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

by Lowe, T. I.

  She rolls her eyes and looks out the window. “No… Greyson Stone.” She sounds somber on the subject. Maybe even remorseful for some reason.

  “Why not?”

  She looks back over me and shakes her head. “The guy just dropped off the side of the earth last year, and I can’t get ahold of him. His phone number no longer works, and the modeling agency won’t give out any personal information.” She shrugs. “It’s like he has disappeared in thin air.”

  “I hope he is okay,” I say.

  Julia’s perfectly manicured brows pinch together with her own concern as she nods her head in agreement. “He’s such a pain, but I really do miss him.”

  “I think you need to find him and hold on for dear life.” I nudge her in the side.

  “He’s too good for me. Besides, I can’t find him. Trust me. I’ve tried. I’ve lost contact with his parents, so I don’t even know how to get in touch with them anymore, either.” Julia gives me a sad smile before directing her gaze back out the window. She misses him—it’s obvious.

  Once we arrive back to the house, I slide my shoes back on and I give Julia a long hug before letting her escape. As I watch the long limo drive away, sadness seeps through me. Not knowing when I will see her again always leaves me feeling so empty. I want her back. I want that thorny bush severed at the roots.

  I reluctantly make my way into the crowded house. The buzz spreads through the group of mourners that I will be reopening the restaurant and market soon.

  “We’re all so glad that you are going to continue your dad’s legacy.” I hear this or something on the same lines of it for the rest of the day. I’m amazed at how many tell me that they always knew I would one day be the owner. I myself never had a clue. I’m still not so sure what in the heck I’m supposed to do.

  I find Lucas sitting on the porch swing with a plate mounded full of the southern specialty, chicken bog with a side of butterbeans. He is so handsome sitting there with his tie undone and his suit jacket draped behind him on the swing. He looks young and boyish with his curly hair dancing lightly in the breeze as he shovels large forkfuls of food into his mouth. I stand here for a leisurely spell to admire this treasure of a man I have been blessed with.

  “Nice looking plate,” I say as I eventually take a seat beside him.

  “It’s scrumptious,” he says as he shoves another forkful of the bog conglomeration of chicken, smoked sausage, rice, and secret ingredients into his mouth. “So, when exactly are you reopening?” Lucas asks this with such ease that I don’t know whether he is picking on me or being serious.

  “I’ve not made my mind up if I’m going to or not. I could kill John Paul for announcing that today. Now everyone is expecting me to do it.” I’m still fuming at my brother. I’m also very confused by it all.

  “I think your mind is already made up. You just don’t want to admit it yet.”

  I shoot Lucas a puzzled look over his remark. “You’ve always talked fondly of the two places. It seems like the main highlights of your childhood. I think it would be a shame if you pass this up.” He reaches over to tuck my long hair behind my ear so that he can get a good look at me. I meet his confident gaze with my uncertain one.

  “I totally agree,” says John Paul as he joins us on the porch. His plate is piled higher than Lucas’s with chicken bog. It is the first time I have seen him with an actual meal since I’ve arrived, and I am glad to see it.

  “Don’t you think you’ve said enough today?” I’m still pretty upset with his announcement at the funeral. “Why on earth did you do that to me?”

  “I’m not giving you a chance to run away from this. I figured if I announced it, then your stubborn butt would finally have to make a commitment on taking care of the restaurant and market. And before you start in with me, I had a long talk with Lucas. Dude said he could do most of his work right from here.” John Paul is more serious about this than anything else I can remember.

  “Since you’re so passionate about Dad’s businesses, why don’t you get off your lazy butt and run them yourself?” I stand to walk back into the house and John Paul gently grabs my arm.

  “Dad and I had talked a while back on how things should be taken care of, Savannah. He didn’t offer the businesses to me. He explained why and I agreed. You are better suited to do it. But I promise you this, if he would have offered it to me, I would have gladly agreed. Not because I want them, but because I would want to honor his last wishes.” He lets go of my arm and tosses his untouched plate of food in a garbage can next to the steps before jumping off the porch and stomping hastily down the road.

  I storm off after my brother so I can choke out an apology to him. I’m stubborn. These things don’t come easy to me.

  I catch up to him as we round the corner of the dirt road just before Bradley’s field. “Would you slow down? Good grief!” I yell at his back. “I have heels on!” I kick them off and continue towards him.

  “Why should I?” He spits the question out, but stops anyway. He rubs his hands over his face and sighs before yanking off his tie in aggravation.

  “Look. To be honest, I’m pretty ticked about that stunt you pulled today. John Paul, you didn’t even take into consideration how I would feel.” I stand my ground with my hands pressed firmly on my hips.

  I know I told you I’m going to apologize to him. Geez. Just give me a minute. I’m getting to it.

  John Paul circles around with his hands on his hips, as though he’s deciding his next course of action. He quickly decides to keep going in the direction of the field, taking long strides, and me stumbling behind him. He stops at the edge and gazes towards the spot. I do the same in an amicable silence and wait for him.

  “I want to dream…I want to live…I want to be happy…” he whispers out in hesitation. He glances in my direction before looking back over the field. “The only time since…” he pauses to clear his throat. I can detect the emotions thick in his words. “The only time since I lost him that I have had any amount of happiness is when I have a camera in my hands. Photography has become my dream, Savannah.” He sniffs back tears as he turns towards me and shakes his head in despair. “My heart isn’t in Dad’s dream. Never has been. I can’t do it the way he would have wanted it done.”

  I eye my big brother sternly. “There’s no way I’m going to take this on…” With this declaration, John Paul throws his hands up in defeat, mumbles out a few choice words, and turns to leave. I grab his arm and turn him back towards me. “Unless you agree to sneak me down to Scully’s Cove this very instant.”

  Confusion, then understanding, flickers over his face. He shakes his head vigorously in opposition. “He— um, Heck no! There’s a tropical storm brewing up off the coast. The waves are way too gnarly.” He crosses his arm and pinches his brows together to emphasize his protest.

  “Why else would I be making a stink about wanting to go today?”

  “Your girly butt can’t handle those big boys!”

  “Fine then. Nice seeing you. I’m going back to Rhode Island.” I turn around and head in the direction of the house.

  “You sure about this? I can take you next week when the weather is safer.” The reluctance oozes from his voice.

  “It’s either today or never. How bad you want your dream, big brother?” I know I have already won this battle so I rub it in a little bit more for good measure. I’m the little sister, and it’s my job. Right?

  “You sure?” he asks again, and I know he’s hoping I change my mind. He should know better. I’m stubborn—remember?

  “Shine yeah!” I say then let out a whoop with excitement. I’ve been itching for this chance since I arrived home again.

  ~ ~ ~

  We obviously cannot go back for our gear from the house. I mean, how can one successfully sneak a surfboard out without a house full of mourners not getting suspicious? So we end up borrowing bikes from the neighbor kids and haul tail to Scully’s Surf Shop. The surf shop is named after the famous
cove we are about to seek out. We run up a considerable tab with the needed supplies for our excursion.

  We swap our funeral clothes for bathing suits topped with wetsuits and hand over the tags to the cashier before selecting our boards. I find me a sweet seven-foot two-inch Surf Betty. She is iridescent white and decorated with brilliantly colored hibiscus flowers. She should be taming the waves off the coast of Hawaii, but I hope I do her justice against the tropical storm waves off this South Carolina coast.

  I go with a fun board but John Paul is all business with his selection. He rolls out with a manly six-foot-two-inch Perfection Fish. It’s gorgeous with flames of fire and ice licking up and down the deck. The edges are accented with intense black patterns—it’s tough.

  We slow down long enough on the beach to prep the boards with wax before running full force towards the awaiting ocean. Now this is the one place where I truly feel free and at home at the same time. I’m nearly breathless with anticipation.

  John Paul is faster at slicing through the water and I get caught inside, so he backpedals to help pull me out. We both duck dive under an unexpected wave and finally make it past the break.

  Adrenaline is coursing rapidly through my veins as I search out my first wave. Before I can advance, I feel John Paul grab my ankle, pulling me and my board around to face him.

  “You understand that nothing, and I do mean nothing, can happen to you on my watch,” he says sternly. I see the apprehension skirt along his face.

  I totally get why he says this. I will never understand the burden of guilt he carries for Bradley’s accident. “Look, the only thing that’s going to happen on your watch is me catching more waves than you, old man.” I laugh wickedly before pulling away from him and towards pure bliss. “Now let’s do this!” I squeal like an overexcited girl. Well, I guess that’s exactly what I am.

  I begin paddling towards a promise of a wave. With my hips firmly pressed to the deck, it’s only me and the ocean, and it’s hypnotizing. I leave all of the hurt and stress of the last several days on the shore and am ready to let the waves carry me away for a while.

  We spend the afternoon competing for the best wave, with me only wiping out a minimal amount of times, but my brother rides the water like it’s second nature to him. He is so fluid and graceful with this magnetic balance that I envy. I’m a bit rusty with my technique at first but eventually pick it back up just as you would with riding a bike.

  By the time we make it onto the shore, my legs are trembling with exhaustion. “This has been the most fun I have had in ages.” I giggle as I plop down on the beach. John Paul sits beside me, laughing. I’m pretty sure he’s laughing at me and not with me. I am acting rather silly, but I don’t care.

  We sit and admire the majestic beast of the sea for a bit before he asks, “You seriously staying?” He’s still not sure if he can be allowed to hope, I see. And my brother deserves the freedom of hope.

  I lean my head on his shoulder. “Yes, I’m seriously staying. I think maybe it’s finally time to come home.” I smile at the idea for the first time ever. I look out over the waves as the sun glistens off them, and I swear to you that big ole ocean smiles right back at me.

  “Tell me a Bradley and John Paul tall-tale,” I command as we sit on the beach to dry out some.

  John Paul seems to be deciding which one, so I patiently wait. A wicked grin slowly creeps on his face and when he starts speaking; boy does he serve up a doozy!

  “Me and my man went fishing down at the Lewis Pond early one morning. You know that place should be called a mini lake, it’s so massive. It hides all kinds of creatures, and you ain’t wanting to tangle with ‘em. We had just been there the day before and came close to finally snagging the king of that pond. That ole catfish had eluded fishermen for close to a decade. Mr. Lewis was pretty sure the monster was at least up to a hundred and fifty pounds and close to five feet long. Me and Bradley were eatin’ up to wrangle that sucker in. Problem was, that catfish kept snapping our blame lines. We threw in the towel and pedaled straight over to the docks and talked Mr. Doyle out of some of his highest tension fishing line. He swore it could haul in at least a five hundred pound shark, so we felt pretty confident we finally had what we needed. So we were back down to the pond early that morning. We went to the same shallow area we had played tag with the beast the day before and got down to business. We filled the big hook full of rotten chicken livers and went to it. That bait stunk so bad, we thought the flies were gonna haul us away.” John Paul mimics casting a fishing line and swatting at flies all at once.

  “We’d been out there not even ten minutes when Bradley’s pole came to life like a demon-possessed something.” John Paul jerks about as he fights with his invisible pole. “Before I knew it, the pole was being dragged into the pond with Bradley right along with it. That’s when I saw what he was playing tug-of-war with. And just let me tell you, it sure wasn’t any catfish. It was a blame gator, and that thing had no intentions of losing to a ginger dude. But that gator didn’t know that the ginger dude could get hot under the collar. It was Bradley’s lucky fishing pole and my boy had no plans on losing it to a greedy gator.” John Paul pauses to look at me. He shudders as though he’s recalling this memory, but I know him better than that. He’s really pausing so he can think up the rest of the story. I wait eagerly for him to continue to spin his tale.

  “So the next thing I know that gator is bucking around like a wild bull with that boy riding it for dear life while punching it. He was swearing like a furious sailor and looked like he had gone pure crazy! I’m a southern gentleman, so I’m not repeating it to your delicate ears.” He winks at me as he continues, causing me to laugh. My brother and the word gentleman do not go in the same sentence and we both know it. “It all happened so fast that I don’t even think the boy knew what he was actually doing.” John Paul is animating the story with his arms slinging around lively. He punches the sand to mimic Bradley beating on the gator.

  I’m laughing hysterically at the farfetched story. “What happened?”

  “I tossed a bag of the rotten chicken livers out in front of the ugly monster to distract it and it worked. The gator tired of playing tug of war, dropped the pole, and slithered over to the livers. Bradley didn’t lose his pole nor did the gator take a chunk of him, so we figured we won the battle. We gave that thing plenty of elbow room and went right back to fishing like nothing had happened.”

  I push my shoulder into his. “You know… If the whole photography thing doesn’t work out, you can always make it as a professional storyteller.” We both chuckle.

  Do I believe a word of this story? No. The reality was probably closer to them boys going fishing and saw a gator swim by during their trip. The picture John Paul painted of Bradley is crazy in itself. He was mocking how people paint redheads as such fireballs. Our cousin was no such thing. He was the mildest, most considerate person I had known. And unlike my brother, he didn’t use foul language. If this could have even remotely been close to a true story, John Paul would have played the lead role and not Bradley. I just know Bradley would have gotten such a kick out of the tale as much as I just did. We laugh until it turns into crying, and John Paul wraps his arm around me and we grieve for a spell. It’s something past due and feels cleansing to be doing it now after all of these years.

  With the sun setting, we eventually pedal our wet sticky selves back towards the house. We are loaded down with our funeral clothes hanging from the handlebars in plastic sacks from the surf shop. I hold on to my Betty for dear life in one hand while I try to steer my borrowed bike with the other.

  We have a hard time explaining to a group of eyebrow-raised mourners back at the house how we ended up on surfboards for the entire afternoon—especially since we had just buried our dad earlier this morning. We don’t get past the porch before we are caught. We try to explain it away, but just end up looking like two guilty kids. I keep glancing at a smirking Lucas. He is having a hard time keeping his
composure and has to hide a laugh behind a cough a few times during our confession.

  Jean steps on the porch to scold us. “Just what do you have to say for yourselves?” she asks. Her face is in a snarl.

  At this moment, John Paul’s stomach lets out a loud gurgle. “I’m starving,” is the only thing he has to say before he grabs my hand and leads me into the kitchen. We are still damp and sandy, but pay it no mind as we load our plates full of country cuisine. I even grab an extra plate and scoop up anything chocolate to accompany my meal. After we both chug our first glass of tea and refill it, we file back outside to the porch to enjoy our bounty of food. The porch seems like the only place where we both feel comfortable, so we sit in the swing and gorge while we explain the fundamentals of surfing to a curious Lucas. We promise a trip to the surf shop and ocean soon.

  Lucas shakes his head as he leads me to his Jeep soon after we finish eating. “I can’t believe I have a surfer chick for a wife,” he says as he chuckles quietly. He pulls me close for a kiss and whispers, “A sexy one at that.”

  The sun has long gone for the day, and a beautiful full moon has taken over for the night. The clouds have decided to take a hike too, and so a clear night sky glows softly.

  I sigh as we head up the wide, tiled steps of the beach house. It’s really a lovely bungalow and I have to admit I love it.

  “What?” Lucas asks as we push through the front door and into the impressive foyer. An intricate wrought iron chandelier cascades from the ceiling and greets us as we head into the kitchen.

  “I’m gonna really hate to leave this place,” I say as I run my hand over the blue Spanish tile on the kitchen counter.

  Lucas grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. He takes a sip and offers me some. I take a big gulp before handing it back.

  “We sign the paperwork on it tomorrow, milady,” Lucas says as he slightly bows and gives me a wink.

  “What?”

  He places the bottle on the counter and pulls me towards him. “The realtor is swinging by in the morning before I have to head back to Rhode Island. I’ve got some loose ends to work out there before we set out on this new venture.”