Coming Home

by Shirlee Busbee

  Bypassing the broad circular driveway in front of the house, she took the narrow offshoot that angled to the back. A minute later she was bounding up the wide steps to the screened-in veranda at the rear of the house.

  Walking through the spacious wash/mud room, she entered the big country kitchen her mom had insisted upon remodeling about ten years ago. No one had blamed her—the last time it had been done had been sometime in the fifties or sixties and the whole family had been pretty sick of the gold and avocado color scheme—especially the avocado linoleum on the floor.

  Roxanne automatically glanced toward the huge family room that opened off the kitchen—a favorite gathering place. It was a sunny, casually elegant room with an impressive rock-fronted fireplace in one corner. These days it sported a brass and bronze enameled fireplace insert and with the wide glass front, it was as cheery and inviting as a regular fireplace. The room was filled with windows and two pairs of French doorsopened onto both the screened-in veranda at the rear, and the veranda on the south. Her mother, Helen, and younger sister, Ilka, were sitting there, her mom in a comfortable recliner done in a vibrant shade of striped wine-colored velvet and her sister on a pillow-backed couch covered in teal leather. They were both reading and looked up when the back door slammed shut.

  “Oh, good, you're home,” her mother said, smiling. “I didn't know whether to plan on you being here for dinner tonight or not.”

  At sixty-two years of age, Helen Ballinger was still a beautiful woman. Thanks to excellent genes, she easily looked a decade younger and even possibly younger than that—on a good day, her children teased her. It helped that her hair had been a lovely ash blond in her youth and had just grown lighter as she had aged until it was a gorgeous shade of champagne blond. Roxanne had never seen her wear it in any other style than the one she currently wore, a short bouncy pageboy. As always, she looked elegant, even in blue jeans and a sapphire-blue shirt that deepened the hue of her stunning silvery-blue eyes.

  Ilka looked like her mother's twin. She had the same ash-fair hair and cool blue eyes. Unlike Ilka, Roxanne, Sloan, and the others took after the Ballinger side of the family, having inherited from their father tall, lean bodies, black hair, and amber-gold eyes. Like her mother whom she so resembled, Ilka was small, delicate, and ethereal, and most people unfamiliar with the family couldn't believe Ilka was related to the oth ers … until they met Helen. There were almost five years between Roxanne and Ilka and they had never been particularly close. Roxanne had left home just as Ilka was entering her teens and while they had some fond childhood memories of each other, they weren't exactly easy with one another as adults. Their lives, so far, had been very different and it had always been difficult to find common ground. Roxanne was hoping that now that she would be living in Oak Valley she could get to know all of her siblings better, including Ilka. Ilka would turn thirty-three in October, and Roxanne figured if they were ever going to forge some bonds, it would be now, since age wasn't an issue anymore—they were all adults. She hoped. Sometimes she worried about herself and if her actions lately were anything to go by, she had reason to be worried.

  Flopping down in a matching chair to her mother's, Roxanne said, “Yep, I'm home.” She laughed ruefully. “Something I find hard to believe.” “Why?” asked Ilka, looking up from the book she'd been reading. “You've been home before—several times.”

  Roxanne shrugged. “Yeah, I know, it's just that this time is different, I'm home for good. And if you'd asked where I would spend the rest of my life, even two years ago, I'd have sworn it would be anyplace but Oak Valley.”

  “Oak Valley's not so bad,” Ilka said defensively. “There're a lot of people, even wealthy sophisticated people, who wouldn't live anywhere else. They adore the valley—even its isolation and remoteness. Not everybody considers it the back of beyond, you know.”

  “Hey, I'm not arguing with you, I wouldn't be here if I didn't love the place, too, I'm just saying that life's funny, the twists and turns it takes.”

  Ilka's face closed down. “Yes, it is,” she said flatly, her eyes dropping to her book.

  Oh, damn, Roxanne thought, I've put my foot in it again. She sighed and glancing across at her mother made a face. Her mother looked sympathetic and shrugged.

  The thing about Ilka, Roxanne reflected, was that it was so difficult to remember that at one time, Ilka had been the real rebel in the family—with tragic and disastrous results. It wasn't that Roxanne didn't think that what had happened to Ilka was a terrible, horrible tragedy, it was just that it had happened over a decade ago, almost fourteen years ago, and Ilka acted, sometimes, like it had just happened a year ago. Losing your children, your babies, wasn't something a person would ever forget, she didn't blame Ilka for mourning their loss, but she thought that it was time Ilka quit punishing the rest of them for innocent remarks. Besides, if Ilka had followed the advice everyone had given her and listened to the pleas of her parents and had left the son of a bitch the first time he'd raised a hand to her, there would have been no tragedy. Better yet, Roxanne thought grimly, never married the bastard, then none of it would have happened. But then, who was she to make judgments, she thought glumly, God knew her life hadn't always been something to brag about. But still, Ilka should never have married Delmer Chavez. Her mouth tightened. Never. Ilka's husband, his whole family in fact, had been known for ugly tempers, heavy drinking, and drug use—they were considered shiftless layabouts by most residents of the valley and were prone to stealing for a living rather than working. But had Ilka listened to her worried, frantic parents? Her friends? Nope. She had horrified everyone by running away with Delmer and marrying him on her eighteenth birthday in Reno, Nevada.

  It wasn't enough, Roxanne reflected sourly, that Delmer had brutalized Ilka during two years of marriage, but when she had gathered her tattered courage to tell him she was leaving him, he'd extracted a horrifying revenge. On that terrible October night, high on drugs, at gunpoint, he'd loaded the little family into his truck and roared down the twisting Oak Valley road. Despite Ilka's tears and pleas, ten terrifying miles later, he had plunged over the road and plowed into a tree. Ilka, though badly injured, had been the only survivor; killed in the crash had been her threemonth-old daughter and fourteen-month-old son. Just twenty years old, she had lost her husband and her two infants.

  The community had been horrified and torn between fury at Delmer and grief at the terrible, senseless loss of the two innocent lives. As the lone survivor Ilka became the focal point of the valley's emotionsand attention; even strangers approached her to express their sorrow at the tragedy that had overtaken her. Hardly anyone mentioned Delmer and only his family and friends grieved over his death.

  It wasn't, Roxanne admitted, as she shot Ilka a considering look from beneath her lashes, that she didn't feel wretched about what had happened—her heart still ached for her sister, but she wished that Ilka would snap out of it and stop being so sensitive and prickly. Of course, part of the problem was that they all tended to pretend it hadn't happened, all of them trying to ignore the fact that Ilka had been married to a creep who had beat her and kept her pregnant. Roxanne grimaced. She could be compassionate forever about the babies, Bram and tiny Ruby, but she found it hard to be sympathetic about the choice Ilka had made to marry a guy from one of the worst families in the valley—a family known for violence and drugs. Jesus! Delmer Chavez. What had Ilka been thinking of? Then she sighed. There she went again, judging—and who was she to talk after what had happened between her and Jeb Delaney? She scowled. Hormones, she decided, could be blamed for a lot of ills in the world.

  As if becoming conscious of Roxanne's stare, Ilka looked up. “What?” she asked.

  “Uh, nothing,” Roxanne answered. “Just thinking.”

  “I know what you're thinking,” Ilka snapped. “You're thinking, 'Oh, poor Ilka. She's being sensitive again.' I'm right, aren't I?”

  Roxanne scratched her chin, trying to decide whether to be honest or av
oid a confrontation. If she and Ilka were ever going to find common ground the first thing they had to do was to stop pussyfooting around each other. “Yeah, you're right. I was.”

  Ilka stood up. “Well, thank you very much. You try losing everything you love and see how you cope with it.”

  Her chin set, shoulders stiff, Ilka stalked from the room.

  Feeling like a heel, Roxanne looked at her mother and muttered, “I was only being honest.”

  Helen sighed. “Don't worry about it, honey—and I think you did the right thing. It's not your fault she's so touchy.” She looked unhappy. “It's this time of year. Most of the time, she deals pretty well with life, but as October approaches. …”

  Roxanne was stricken. “Oh, Jesus! I forgot. It's only a couple weeks until. …” She swallowed. “Me and my big mouth.” She bounded to her feet. “Listen, I'm going to go talk to her. Try to smooth things over.”

  “Be careful and don't feel bad if she rebuffs your overtures. Mostly she'll just brood in her room for a few hours and then come out and act as if nothing happened.” Helen made a face. “And your father and I go along with it—we know we shouldn't, but there are times that it just seems simpler than calling her to account.”

  The back door slammed and they both looked in that direction. A big, burly man sauntered through the kitchen and seeing Helen and Roxanne in the familyroom, halted in his tracks, grinned, and clutched his heart. “Man, I don't know if I can take the sight of so much beauty under my own roof,” Mark Ballinger said. “And how is my favorite wife and favorite famous daughter.”

  Both Roxanne and Helen rolled their eyes.

  “Since Mom's your only wife, and at present I'm your only famous daughter, that compliment doesn't hold the punch it could,” Roxanne murmured, her eyes dancing.

  After walking into the family room and dropping a kiss on his wife's cheek, he straightened up and said, “Well, there is that. I keep forgetting. Age you know. Old-timer's disease, I can feel it coming on.”

  What a hoot, Roxanne thought, Dad still had a mind like a steel trap and you only needed to try to pull a fast one on him to discover it. Though he had just turned sixty-five, Roxanne still considered him one of the handsomest men she had ever known. Tall, like most of the Ballingers, he was a brawny man, his shoulders wide, his chest deep, and his arms strong as an oak limb—a large oak limb. How well did she remember giggling and screaming with laughter as he had swung her up into those powerful arms when she'd been a child and how gently those arms had comforted her when she'd awakened from a nightmare. He'd been, she realized, a great dad. Tough exterior, marshmallow inside—after coolly pulling out her first tooth, at her insistence, he'd cried right along with her when she discovered that it hurt.

  Mark Ballinger was not traditionally handsome, his face too craggy, his jaw and chin stubborn, and his mouth too wide, and yet the only word that really applied was “handsome.” His sun-bronzed face reflected years of being outdoors, several little creases radiating out from the corners of his dazzling amber-gold eyes, and there were pronounced laugh lines near his mouth. The still-thick black hair now sported several strands of silver in their depths, his temples almost totally silver, but Roxanne thought that age had only added to his attractiveness.

  “Old-timer's disease? Who are you trying to kid?” Roxanne asked.

  “Obviously not you,” he replied. Sitting down on the couch that Ilka had just vacated, he stretched his booted feet out in front of him. Sending Roxanne a sleepy look he murmured, “You know it'd be just about perfect if someone would bring me a tall icy glass filled with some of that Ruby tangerine juice your mom keeps in the refrigerator.”

  Chuckling, Roxanne turned to do just that, calling over her shoulder, “Do you want some, Mom?” “Yes, I would.”

  Roxanne fixed her parents their drinks and after handing them tall blue glasses, she said, “Guess I better go take care of things.”

  “What things?” asked Mark.

  Helen sighed. “Ilka. She took offense at something Roxanne said in all innocence. You know how she gets.”

  Mark looked down at his drink. “Yes,” he said in a soft voice, “I know.” He glanced over at his wife. “And you know what? Even though it'll be fourteen years, I'd still like to wipe up the ground with that son of a bitch.”

  “Me too,” said Roxanne, her hands unconsciously clenching into fists. Then she relaxed and added, “But right now, I think I'd better go make peace with Ilka.”

  Her dad nodded and she left, heading in the direction Ilka had taken.

  All of the bedrooms were situated on the second floor and Roxanne quickly made her way up the handsome sweeping staircase that led to the upper floor. The stairs ended in the middle of a wide hallway lined with a carved mahogany railing that overlooked the spacious entry hall below. Decades before, the second story had been extensively remodeled and where once the house had boasted over a dozen bedrooms, dressing rooms, some with sitting rooms, the upper floor now only held six bedrooms, all of them with large walk-in closets, sitting rooms, and private baths.

  There had been no room sharing for the Ballinger kids, they'd each lorded over their own little kingdoms and Roxanne remembered fondly slumber parties with her friends. Loaded down with goodies from the well-stocked refrigerator and cupboards, eight or ten teenage girls had scampered upstairs and into her rooms, locking the door behind them to spend the night giggling and talking about school, boys, clothes, boys and boys.

  As the children had grown and left home, the rooms became guest rooms; Mark had taken Sloan's old rooms and turned them into a neat little gym, even installing a sauna. The others had been updated with carpets, wallpaper, and paint but when she came to visit, Roxanne used what had been her old room. Of course, Ilka still occupied the set of rooms she had always had—except for her brief marriage.

  Stopping before the door to Ilka's rooms, Roxanne took a deep breath. Be nice. Be compassionate, she told herself. Don't get impatient. This is your sister. The sister you want to be friends with.

  Her knock was met with silence. She waited, then knocked again, harder. She was just preparing to give the door a third and more determined rap when it was flung open. Her expression sulky and unhappy, her face and eyes showing signs of tears, Ilka stood there.

  “What do you want?” Ilka demanded, angrily wiping away a tear that streaked down her cheek.

  She looked so small and woeful that Roxanne's heart melted. “Oh, honey, I just wanted to say that I was sorry. I didn't mean to be so unfeeling.”

  Ilka hiccuped back a sob. “Don't apologize,” she said thickly. “I was being a bitch—as usual.” She looked up at Roxanne and her beautiful eyes filled with tears. “I don't know what's wrong with me—other people cope, but I just can't seem. …” She wiped her nose. “I just need some time alone. I'll be OK.”

  “Probably,” Roxanne said stoutly, “but this timeyou don't have to be alone—big sis is here.” And having said that, she put her arms around Ilka's slender shoulders and pulled her close.

  Roxanne's touch unleashed a flood and Ilka sobbed into her shoulder as if her heart would break. Roxanne felt helpless, she wasn't good with dealing with this kind of wound. She patted Ilka's back and feeling useless muttered, “There, there, honey, don't cry.”

  To her amazement it seemed to help and a moment later Ilka stepped away, wiping her face with both hands. “Come on in—I don't want Mom or Dad to see me like this—it makes them feel terrible and they start blaming themselves.”

  Roxanne followed her across the room and joined her on the white, yellow, and black plaid sofa that had been placed near one of the windows that opened onto the upper veranda. The room was cozy, the walls painted a soft yellow, wooden shades adorned the windows, and a thick-piled rust-colored rug covered the floor; a pair of French doors led to the veranda.

  Seated on the couch beside Ilka, Roxanne held her sister's hand and said, “I'd forgotten how close it is to the date that. …” The words f
roze in her mouth, the horror of what had happened roiling over her.

  Ilka sniffed, wiped her nose again, and said, “I know. Everybody does and I don't blame them. I wish I could forget it too.” Her eyes filled again and fighting back tears she choked out, “But if I did, it would mean forgetting my babies.” Her voice hardened. “As for him … I pray every night that he burns in the deepest pit in hell.”

  Roxanne perked up. Dealing with tragedy wasn't her best suit, but cursing and trashing men … Oh, yeah. She could do that. “Especially his balls,” she blurted. “Men hate anything happening to their balls.”

  Ilka's tears stopped. She looked at Roxanne, her eyes widening. “You know, I never thought of that. What an excellent idea! His balls. Burning in hell. For eternity.”

  They stared at each other. Then smiled and a moment later they were laughing.

  “Oh, Roxy,” Ilka exclaimed. “I am glad you're home. I wasn't sure how I'd feel about it, having you around all the time, but I think maybe I'm going to like it.”

  “Don't get carried away,” Roxanne said. “It's going to be a lot of adjustment for all of us.” She wrinkled her nose. “Really an adjustment for me—I'm used to being alone and on my own. It's going to be strange falling all over family all the time.” She cast a glance at Ilka. “How do you stand it? I mean still living at home and. …” She made a face. “Put my foot in it again, didn't I?”

  “Not really,” Ilka said slowly. “It's an honest question. And I guess the answer is that I never considered doing anything else. A-a-after the … a-a-accident, when I first got out of the hospital there was no place else for me to go.” Her voice grew bitter. “His family certainly wanted nothing to do with me. I still neededsome nursing and Mom and Dad were right there. Once I got well. …” She hesitated. “Once I recovered it just seemed easier to stay right here.”