Return to Heartland: A Heartland Cove County Romance

by Jacquie Gee

  I’ve had dreams of being married there myself, over the years.

  I shake off the thought and keep moving. These heels are killing me.

  I pick up my gait, moving a little faster. It’s hot out here, and these bags aren’t getting lighter. I move steadily toward the bridge and home. The sun crests the treetops, pouring down over the bridge and my breath hitches. I suck in a quick breath of country air.

  Why does seeing the bridge from this angle always do that to me?

  Send me into that blood-rushing, sweaty-palms, gasping-for-breath kind-of-feeling. It’s like the sensual punch of a first kiss…

  Oh, yeah, that could be it.

  I lower my head, shrugging off the memory of Jebson Jefferies’ tongue down my throat. My very first kiss right there on the bridge, like so many other people who live around here.

  Our very last one, too.

  Gobs, will you stop it!

  I block the next thought, pushing through it. Jebson Jefferies has no place in this moment, he has no place in my head! I don’t care if he proposed to me on the ninth plank of the widow's walk, that’s all long over now.

  Gobs, I hate this place.

  Readjusting my bag on my shoulder, I leave the path and cross over the clay road onto the paved one that leads to the center of town. Peering through a break in the trees, I spot the gift shop looming in the distance, cozied up next to the bridge, its back to the river, adjacent to the south entrance to the bridge. Its shellacked cedar-shingled roof shimmers in the low, leaf-splashed light.

  In my mind, I’m already envisioning shelves stacked high with lobster memorabilia, stuffed moose, bobble-head Mountie dolls, and row upon row of maple leaf shaped bottles of maple syrup.

  Across the road, is Sal’s Burgers. And next to that, sits the stately Victorian where I was raised. My father’s heritage home. Right across from the souvenir shop and the bridge that across from that also belongs to us, and that my mother still runs, though we’ve stopped charging admission to cross the bridge. Across from our store, at the footing of the bridge sits Fenton’s Fry Truck. The best french fries served east of New York City. Possibly anywhere.

  Yep, I’m home.

  My mouth waters for poutine. I trip in a pothole and a stone lodges in my opened-toed heels. I stop to dig it out. Seems heels weren’t the best choice for this adventure. I of all people, should have known better.

  When at last I get the stone out, I bend my arm and hurl it into the river with a grunt. The stone skips, then plonks, disappearing below the waterline. I dust off my hands. "I’ve still got it." I used to be the stone skipping champ around these parts. You can take the girl out of Heartland Cove, I toss my purse back over my shoulder and pick up my bags, but you can't take the Heartland Cove out of the girl.

  The river is wide at this end, weaving slowly through the town out to the Bay, except for the part around the bridge where it becomes unnaturally deep and picks up speed, creating a small waterfall beneath it and stretch of rapids with a wicked undertow. Father told me it is like that because long ago, someone had the daft idea to dredge the river, and the result was the creation of deadly whirlpools. The water at that point has always been the most dangerous, ducking and weaving through an obstacle course of the sharpest jagged rocks over the drop, and then the river drifts off on the other side, calm again.

  Its sort of got a Jekyll and Hyde kind of thing going on, when it comes to that part of the river, just beneath the bridge. The bridge has always had a ‘good side/bad side’ to it. On the bad side, there’s rushing rapids and bottomless whirlpools; on the good side, a calm flowing river, though unnaturally deep.

  It’s as if God himself placed each and every one of those boulders in an effort to stop the river from flowing, my dad used to say, despite his knowing about the dredging.

  Everyone’s big on God in these parts. Gives ’em someone to blame when things go wrong. Which something does, every day.

  Too much rain. Must be God’s work.

  Not enough rain. God’s holding back his blessings.

  The right amount of rain, and God works in mysterious ways!

  Someone dies unexpectedly, and it’s God’s will.

  When my father died, that’s what they said. And I couldn’t stand it anymore. I thought, if God wills such things on little children, then why would anybody bother to worship him?

  I gaze again at the river, remembering how much Dad loved it. Bowing my head, I battle back tears, and I press on into town, blaming the sun in my eyes for my ridiculousness, fishing my sunglasses out of my bag to hide the evidence.

  Gobs, Becca, Dad’s been dead for years.

  Chapter 5

  I try to remember the river's real name. I really should start using it now that I'm an adult… you know, just in case some hot tourist guy shows up in the Cove asking questions.

  Like that’s gonna happen.

  “Rebecca?” An old woman’s voice cuts into my thoughts.

  I crank my head around. The use of ‘Rebecca’ to address me is a dead giveaway that it’s someone from here who hasn’t seen me in a number of years. I dropped the ‘Re’ and became ‘Becca’ over ten years ago.

  A dirty Ford pickup with rusty fenders pulls up next to me, then idles as we chat. Its tailpipe chokes and sputters. “Mrs. Peterson?” I bring a hand to my squinting eyes, making her out through the glare of the sun. “And Mr. Peterson.” I lean, catching a glimpse of him tucked in behind the wheel. He nods. “Fancy meeting you two out here, on this lonely back road.” The only road into town.

  “Martha and Frank,” the woman corrects me. “You can drop the formalities now that you’re grown.” She gives me the once-over. “And my, haven’t you.” She adjusts her purse in her lap and smiles warmly at me. Mrs. Peterson isn’t an anti-fan like Vera Williams is, but she's never been a big fan of mine either. “We heard you were out here walking along on this old dusty road in the heat, and I told Frank, ‘Well, we can’t have that!’ Didn’t I, Frank?”

  Frank grunts.

  “Let me guess. Vera Williams.” Wow, didn’t take long for that news to travel, did it?

  “Oh, never mind that woman.” Martha scowls, waving her away. She leans her meaty frame out the truck’s window and sports a hearty grin. “She’s nothing but wind anyway. Besides, we can’t have kin walking home carrying her suitcases, now can we?”

  “Thanks for thinking of me, but I’m not actually kin.” That’s all I need, to ride into town with the Petersons asking questions I can’t answer, no matter how innocent they are.

  “Who are you kiddin’?” Martha snorts. “Everyone’s kin who’s from the Maritimes, you know that. Now, get in this truck right now, little missy.” She pats the truck’s side.

  “It’s all right, really.” I think quickly. “I… can use the exercise.”

  “Oh, go on, you’re thin as a rail. Isn’t she thin, Frank?” She turns to him.

  Frank glances my way. “Looks like you ain’t et in days,” he mumbles disinterestedly around the obstruction of the toothpick in his mouth.

  “There. It’s settled. You’re coming with us.”

  “No! I mean. No thank you, really. I’m enjoying the scenery.” Her eyes focus on the sweat beading on my brow. I reach up quickly and swipe it away.

  “Why, what would the neighbors think,” she tuts. “Us trawling past, leaving Laura’s little Rebecca-Pooh out here in this heat. We won’t have it. We just won’t have it.”

  “Becca,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Becca. I go by Becca now.”

  “You do?” Mrs. Peterson hooks a brow. “Does your mother know?”

  I nod.

  “Well.” She flops back in her seat, her voice lilting. “You’ll always be little Rebecca-Pooh to me.”

  Wonderful. “No, I—”

  “Nonsense.” Martha's voice is curt. “We insist. Don’t we, Frank?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Frank nods, though he’s looking the other way.


  “Now get in.” Martha jerks her head.

  If there’s one thing you don’t want to do, it’s offend another Maritimer by not accepting their hospitality. An offer of a ride means much more than just a ride. If they say to get in, you get in, or you insult them. Mr. and Mrs. Peterson are no exception. As much as I’d like to walk the rest of the way to town on my own, she is the one who phoned to let me know about Mother. I owe her this much in return. I should be thankful it was Mrs. Peterson and not Vera Williams.

  I wonder how that happened.

  “Oh, all right.” I give in and head toward the truck. Martha shifts in her seat, and for a moment I think she’s going to move over for me, but she doesn’t. Instead, she points to the truck’s bed. “Hop on.” She grins. “Tailgate’s down.”

  Of course, it is. My gaze travels to the rear of the truck, where the tailgate is, in fact, down. I forgot. I am in the Maritimes.

  “Maritime tradition,” Martha and Frank chirp together.

  “Maritime tradition,” I repeat.

  Begrudgingly, I re-shoulder my bags and head toward the truck, circling the rear of the pick-up, where I oooOOoooo and eeee crawling up onto the tailgate, fighting all the while to keep my miniskirt in place, so I don't completely burn the underside of my thighs on the steaming metal. I situate myself, and my luggage, and give Frank the high sign, hugging my purse to my chest as he steps on the gaz—as everyone around here calls it.

  The Petersons live next door to my mom, as next door as things get out here in the sticks, which means, as her closest neighbor they live about three doors down on the left, three blocks removed. In other words, there’s about a half mile between them, so in a weird Maritime way, I guess Martha’s right, we are sort of related.

  We bump up Heartbeat Lane toward the center of Heartbeat Cove, my own heartbeat jumping every time Frank hits a pothole. I try to relax and take in the scenery, as I death-grip the sides of the truck bed.

  There’s no place like home, right?

  Chapter 6

  When at last we stop for the four corners in the center of town—the only light in all the town—I decide to make my exit. I slide from the tailgate, leaving a layer of melted skin behind. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson.” I slap the side of the truck bed.

  “Wait!” Martha shouts, her head whipping around. “We can take you the whole way home.”

  “Thanks, but I think I can walk from here.” I glance up at the Victorian peeking over the top of the truck cab, not a stone’s throw away, across the street. “Besides, I think I’ll swing by Aunt Penny’s first.”

  “You’re sure? ’Cause it’s no trouble,” Martha presses, her plump cheeks dimpling, she’s smiling so hard. Her voice sounds tinged with panic. “Ain’t no bother to take you right on up to the door.”

  “No thanks,” I say. “Really, I’m good.”

  “You’re sure, now?”

  “She said she was sure, Martha.” Frank’s head jerks around.

  “Well, I’m just making sure.”

  “For Christ sakes, Martha, it’s only a matter of fifty feet,” he snarls.

  What’s going on here? Why all the fuss?

  Frank leans over around Martha, plump belly squashed up tight to the steering wheel. “Say hi to your mama for us, will yuh?” He smiles.

  “Will do,” I say, waving them off.

  “For goodness sakes, Frank, I was just trying to be hospitable!” Martha chews at Frank as they pull away.

  “No, you weren’t.” Frank shifts it into second gear. “You’s just tryin’ to be nosey, is all. Just like all the rest of the cackling hens in town,” Frank bites back as they pull away.

  “Don’t you dare call me a hen, Frank Peterson!”

  The muffled sound of their argument fades away, doused in the sputtering cough of their tailpipe. I stand on the corner, watching Martha flail a plump arm out the open window, making her point.

  Gotta love the acoustics of a small town.

  Waving road dust from my face, I wait for the truck to completely clear, my eyes settling on the house up about a block and across the road. My house. My father’s family’s century home. My childhood—

  “What the—”

  I raise a hand to my eyes and scowl. What the hey is that on my front porch?

  Mounted above the intricately-crafted, pinwheel-patterned gingerbread porch trim, perched atop the slate-shingled roof, sits a completely out of place, trashy-looking, neon green sign. Green Grub, it flashes in twisted lime fluorescent tube lights.

  On the tacky scale of one to ten, it rates a fourteen.

  What the everlasting fire is a Green Grub? And what’s it doing topping the porch of my beloved home?

  I peer through the front window, spotting tables—tables? —where my mother’s sofa should be? Tables draped in green and white gingham cloths with Vases filled with flowers sitting on top.

  A huge chalkboard boasting drink selections, hangs on the wall at the back of the room, illuminated by my Mom’s prized crystal chandelier. What the perdition? I trudge toward the house, fury fueling my steps. I pop up them and press my nose to the front window.

  There’s a counter where my mom’s Victorian settee used to be, and a cash register in place of her sideboard. Red, button-topped, metal-based, twirly-style stools, like those in old 50’s diners, dot the perimeter of what is now, by the looks of things, a bar in the rear of the room. A bar? I gasp, bending my head to be sure. Who on earth? —

  A car pulls in the drive. An old boat of a Buick, with a woman inside, who is not Mom.

  I race to the side of the porch, stretch my neck and stare out back. The yard is now a car park.

  “My swing? Where is my swing?” I stagger backward, gasping, clutching my chest in my hand. “What is happening here? What’s going on? Where is Mom? And who was that woman?” I turn and charge for the door.

  Someone’s got some explaining to do.

  And explain they will!

  Chapter 7

  Dropping my bags, I press my hands to the sides of my face and peer in through the stained-glass in the door. The same stained-glass that has graced the door of my family's home for over a century now. Homestead. Not a—whatever this Green Grub thing is supposed to be.

  Is that a cappuccino maker, I see? Mom doesn’t own a cappuccino maker.

  I scan the room, my vision slightly skewed because over peering through the stained-glass.

  No sign of Mom anywhere.

  I don’t get it. Wouldn’t she have told me if she’d moved house? My conversation with Mrs. Peterson comes to mind. I whirl around, unnerved, staring out at the town. They didn’t have her put away, or something, did they? Surely to goodness, Aunt Penny would have called if that happened. My blood threads with panic. No, she’s here. She’s got to be here.

  Unless… unless this is how they were planning to tell me. Maybe that’s why they summoned me here. To break the news. My mouth goes dry.

  Nonsense, they wouldn’t be that callous.

  I run sweaty palms down the sides of my skirt. Whatever’s happened, I’m gonna find out.

  I pick up my bags and charge on through the door— the heavy, ornately carved Victorian wood door of the home where I was raised, and where my mother still lives, according to the address on her mail. Or at least last Christmas. The door slams shut behind me, giving my spine a jolt.

  Customer warning bells tinkle overhead that look suspiciously like the ones from my Mom’s store across the way.

  “Oh, hey… hi!” A head pops up from behind a serving counter. A head attached to a very a nice-looking face, and a neck I sense I should be throttling. I repeat, there is a freaking bar-slash-serving-counter sitting smack dab in the middle of my mother’s formal parlor! ! And I suspect he’s the culprit that put it there. “Can I help you?” he says, and his eyes sparkle—a stunning shade of emerald green, rimmed by a thick set of dark eyelashes. Like that improves things. They’re set behind a sexy set of lenses. Clearly, he
’s one of those guys who looks even better with glasses on. You know, the kind. Where the glasses just add to the already amazing features of his face. He’s sexy enough on his own, but the glasses take it over the top. Not that any of that matters right now. Neither does the fact that he has a killer accent—which, if my language sense serves me, I believe is Australian. Though it could be South African. No, definitely Australian. Again, not that it matters.

  “Oh, jeez, where are my manners.” All six-feet whatever of him shoots forward, yanking an arborite chair out from under an arborite table, offering me a place to sit.

  I glare down at the atrocity gracing my Mother’s parlor, then scowl up. “Who are you? Why are you here?” Is that a ketchup stain on the brim of his hat?

  “Hello to you too,” he says.

  “Where is she?” I look around, darting doorway to doorway.

  He squints. “I’m sorry, were you supposed to meet someone?” He screws up his face.

  “No, I’m not meeting someone here. I live here. Lived here. Now, where is she?” I drop my bags and kick off my shoes—cause, you know, habit.

  “Are you always this friendly when you meet someone?” The stranger glares.

  “Only when I arrive home to find a dazed-looking cook standing in my Mom’s formal living room.”