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

by Lowe, T. I.

  I resurface from this comforting memory with a rare smile. It feels good, but I know it won’t last. There’s a lot to face, and I am just stalling now. I shuffle through the stack of photos I helped myself to from John Paul’s room once more, and then head downstairs for a much-needed caffeine fix. My hopes are to beat Jean waking up so I can enjoy my coffee and maybe another piece of cake alone. Disappointedly, I find her sitting at the table with her own cup of coffee. She is in her dressing gown, but her shoulder-length blonde hair is curled and her make-up painted on tastefully. Typical Jean.

  Without a word, I go straight over to the coffeepot and pour myself a large cup. I can feel her eyes boring into my back—judging me and belittling me with her every thought. I toy with the idea of going out to the porch to have my coffee in peace, but decide to be civil and sit at the table with her.

  “Did you take care of everything yesterday?” She drawls the words out as she gazes out the set of French doors that I just notice have replaced the picture window.

  “Yes. I just have to drop Dad’s suit off at the funeral home in a little while,” I say, and then ramble off the details. “The service will be the day after tomorrow. It’s gonna be held at the Oceanfront Chapel. I thought he would like it there since it was the church he attended as a child, and that’s where Bradley is buried.” I stop there because I can sense it coming as I watch dissatisfaction cross her face. I inwardly brace myself.

  “Maybe you should have asked me what your father would have wanted before you stormed out of here yesterday.” Her voice is laced with bitterness, and I wonder if she ever gets tired of the taste of it. “Why’d you think you have the right to assume all that? You are nothing more than a stranger to this family.”

  “I was ordered to take care of everything without bothering you. That’s what your busy-bee friend instructed.” I’m so furious I’m beginning to tremble. “I can do nothing right!”

  “Explain to me why we are dragging this out for two more days?”

  This throws me for a loop. I actually thought she would be glad to have the extra days for the attention. I smart off a response. “It gives your hotshot daughter ample time to decide to find her way home.”

  She snorts at this. “No need in being so snide. Julia Rose has a busy career. I don’t expect you to understand that.” She looks me over with her nose wrinkled like I might stink.

  “Just what do you mean by that?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like. Your sister is earning a living while you lay up in your condo with nothing but time on your lazy hands.” She crosses her arms on the table and glares at me. She’s a fine one to talk.

  “You’re right, Jean. I’m absolutely worthless.” I grab my cup of coffee and start my escape back upstairs. The day has just started, and I have already had to spend too much time with the witch. “Just write down what you want changed and I’ll take care of it,” I say over my shoulder.

  “Just leave it,” she says. “It’s too late to be changing things around now.”

  I raise my hand up in surrender and leave her be. Slamming the door for good measure, I go over to the bedroom window and stare out to the backyard. The voluptuous oaks shadow most of the grassy space while they seem to be guarding the lone gardenia bush. Breathing in a deep gulp of the country air, I can smell the heavy perfume of the white flowers from up here.

  I chug back my cooling coffee before heading over to my closet. After scrounging around, I’m able to find a pair of jeans and old Hard Rock T-shirt. I change into them and pull my long brown hair into a messy bun. I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. I skip make-up all together in hopes it peeves my mother. Taking a few deep breaths, I go back to the kitchen.

  Of course, Jean is at the table with a fresh cup of coffee, but now she is dressed in a black dress suit. A few of her friends are already back manning the kitchen. One is just finishing up a few dishes while the other one is placing muffins and pastries onto a platter.

  Without looking up, Jean says dryly, “I know you are not thinking about leaving this house looking like that.”

  I scoot over, grab a foam cup since I forgot my cup upstairs, and begin preparing a to-go cup of coffee. “Sure am,” I mutter.

  “You look like crap. You need to get properly dressed,” she says too calmly.

  I grab a napkin, place several donuts in it, and shove the bundle in my bag for later. I snatch an apple fritter and take a very unladylike bite, cramming my mouth as full as I can. I turn to face Jean and the spectators to our little conversation. My mouth smacks on the doughy goodness for a bit, and then I answer her through my full mouth, “Well…I’m a grown woman, and I can look like crap if I darn well please.” As soon as I do this, I wish I could take it back. What’s the point in being snide with her?

  I try to smooth things over before exiting the kitchen. “By the way, Dad did a great job remodeling the kitchen.” I should have known better. I know I should…

  “Don’t you go thinking all of this will be yours one day,” she snaps.

  A bitter laugh rips from my snarling lips. “You have no worries on me ever wanting to reside in the house where Evan Grey ripped my innocence away!” My words lash out full of venom. My eyes sweep across the kitchen, and the realization of spectators enters my view. Their jaws drop open and my mother dribbles coffee down the front of her top. I really didn’t mean to spit out that tidbit at the end. It just slipped, but it was worth seeing my mother’s reaction. I have not enjoyed such a response from her since the cookie incident.

  I have had enough so I whirl around, grab the business keys off the hook, and slam the door—leaving them silently stunned.

  ~ ~ ~

  I drop my dad’s suit off with the receptionist at the funeral home and make a hasty exit. Funeral homes creep me out. Plus, I’m still reeling from my encounter with Jean. I have no idea why my dad was over the moon about her. I guess love really is blind.

  I decide to go meet with the other two loves of his life. At least they are welcoming. And more importantly—quiet. I park in front of these two structures that are such a major part of me. They are identical buildings that have loyally kept each other company year after year. The structures resemble two vintage beach houses that have been removed from their lanky stilts. White clapboards dress the outside, and the grey, weathered cedar shingles shield the structures from the coastal sun. Swaying palmetto palm trees are tucked around the perimeter, with one standing between the twins. Small discreet signs painted in sea-blue sway from the porch rafters. I know the exact name of the color because I helped my dad pick it out before I disappeared. The one to the left identifies The Thorton Seafood Market in white script, and the one hanging on the right building’s porch identifies it as The Thorton Seafood House. These two beach jewels need no sign to be found. People just know. Yes. It’s that good—award-winning good. I’ve already mentioned that didn’t I?

  I stare a bit longer before trekking across the crushed seashell parking lot. My mother harassed my dad repeatedly throughout the years about getting the lot properly paved, but he actually stood his ground on keeping it original.

  After unlocking the market door and stepping inside, my nose discovers a smell that I have never smelled emitting from this place. It reeks of old seafood and overripe produce. This is a gourmet specialty store. Seafood has always been of the highest and freshest quality. If my dad couldn’t get it from the local docks or in his shop within a few hours of being plucked from the ocean, then he simply wouldn’t sell it. Frozen was a big NO. Another unique quality of the market is that whatever seafood dish you can dream up cooking, you can find the needed ingredients waiting patiently on the shelves and bins. To be assaulted by such wrong smells hits me deep in the pit of my stomach, and I worry a special Thorton era may be coming to an end.

  I walk down the aisles, skimming my hands along the way. My eyes sting with wanting to cry, but my body won’t give in. I focus on the lovely packages as I walk by an
d push the hurt away. There are so many batter mixes, everything from hot and spicy to sweet and fruity. The sauce varieties are just as endless in choices.

  I grab a large garbage can by the register and head to the produce area to weed out the spoiled items. It’s not a very large section so this takes no time. On autopilot, I then head to the seafood display. I know what my dad would do, so I do it also. I dump each bin of fish and shellfish into the trash. It’s not fresh and needs to be tossed. I work in silent anguish as I scrub the bins after tossing the trash in the back dumpster. My last task is to mop my way out before heading next door.

  I’m at the front door of the restaurant and have to force myself to unlock the door and step in. It’s almost unbearable. The quietness echoes as I walk over the worn wood-planked floor. I glance around the lonely dining area before heading to my favorite spot—the kitchen. It’s impeccably clean as it has always been. I do a quick scan of the refrigerators and toss a few items. There’s not much to take care of in here, so I make my way to my dad’s office.

  I brace myself before pushing through his door. The familiar scent of my dad’s spicy cologne assails my senses as I walk in. I expect to find him sitting behind his desk, but it’s empty. My eyes sting and my throat constricts, but still no tears. My chest tightens as I ease into his chair. I push the pain away as much as I can and focus on the task at hand.

  I check the numerous messages, which are mostly customers wanting to pay their condolences. I record a brief message on the phone service. “This is Savannah, and on behalf of the Thorton family, I would like to thank you for your concerns and well wishes. An announcement will be posted by next week with information as to when the businesses will reopen.” I pause before continuing to clear my throat and add, “My father loved these two places, and he held his customers in high regard. Thank you for being such a special part of his life.” I end there because emotions take over, and I just can’t say anything else.

  I lay my head down on his desk and mourn… I sit here tearless, but mourn just the same. I mourn for what we had—the camaraderie here in this very place. And I mourn for what we lost. I mourn not getting to know my dad better. And I mourn him not knowing me. It’s too late. He’s gone and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing I can do about it now. No second chance. No redo.

  After a while, I stand to leave, but a framed document hanging proudly on the back wall grabs my attention. I walk over and discover it to be my college acceptance letter. This surprises me. I didn’t realize my dad even had it. I always thought it was hidden in my junk somewhere. I pluck it off the wall and take it with me. After locking up the front, I head out back to visit the inlet. I notice the tide is nearing its end of lazily heading out for a while and will soon decide to come back. I pull an old rocking chair from the back porch, deposit it near the bank, and have a sit for a spell to wait on the tide’s return.

  I let the creek sounds lull me into a lethargic state while I rock to the tempo of the soothing breeze. I study the lively creek bed as it mysteriously comes into view. Hermit crabs are scampering about, looking for hidden treasure and nosy seagulls roam around to see what they can find for a snack.

  The bank is littered with the inlet’s natural waste. Empty shells of all sorts are scattered about—oyster, clam, crab, and shrimp shells. Fish bones are left discarded about as well. Eventually, the inlet’s rich mud will reclaim this natural waste. It’s amazing how this ecosystem works perfectly without any assistance from man. If we leave it alone and not abuse it, this inlet rewards abundantly. I have never seen a time it didn’t give generously in the form of fresh seafood. Crab traps have always been overly occupied, and treasure hunts for clams have always been plentiful. This major part of the ocean owns my heart just as much as the sandy beaches and rolling waves. Maybe the love for the inlet is a local thing or just my thing. I hold it dear and respect it greatly for always giving to my family so generously.

  A squawking sound draws my attention to a muddy part of the bank towards my left. I find a seagull waving his wings in the air, bickering with a crab that he is the rightful owner of a wayward minnow flopping in a murky puddle. The grouchy crab raises his snapping claw in challenge as he dances in front of the minnow. A snort of amusement slips out of me as the cowardly seagull admits defeat, flying away and leaving the crab to his meal.

  I watch for a while until the framed acceptance letter beckons my attention where it is resting in my lap. Dormant memories of those years echo sweetly through me, causing a wistful smile to pull at my lips. They were typical college years to an outsider, but they were of much significance to me. College is where I found my other saving grace. It’s where I met my Lucas.

  Lucas Ray Monroe is the best thing about life, even though I know I don’t deserve him one bit. I did absolutely nothing to earn him, yet he offered me his love like it was a divine ruling for him to do so.

  I met him in my freshman English class and felt drawn to him immediately. I was intrigued by this quiet guy who always seemed to be near me. He has always exuded a silent peace that just draws people in. Lucas is the kind of guy, that when he speaks, people hush up and take notice. He is one who doesn’t waste words. And man oh man, is he pretty to look at. He has an all-American look about him with playfully curly brown hair and an always clean-shaven boyish face. Those curls summon any sane female to want to test the luscious texture of them. We are clear on the fact I do not put myself in the category of sane, so my hands easily kept to themselves back then. The only wicked thing about him is his hazel eyes. Some days they gleam like pure gold, other days they can be a brilliant green, and creamy brown eyes sometimes make an appearance as well. His body is lean and just under six feet in height. Lucas has a confident glide to his walk that is never rushed, but always gets him where he’s going with plenty of time to spare. I haven’t figured out how to have his calming peace, but I really want to possess it too.

  We hung out at the beginning of freshman year and have never parted since. He sort of held a big brother position with me. I made some dumb freshman mistakes and he was always there to rescue me. I would call inebriated and he would quickly and quietly show up to drive me back to the dorms. Or I would totally blow off class and he would show up afterwards with a copy of his notes and hand them over without a word. He was a constant stabilizer, and I was so drawn to it.

  I know college is supposed to be a place to develop an education on a particular career, but I was completely clueless on what I wanted to be. I barely knew who I was, much less knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. College for me was an escape from my life so far. I went in without declaring a major. I honestly had no ambition to succeed in anything but staying away from home.

  Freshman year was definitely a learning curve for me. My dorm roommate Phoebe and I spent too much time partying and goofing off, and the evidence showed up swiftly with my poor grades. The slap in the face from reality didn’t reach me until that summer break. I was back home working at the restaurant. My dad showed up in late June with a note from the university. He handed the thick envelope over right before my lunch shift. Thinking it was my fall schedule information packet, I crammed it in my bag to check out later. I didn’t even open it until after a week had passed. When I did finally open it, I nearly exploded in panic. The note declared I was on academic probation and had only the fall semester to show drastic improvement or they would be revoking my scholarship. That was all it took to straighten my behind out. There was no way I would be going back to Bay Creek on a permanent basis, so I did what I had to do when I returned.

  I may have been motivated but my returning roommate, Phoebe, was not. She continued with the partying, and it near about made it impossible to study. Most nights our dorm was filled with a rowdy crowd, which normally led to sleepovers. After spending too many nights on the smelly couch in the common room, I knew I had to find an alternative living arrangement.

  I asked Lucas to help me find an apartment, and this led us to a discu
ssion about the spare room in his apartment.

  “That’s sweet, but I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” I brushed his offer off as gently as I could.

  “Why?” he asked that fall afternoon as we walked to the library. There was a bit of a nip in the air that day. I remember it being quite a refreshing change from the thick humidity that these southern parts are plagued by.

  “You’re a guy. I’m a girl,” I stated matter-of-fact. He eyed me with those curious eyes for a moment before shrugging his shoulders and continuing down the sidewalk.

  I knew he wouldn’t say anything else, but expected me to explain just the same. “I don’t trust you.” I remember blurting that out like an idiot. What I really meant to say was that I was scared to be that near him. I didn’t want him to mess up what we had with crossing that invisible line. Lucas nodded his head like that made perfect sense and dropped the subject.

  The following week, the campus was abuzz with fall break coming up. Not me. I was too busy panicking over not having my grades high enough. I had midterms to worry over, so Lucas agreed to let me study most afternoons at his quiet apartment while he went to the gym with his buddies. He was lucky. His parents provided him an off-campus two-bedroom apartment. Yes, I was totally jealous.

  When I arrived that afternoon, I found a note on the dining table. I opened it and a set of keys fell out. The room is yours. Take it. I installed a lock on the door. These are the only two keys to it. No one will bother you here. You can trust me. Take these keys as my promise. –Lucas.

  I picked the keys up and stared at them for a moment as I measured the weight of the decision in my hand. It was nearly an irresistible offer, but I just wasn’t sure. Trust issues wouldn’t let me, so I studied and left before he returned. I sat my own note on the table with the keys thanking him for the offer, but declining.