Coming Home Again (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 1)

by Lowe, T. I.

  “Your load is pretty heavy, ain’t it child?” she asked. I began to laugh again, but then realized I was about to receive a lesson. She was subdued looking and had tears in her eyes. “Come on, child. I’ll help you carry this load for a spell.” She then headed to the back door of the kitchen. I was parked just off to the side of the restaurant. We walked silently. I remember sighing in relief when I freed my hands of everything into the backseat. I turned around to grab her gifts and noticed that the tears had spilled onto her dark cheeks.

  “God’s blessings are so much easier if yo’ lay all your baggage down first, ain’t it?” She handed me her gifts to make the point. She didn’t release the handle of the basket once I claimed it in mine. “God is even willin’ to take our baggage. All’s we gotta do is be willin’ to hand it over to Him.” She released the handle with a knowing nod. We just stood there staring at each other somberly. She knew I had demons I carried around, although she just didn’t know specifically what they were caused from.

  “Have a good life, my child. Don’t let no baggage rob yo’ of the happiness God gots in store for you.”

  I hugged her one last time after receiving my Miss May lesson. I drove away that day, to find my new start, with a peculiar sense worrying in the back of my mind that I was just missing a crucial point from her. I know now how crucial it had been.

  Don’t we always wish we knew then what we know now?

  Chapter Nine

  It’s well past dark as I pull into the driveway. I can see in the glow of the house lights that mourners are still lingering around. I had really hoped they would have paid enough respects by now, but I keep forgetting that I’m back in the South.

  After I shuffle through the crowd on the porch to push open the front door, I am greeted by two elegant flower arrangements in the foyer. They are exquisite with pale pink peonies gathered with creamy, smaller peonies, cascading sweet peas, and dainty foliage. The fragrance is a heavenly floral perfume. I greedily steal several deep breaths of their aroma before I fish the cards out and find that one is addressed to me and the other is to the Thorton family. The Monroe family has gifted both. Lucas’s mom, Kathleen, has impeccable taste and is one of my dearest friends. She knows my flower of choice is a peony. I detest a bouquet with any rose in it. I’ve always regarded that flower as to only belonging to my sister, Julia. She is a Rose, not me.

  I grab up my bouquet and stow it on my dresser in my room so that I can enjoy it during my undetermined sentence. I drop my purse on the floor and send Kathleen a quick “thank you” text before following my nose to the kitchen. It’s been a long time since the biscuits and gravy, and my stomach is letting me know all about it. I stop in my tracks as I take in the transformation of the kitchen space. Gone are the off-white Formica countertops and old tan appliances. They have been replaced with sleek granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. The old oak cabinets have also been replaced with crisp white ones that are adorned with brushed nickel nobs and pulls. The only thing original is the wood floors, which have been recently resurfaced. This is not the outdated country kitchen I grew up in. This is a chef’s kitchen. The walls are a fresh sky-blue, and are dressed with beautiful black-and-white photographs that beg me to walk over to study them. One picture has captured the two businesses. These structures look like antique beach houses in the photo, with deep covered porches and rocking chairs. The other photo is a landscape shot of the beach I like to visit. I run my fingers along the frame edge and come to a stop when I notice the photographer’s signature scrawled along the bottom of the canvas.

  “Your brother is a gifted photographer, don’t you think?”

  I turn around and find a familiar yet aging man looking past me to the photos. “He is,” I answer a bit confused. I had no idea John Paul had any other talent besides telling tall-tales and wooing women. I have missed more than I had expected.

  “Sweetheart, I’m sorry about your daddy. He was a great man to work for,” Mr. Chester says. He is my dad’s seafood market manager. Or he may still be. Who knows? “Are you hanging in there?”

  “I think so,” I mumble as I scan the crowd. “Do you know where my mother is?”

  “She was given something earlier to help her rest. She’s already gone to bed. That poor woman has just about grieved herself to death…” He catches what he has just said, but we both know it’s too late to take it back. Instead, we ignore it.

  I quickly change the subject. “Wow. Wonder when my parents did all this?” I ask as I motion around the renovated kitchen.

  “Your dad kept himself quite busy since he retired earlier this year.”

  “Retired? My dad? Are you sure?” I can’t fathom him ever doing that willingly. I rub my temples in the hopes of making all of this clearer, but it’s not working.

  “Yes. He announced at the Christmas Party that it was time to spend more time with his lovely bride.” Mr. Chester moves a little closer and says quietly, “Between you and me, your dad was waiting for you to decide to come home so he could hand it over to you. He wanted you to sow your oats and didn’t want to rush you, so he temporarily handed things over to John Paul.”

  Well, that explains why he is at the funeral home. Jean had managed to worry him slap to death in only six short months. I push my own guilt from Mr. Chester’s words down as far as I can. I’m at a loss as to why Dad ever thought I would come back home to run his businesses. Nothing against the restaurant and market, but no.

  I don’t want to hear any more, so I set out to look for my brother. I find him at the door, practically shoving people out.

  “Thank you for all of your help, condolences, and food.” John Paul repeats this repeatedly as he shows people to the door. I realize it is now after ten, and I still have not eaten by the time he has closed the door for good for the night. He senses this, or is hungry himself, because he guides me back to the kitchen. “Let’s eat.”

  I set my sights on the bounty of food that practically covers every surface of the kitchen. This is a southern tradition, unlike what I have encountered up north at wakes, which resemble more of a somber cocktail party. Here in the South, it’s like a family reunion with endless supplies of food that is always more than can be consumed. Southern folks love to love on you with food. Feeding you gives them a purpose in these sad situations. Right now, I’m super glad of this because I’m starving. I scan the counters and spot more mac and cheese casseroles than needed, several pots of chicken bog, a spiral-cut glazed ham, potato salad, butter beans, fried squash, fried chicken, fried shrimp, homemade biscuits, and any type of dessert you could imagine. It looks like a bakery shop has been unloaded in here.

  I pop a deviled egg in my mouth before grabbing a paper plate. I dig a fried chicken leg out of an aluminum pan and set my sights on the desserts. I find my favorite right away and cut a considerable chunk off. It’s an old-fashioned chocolate cake made of twenty thin layers, and the smell of the fudgy icing sets my mouth to watering. I’m unable to resist, so I run my finger along the edge of the cake plate and scoop a large glob of gooey goodness into my mouth. Oh boy, this stuff is so good. So good, in fact I cannot resist another glob. As I suck the stickiness off my finger, I catch John Paul staring at me with a smirk on his face.

  “What?” I ask around a mouthful of fudgy icing.

  He shakes his head. “Wish I had my camera. You’ve smeared that crap all over your chin. Looks like you been eating sh—.”

  I playfully pop him in his mouth with my sticky hand before he can spit the rest of the ugly word out. I’ve never been a fan of that kind of language, and he knows it.

  He jumps away from me, laughing. “Gross, Savannah. Don’t put that nasty hand on me.” He bats my hand away.

  After grabbing a glass of sweet tea, I leave him in the kitchen and head to the porch swing. I glide slowly in the night’s soothing silence as I enjoy my greasy chicken leg and scrumptious cake. John Paul joins me by the time I’ve made a substantial dent in my chunk of
cake.

  “Here,” he says as he sits beside me, trying to hand me a glass of wine. “This will go better with your dessert than tea.”

  I shake my head, refusing it. “I’m not much of a drinker. All it does is give me nightmares and bad headaches.”

  He shrugs his shoulders and downs all of the wine in one long gulp. He places the empty glass on the wood-planked floor and then sets out to nurse the beer.

  “Where’s your food?” I ask.

  “Not hungry,” he says. I try not to worry, but he looks a bit gaunt tonight.

  We rock in silence as I finish the cake. It was almost too much, and I think I overdid it, but it will be worth the bellyache. As I toss my empty plate Frisbee-style over to the garbage bin on the porch, the front door opens. Two ladies shuffle out, surprising John Paul and me.

  The short, pudgy one from earlier says, “We put the food away. We’ll be back in the morning. Good night, children.” They both wave goodbye.

  Once they drive off, we burst out laughing.

  “Where in the world were them two hiding?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I thought I kicked everybody out earlier.” John Paul chuckles.

  “They must have been upstairs tending to your mother.” We laugh some more before settling into the quietness of the night.

  I finally break the silence after a while. “When was the last time you saw Dad?” I glance over at my brother and really give him a looking over. The dark circles under his red, swollen eyes are evidence to his loss, and it causes a deep ache of anguish for him to resonate in the pit of my stomach.

  “Only three nights ago,” he says. “He popped in the restaurant at closing and helped me finish up the night duties. We ended up hanging out in one of the booths for a couple of hours afterwards, just running off at the mouth. He told me how proud he was of me and encouraged me to keep up my photography business.” He pauses before muttering in disappointment, “I’ve been debating on giving it up.”

  “I didn’t know you were into that. I think it’s great. Those pictures in the kitchen are impressive.” I compliment him, but he seems far away. I place my hand on his arm. He looks over at me with tear-filled eyes. A thought clicks into place. “You took that picture of Dad on the pier, didn’t you?” John Paul nods somberly. “I would love a copy of it, please.” He nods again.

  We swing another stretch before John Paul speaks again. “I knew that night something bad was going to go down. I just didn’t know it was going to be this.” He hangs his head and quietly weeps. After he regains his composure, he whispers, “He really listened to me that night when I was telling him about a photo shoot I just wrapped. Not the normal way with him grunting every now and then through the conversation and not really listening, you know. The way he normally would. It was a great final gift the other night.”

  I’m grateful for my brother and jealous at the same time. I have no final gift of time with my dad. I have blown it and understand there’s no second chance in this situation. I can’t manage another word, so I leave John Paul on the porch to mourn alone and head upstairs to do some of my own.

  After changing, I settle on the bed and call Lucas from the neon-pink phone on my nightstand. This was a phone Julia insisted I have in our youth, but I never really used it, being the loner in my young days.

  “Hello?” The calmness echoes in his quiet voice as it always does and is an instant salve to my tender heart.

  “It’s me. I needed to hear your voice…I miss you too much.” I feel the tears prick my eyes but know they won’t escape. I’m not a crier. I wish I were. Maybe then I could wash away some of this overwhelming grief.

  “I can get on the road right now. I can be there by midmor—.”

  “It’s okay.” I bet he is already on his feet, heading to his closet to pack. “You’ve got that business meeting tomorrow.” I hear a door close, and am pretty sure it was probably the closet door.

  “You know I would cancel it for you.” Lucas lets out a long sigh of resignation.

  “I know, but don’t, okay?”

  He gives up and moves on quickly. He has learned over the years that I’m a bit stubborn. “Your voice sounds better. I guess you cooled it on the screaming exercise?”

  I roll my eyes. I can’t get anything past him.

  “I told you it’s my allergies against the south.” I try to laugh it off. Lucas remains quiet as expected at my lie. “Look. It’s been an exhausting day and I was only in Jean’s presence for not even five minutes. Tomorrow is gonna be worse. I best be getting to bed. I love you.”

  “Love you too. Good night, love.”

  I hang up the phone and turn over. I pull the cover up over my head and try to pretend I’m back at our condo and he is just working late. I miss him and want him here, but I’m not that selfish. He doesn’t need to be stuck in this mess. I finally drift off to sleep after tossing and turning for about an hour. At my last glance of the clock, it’s one in the morning.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Come on man! Momma said we could. Don’t chicken out on me now,” John Paul says. He is trying so hard to convince Bradley, who’s being quite hesitant about this stunt. “You know everyone is looking forward to this latest feat. This is our coolest idea by far, dude.” They stand there—one blond and one auburn, and both of equal height and weight—near the edge of the overgrown field, contemplating. They are more like brothers than cousins.

  The two teenage boys are known for performing daredevil stunts for all the kids in the neighborhood—whether it includes a surfboard, skateboard, or anything with a motor. Consequently, neither one ever walks away unscathed. They end up with broken bones and stitches quite often.

  I move a bit closer so I can hear their conversation better. “I don’t know, J.P.” Bradley hesitates. “We don’t know what’s in that grassy field.” Bradley’s uncertainty on attempting their latest stunt is loud and clear. He has already chewed every bit of his fingernails off up to the quick and is now chewing on the skin around what is left of his thumbnail.

  “Okay, okay,” John Paul replies, raising his hands up. “Let’s check it over real good first.” I can tell he has his mind made up on performing today, no matter what. “You know everyone will be ticked at us if they come out here in this blame heat and we chicken out, dude.” John Paul runs his hands through his long hair.

  The grassy field is located down a dirt road and isn’t being planted this year, so it’s pretty secluded and deserted. It is quite overgrown with waist-high weeds in some spots. I keep checking around my feet for snakes as I follow behind them. They quickly scope it out for any hidden obstacles while the cicadas keep whining out a warning. I hope those blame bugs hit their crescendo soon, because the volume is echoing around the field in an annoying buzz.

  After the boys decide the field is safe enough, John Paul can barely contain his excitement. He’s practically skipping around, high-fiving some of his buddies as he passes by. The crowd of kids begins to gather at the edge of the field.

  “What are they going to do this time?” someone in the group behind me asks once I settle in my spot at the edge of the field. I have no idea, so I let someone else answer.

  “J.P. is going to drive that old, beat-up car around the field while Bradley walks on top of it from the front to the back,” another kid answers.

  I slipped out of the house earlier to come out here and watch the stunt. Now that I find out exactly what the stunt is, I want the boys to heed to the cicadas’ warnings. I know it’s no use to try to talk them out of it, though. I reluctantly stand on the sidelines with everyone else and watch nervously. The heat is searing my face and thick beads of sweat blanket the back of my neck in the late summer afternoon. It’s nearing suppertime, so I’m hoping this won’t take long. My heart is pounding so intensely that I can see my shirt bouncing off my chest. My gut just knows this isn’t going to end well.

  After John Paul slides behind the wheel, a strenuous roar yells out from the massive c
ar with the engine coming to life, and “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana booms from the speakers in a static-filled thump. The old radio system is just butchering a perfectly good song, but no one seems to mind.

  Bradley jumps on top of the hood and sits on it with his long legs crossed casually as the beast of a car slowly begins to creep across the grassy field. The ancient thing creaks and vibrates over the uneven ground. It is a mammoth of a vehicle. Maybe it will make it easier for the lanky teenage boy to keep his balance. I keep my fingers crossed. He has a stern, very determined look on his face. Good. That means he is concentrating. I can only hope John Paul is taking this as seriously. I slide my attention to him sitting behind the wheel, one arm hanging out the open window. He is tapping the side of the door in the rhythm of the music. The humidity flicks his hair in every direction in the breeze, but he seems to not mind.

  Once Bradley seems to work up enough nerve, he stands on the dented hood. The thick metal pops and groans in protest as he plants his feet. Slowly he straightens his posture and extends his arms away from his sides to help with balancing. He looks as if he is surfing a massive wave. I begin to relax at this thought, for both boys are excellent surfers. Carefully, he steps over the windshield onto the roof and then makes his way towards the back of the long rusty car. Once he reaches the trunk, the crowd lets out an earsplitting roar. He gives us a thumbs-up before turning around cautiously.

  The car passes in front of us. “Are you ready to go a little faster?” John Paul yells out of the window, trying to antagonize his cousin. “That was way too easy, bro!”

  Bradley shakes his head aversely but agrees, and so John Paul increases the old car’s speed gradually and heads away from us once more. The pile of junk sounds like it wants to choke off in defeat, but instead the speed creeps up slowly. Bradley begins to make his way towards the front of the car in the same manner. His demeanor is more confident with the second pass, and he is maneuvering through the stunt a little faster. The spectators are cheering and whistling with excitement, but the cicadas are still shouting their disapproval. With a quick glance at me and a slight grin working from the corners of his mouth, Bradley proceeds. His shaggy hair flairs out all around him, and his face is tinged pink from the heat and excitement.