who do are a bunch of freakin’ warriors.”

  “I like that.”

  “Yeah. I’m a regular philosopher.”

  “A sleepless one. What are you doing still awake?”

  “Metaphorically chasing my tail.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Some things you just have to figure out yourself.” She dropped the cigarette and crushed it out. “So, what are you doing here?”

  “I live here now, remember?”

  “Sure, but it seems to me there’s a lot more exciting stuff going on in town right now than there is on this front porch.”

  “You mean the silent auction?”

  “What else?”

  “Sim stole every dime I had. I don’t have m
oney to bid on anything.”

  “Who said anything about bidding?”

  “Why else would I be there?”

  “Gee. I don’t know. Maybe to spend time with Porter?”

  “Are we that obvious?”

  “Do you not want to be?”

  “I don’t care either way.”

  “Which means things are going pretty well between the two of you, and you’re not embarrassed to have your names affiliated with one another.”

  “That’s one way to think about it.”

  “Right. So why are you here?”

  “I think you asked me that before.”

  “Well, I did aspire to become an investigative reporter. Maybe asking questions is my thing.”

  “You actually wanted to be a reporter when you were a kid? I thought maybe you’d just chanced into that job with Randall, because it’s a small town and there weren’t any other positions available.”

  “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a pirate. When I was a teen I wanted to be an investigative reporter. I still wanted to be one when I was working for Randall. Of course, when I took the job, I thought it would require a little more than sitting in his office all day waiting for him to hit on me.”

  “He didn’t let you actually write anything?”

  “You’ve met the guy. What do you think?” She raised a thin brow and kicked at the cold embers.

  “I think I’m glad that it didn’t work out. For me and for this farm. You can work here and pursue your dreams while you’re at it.”

  Harley snorted. “I gave up on dreams a while ago, Clementine. I’m just glad to have a nice place to sleep and a job that pays more than minimum wage.”

  “Maybe you’ll find your dreams again while you’re doing that. One way or another, I hope you’ll be happy working here.”

  “Be? I already am. I’m ecstatic. I get to work outside, and I get to avoid men. Two of my favorite pastimes. But we got off the topic again. You were just about to explain why you’re here instead of with Porter.”

  “It’s late. We’re both going to be busy tomorrow.”

  “We’re talking about tonight, Clementine. And neither of you is so old that you can’t stay up and party for a night.”

  “I know, but I want to take it slow,” she admitted. “Last time I rushed into things, I ended up married to the rat-bastard.”

  “Got it. Even understand it. But Porter isn’t a rat or a bastard, and this is one night. Not a lifetime. It’s an hour. Or maybe a little more. Spending time together and having fun. It doesn’t mean you have to jump into his bed or into his heart or decide immediately that you’re going to be together forever. Hell, maybe you’ll just be doing it because you’re friends, and he makes you smile. And if that is all it is, it’ll still be time well spent. I better go inside. Chasing metaphorical tails is exhausting.” She stood and walked into the house, and Clementine followed, because she’d already made up her mind. She wasn’t going to Porter’s. She’d see him tomorrow, and that would be soon enough.

  But her spinning wheel was in the corner of the living room. She’d left it there because there’d been no place for it in her mother’s apartment. And because it had seemed like spinning belonged to the farm. She hadn’t been able to see herself doing it in Seattle or anywhere else for a while.

  She touched the old wood of the antique spindle, and she remembered the way Porter had watched her work. She remembered the way he’d looked into her face and made her feel like someone special. Maybe Harley was right. Maybe this didn’t have to be about the big statement and the whole shebang. Maybe it could just be about making each other smile.

  She dropped her suitcase on the bed and rifled through it, pulling out the closest thing she had to formal wear—a fitted knit sweater that fell to just above her waist, and a matching floor-length skirt. Both were made from the finest alpaca yarn. Hand dyed and carded, spun and knit. She’d spent four months making the outfit for the faculty Christmas party at the college. She and Sim had planned to drive back to Seattle for the evening and spend the night at a nice hotel.

  But Sim had hated the outfit when she’d tried it on for him. He’d thought the sliver of skin showing between the waistband of the skirt and the hem of the shirt was distasteful, and she’d ended up attending the party in a simple black sheath dress. She’d shoved the skirt and sweater to the back of the closet and pretended not to care that she’d never worn it.

  But she’d cared.

  A whole hell of a lot.

  She slipped into the outfit and pulled her hair up in a loose bun. Then clipped silver bangles over her sleeves, the hand-crafted bracelets a long-ago gift from her grandfather.

  She grabbed her purse and tossed it over her shoulder, then walked to the front door.

  “Looks like you changed your mind,” Harley said, glancing up from a book she was paging through. “That outfit is hot. Did you make it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got mad skills.”

  “Thanks.” She smoothed her hand over the skirt. It clung to her hips, skimmed the line of her legs, and belled out at the floor.

  “You’re welcome. Now that we’ve established that you look amazing, you need to go. I’d hate for the clock to strike midnight before you arrive at the ball.”

  “It’s not a ball. It’s a silent auction.”

  “And you’re going to miss it if you don’t hurry.”

  She was right, so Clementine left, her skirt brushing the ground as she walked to her car.

  The Lee Harris house was still awake and lively when she arrived, cars lining the driveway, the yard illuminated by jars of fairy lights. They looked magical, and she picked one up, smiling at the gossamer-thin lights tangled in the base of it.

  “The party planner will have a coronary if she sees you touching that,” Porter said, his voice floating from between two tall pine trees. A surprise, and such a pleasant one her heart jumped with happiness.

  “Are you hiding from someone?” she asked, setting the jar down and walking toward the sound of his voice. She couldn’t see him. Just those tall trees and the house beyond them.

  “Trying to fix the lights. They went out, and the planner is—”

  “Having a coronary?”

  “She wants everything to be perfect. I could have told her that it already was. The food is great. The musicians are phenomenal. The lights are tasteful, and the silent auction looks like it’s going to be a raging success.” He rustled in the pine needles and branches, and both trees jumped to life, beautiful golden lights twinkling in their boughs.

  “Got it!” he said, and then stepped into view. He’d given his jacket to Sunday, but he didn’t look any less fantastic without it, his body muscular and trim, his eyes silver in the moonlight as he moved toward her.

  “And, now that you’re here, everything is even more perfect,” he continued, stopping in front of her, tilting her chin so he could look into her eyes and kiss her tenderly.

  It was the lightest of caresses and somehow the most profound. She wanted to hold on to it forever, carry it around and remember the way it had felt to stand in the fairy-lit trees with him, looking into his eyes and feeling his lips against hers.

  “Is it actually possible for something to be more perfect?” she asked, her voice husky, her hands resting on his shoulders.

  “If you’re around? Yes,” he responded.

  “You’re full of compliments, Porter. But I don’t need them.”

  “They’re not compliments. They’re truth. This is the second time you’ve surprised me today. I didn’t expect you to come back to Benevolence. I didn’t expect you to show up here tonight. Having you here really does make everything better. Even the perfect things.”

  “Funny, I didn’t expect to make friends when I returned to Pleasant Valley Farm. I didn’t think I needed them. Not here, anyway.”

  “Friends, huh?” he asked, taking her hand and walking her around the side of the building. She could hear
the quiet hush of conversation and the gentle refrain of the string quartet. Tents had been set up in the center of the yard and groups of people were sitting in chairs conversing quietly. Other groups were strolling through the garden, following the paths lit by the fairy-light jars.

  And his question was hanging between the two of them, daring Clementine to answer honestly.

  Friendship, sure.

  But with him, so much more.

  “The best kinds of relationships are built on friendship,” she finally managed to say.

  It was a lame answer. Really a nonanswer, but he didn’t seem to mind. Maybe because the music was mellow, the lighting just right, and the people only interested in enjoying what was left of the night.

  “If that’s true, then I guess we’re off to a good start,” he responded, squeezing her hand and making her feel like even more of a loser for not just saying what she felt—that she wanted so much more than friendship from him.

  “Meanwhile, things around here look like they’re ending,” she forced herself to say, shifting the conversation before she could fail it even more than she already had.

  “They are. Everything has been auctioned off, the winners are celebrating, the losers have gone home.”

  “I don’t think anyone who came here tonight went home feeling like a loser. It’s stunning. The lights. The tents.”

  “You.” His fingers skimmed across the sliver of flesh that Sim had been so opposed to, and she suddenly knew her own power again. The strength of rounded curves and smooth flesh and femininity. Of knowing who she was and where she belonged and how she fit into the world.

  Where she fit into the world.

  Right here. With Porter.

  “Porter,” she began, wanting to say what she should have the minute she saw him. That she’d come home to him, because there was nowhere else she’d rather be.

  “It’s okay,” he said, as if he’d read her mind. “I already know.”

  “What?” she asked as his hand skimmed across her skin again, his palm resting on her hip as they walked through the yard.

  “That our story is just beginning. But I still need to tell you that I’ve never known anyone who could make me feel the way you do. As if I’ve finally found what I’ve spent my whole life looking for.”