Honeysuckle Love

by S. Walden

  Honeysuckle Love

  a novel

  S. Walden

  Penny Press

  Honeysuckle Love

  Copyright 2012, S. Walden

  Publisher: Penny Press

  This work and all rights of the author S. Walden to this work are protected under U.S. copyright law, Title 17 of the United States Code. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. This ebook may not be circulated in any format, resold, or given away. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Cover design by Alfred Porter.

  alfredporter@gmail.com

  Cover photograph by Gian Paolo Dessolis

  PH Gian Paolo Dessolis Jeides Foto

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real persons, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  To my husband, Aidan, who watches me from the corner of his eye, just in case.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Out of a desolate source, love leaps upon its course. ~ W.B. Yeats

  Clara sat at the kitchen table that afternoon running her eyes over the papers. She had them spread out, covering every inch of the worn Formica table top, somewhat organized as she tried to make sense of each bill. And how she would pay them. There were several notices of unpaid electric bills. That was her first concern. She picked one up and read it again out loud: “This is your final notice. A payment of $332.79 is due no later than September 15 to avoid termination of service.”

  She felt the dull pains of panic ripple through her chest—butterfly feelings of dread—and breathed deeply. Today was the twelfth. Three days before her house stopped humming with the sounds of running dryer, whirling fan, buzzing light bulb. She placed the notice back on the table and picked up another. She read to herself:

  Dear Mrs. Greenwich:

  Our documents show that you are not up-to-date on your gas bill totaling $126.12. These charges include late fees. We have tried several times to reach you and have handed over the matter to Collections. You must make a payment on or before September 7 to avoid your gas service being terminated. Please contact us with questions or concerns.

  Sincerely,

  The Blue Flame Gas Co.

  Clara dropped the letter on the table and moved to the stove. September 7. Five days ago. But she had used the stove the previous night. The gas was connected.

  She turned the dial to one of the burners and listened for the familiar click click that ushers the burst of low blue flame. Click click click but no flame. Her heart dropped as she turned the dial to OFF and then back to START. Click click click . . . burst! She watched the flames shoot up, licking the burner insert hungrily. Clara stared at the flames reluctant to turn the burner off for fear that she would not see them again. She did turn it off when she realized she was wasting gas.

  She returned to the table and picked up a sealed envelope. It was the only unopened envelope she found amidst the stacks of unpaid bills, and she wondered why her mother never opened it. Clara immediately feared the worst, an amount she couldn’t hope to pay off with the money she made working at a clothing store. The envelope was stamped Baltimore County State Department of Assessment and Taxation. Clara didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded official and menacing. And she knew what a tax was. Nothing good. She looked closely at the postmarked date: May 22. My God, she thought turning the envelope over and running a shaky finger under the flap.

  She pulled out a letter of multiple pages and unfolded it carefully. She didn’t bother to read the writing, only scanning hurriedly over the first page for a number. There was no number. She flipped the first page over. No number. She searched the second page until her eyes fell on the big, bold ink at the bottom: $1523.63. Clara let out a strangled cry. She covered her mouth instinctively, turning to the hallway. She waited for her sister to emerge from her bedroom. But no one came. Beatrice did not hear.

  Her eyes went back to the letter. This time she read it, fast and impatiently. Her mouth moved forming the silent words. Property tax. Two payments. One due July 1! She panicked as she continued reading. Payment may be made without interest on or before September 30 . . . Second installment is due December 1 but may be paid without interest on or before December 31 . . . Delinquent notices are issued in November and January . . . interest will accrue . . . interest will accrue . . .

  Clara didn’t know she was crying. It wasn’t until a tear dropped on the page, spreading in an uneven circle over a smear of black words that she realized her physical response to the information. She placed the bill on the table and wiped clumsily at her eyes. She tried crying quietly; she did not want Beatrice to hear. She moved to the kitchen sink and leaned her head over the basin. The blood rushed to her face immediately; she felt it pulling her head down farther into the sink like a heavy weight. She thought if the sink were filled with water she might just let her face be pulled into it. Permanently.

  She watched as the tears splashed into the empty basin making soft plopping noises in the quiet stillness of the small kitchen. A moan escaped her lips, and she slapped her hand over her mouth once more.

  “Clare-Bear?” Beatrice asked from behind.

  Clara stood up immediately and wiped her face. She took a deep breath and turned to face her little sister.

  Ten-year-old Beatrice stood in the center of the kitchen holding a piece of paper in her hands. Her fingers were small, her fingernails short and stubby, painted with a cheery purple that was already chipping around her cuticles. Her blond brows were furrowed as she took stock of her older sister.

  “You know when you have a really bad headache and it makes you cry?” Clara asked.

  “No.” Beatrice narrowed her blue eyes at her sister. She flipped her long blond hair over her right shoulder.

  “Well, I have a headache like that now,” Clara explained.

  “I don’t believe you,” Beatrice said. “Are you crying about Mom?”

  The girls’ mother disappeared a week and a half ago. They had no idea where she went, and they were afraid she would never come back. She had packed a suitcase, Clara discovered, when she went in search of it and could not locate it. Some of her clothes were gone from her closet and dresser drawers. She left a stack of papers on her bed that Clara was unwilling to go through until today. Clara searched through it multiple times trying to find a note, some sort of letter of explanation. She needed to read the words I love you. But her mother did not write them. She wrote nothing. She simply left.

  After a week and a half, it was as though she never existed.

  “I’m not crying over Mom,” Clara said.

  “Then why are you crying?” Beatrice pressed.

  “I told you, Bea,” Clara said. “My head.”

  Beatrice listened as she turned her back on Clara to take a
look at the papers strewn over the kitchen table.

  “What are these?” she asked, waving her hand over them.

  “They’re nothing. We’ll talk about it later,” Clara said, hastily moving to the table and gathering up the bills.

  Beatrice shrugged and looked up at her sister.

  “Mom will be back, Clara.” She said it with such certainty that for a moment Clara believed her. She loved that about her sister, that Beatrice could be so resolute at such a young age. Clara’s heart sank thinking that Beatrice would need that quality more than anything in the coming months. That was if their mother never returned.

  “I know,” Clara responded. “She just went to the store, right?”

  Beatrice giggled. It was the joke they started after the fourth day—the only way they could cope with the pain, anger, and fear of not having an adult in the house. The feeling of security was wiped out, and Clara decided that day that she would have to bring it back, do everything she could to make Beatrice feel safe and secure. And happy.

  It was a bad night. Clara held her baby sister in her arms, rocked her side to side as Beatrice moaned her grief, cried her anger.

  “Where is she?!” she screamed over and over into Clara’s soaked shirtfront.

  Clara didn’t know what to say, what to do. She blurted the only thing that came to mind, an absurd response to a grave situation. “She just went to the store, Bea.”

  Beatrice looked up at her sister, wiped awkwardly at her face, and opened her mouth to speak. But she said nothing. Instead she burst into a fit of giggles, the kind of reaction only a clever person has, and Clara, understanding it fully, laughed too.

  “That’s right,” Beatrice said after she caught her breath. She slapped her forehead with the heel of her hand. “I forgot she went to the store!” and then laughed all over again. They laughed, their faces awash with fresh tears, but this time silly, happy tears for the joke they made. In that moment, Clara felt better in her heart.

  Clara smiled remembering that night. She watched her sister as she continued giggling, her little paint-chipped fingernails pressed against her lips. Beatrice was much too cute when she giggled, and Clara thought that if she were now the mother figure even at the tender age of sixteen, it was her responsibility to keep Beatrice out of trouble. Cute giggling attracted boys, and for a split second Clara feared the future when her ten-year-old sister would start noticing them.

  “What?” Beatrice asked after a moment. “You have a weird look on your face.”

  Clara shook her head and pointed to the piece of paper in Beatrice’s hand. “What’s that?”

  Beatrice had all but forgotten about the paper until Clara mentioned it. “My supply list for school,” she said handing it to Clara. “And you remember Open House tonight, right?”

  “Of course,” Clara said although she hadn’t. She looked over at the clock hanging on the wall. “What time?”

  “Seven,” Beatrice answered.

  Clara looked at the list once more. “Well, what do you say we go get these things before Open House?”

  Beatrice agreed emphatically. She loved getting new things, especially school supplies. It was something about the smell of them she tried to explain to Clara. On one occasion, she held out a pack of erasers inviting Clara to sniff. When Clara refused, Beatrice shrugged and lifted the plastic pack up to her own nose inhaling deeply. She smiled up at her sister in confirmation that the erasers were the perfect scent. What an oddball, Clara thought at the time.

  What an oddball, she thought now, watching her sister dance around the kitchen at the prospect of shopping for binders, pencils, and packs of loose-leaf notebook paper. She wondered if Beatrice would sniff everything she picked up and if the scent of each item would be the determining factor in purchasing it.

  “We’re leaving in twenty minutes,” Clara said, and Beatrice rushed to get ready.

  ***

  “No college-ruled paper, Clara!” Beatrice said. “Why do you keep going for those stacks? I need wide-ruled. You got that? Wide. Ruled,” she stated with emphasis.

  “Would it be alright with you if I got some paper for myself?” Clara asked. “I happen to need college-ruled. You got that? College. Ruled.”

  Beatrice smirked at her sister and continued down the aisle, her eyes scanning the variety of pencil packs dangling in front of her.

  “Bea, according to your list, we’ve got everything,” Clara said. “You know we have pencils at home.”

  Beatrice scowled at her sister. “Clara, I cannot start school without new pencils. They make me smarter.”

  “Explain to me how they make you smarter,” Clara said amused.

  “I don’t know. They just do. They make me want to do a better job on my work.” Beatrice was already taking several packs of pencils off their hangers. “And I like the way they smell.”

  Clara smiled. “You get one. So choose wisely.”

  She watched Beatrice spread the packs out on the floor and deliberate over them all the while thinking of the two hundred dollars in her checking account. She had started her job six weeks ago, and aside from buying a few new clothing items for school as well as some toiletries and make-up, she had saved the rest. It seemed like a small fortune to her two weeks ago. Now she wondered how to pay for the school supplies on top of the mounting debt. And the property tax. Just thinking of the number made her fingertips tingle with electric fear.

  “I’ve decided,” Beatrice said, handing the pack to her sister. There were eight neon-colored No. 2 pencils in the case.

  “Good choice,” Clara said calculating the total cost in her head.

  After writing a check for $32.96—and feeling a slight sinking in her stomach—Clara led Beatrice to the car.

  “Do you like your teacher this year?” she asked as Beatrice buckled her seatbelt.

  “Yes, he’s very smart and nice,” Beatrice replied.

  “He?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Brenson,” Beatrice said. “What’s wrong with Mr. Brenson?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with Mr. Brenson,” Clara replied pulling out of the Wal-Mart parking lot. “You just don’t hear of many men teaching elementary school.”

  “Why is that?” Beatrice asked.

  “You got me,” Clara said. “Maybe it has to do with men not wanting to be surrounded by a bunch of brats all day.” Clara smiled as she kept her eyes on the road.

  “Ha ha,” Beatrice replied. “High schoolers are way brattier than elementary kids.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” Clara said. “All that teenage angst.” She paused before continuing. “You know that no one understands us.”

  “Naturally,” Beatrice replied. “You’re sooooo misunderstood. If people would only get a clue.” She twirled her hair and smacked her gum.

  “Spit that gum out before we go in,” Clara ordered as they pulled into the Chesterfield Elementary School parking lot. She looked over at Beatrice and watched her blow another large bubble. She was tempted to pop it but feared Beatrice’s reaction. Her sister was a spitfire, just like their mother, and Clara was certain Beatrice would find no amusement in having tiny sticky pieces of gum surrounding her lips.

  On their way into the auditorium, Clara noticed him. The senior who talked to her on the first day of school. It wasn’t a lengthy conversation. Actually it wasn’t a conversation at all. He greeted her and she stuttered something in reply. She thought she said “hello” back, but who knows. She felt embarrassed and unsure about why he took the time to say anything at all. He came into health class, an elective they shared, and walked by her desk. Students were already seated and surrounding her, but he only said hello to her. And then he added her name. “Hello, Clara,” and she thought she would melt into the floor. The memory caused a physical response.

  “Gross, Clara!” Beatrice said, yanking her hand out of her sister’s. “Your hand is sweating!”

  “Say it a little louder,” Clara hissed. She felt instantly irritated, he
r nerve endings crackling as she watched the boy turn in their direction. He must have heard Beatrice say her name. He waved and started walking towards them.

  Oh God, Clara thought panicking. She looked down at her clothes making a quick assessment. Nothing pretty or flattering, but nothing out of order.

  “Hi, Clara,” the boy said.

  “Uh, hello,” she managed, looking at the floor and then the top of her sister’s head.

  “I’m Evan,” he said. “I’m in your health class.”

  “I know,” she replied. She blushed fiercely, glancing at him for only a moment.

  He was so cute. Tall and lean. His clothes fit him perfectly, she observed. They were stylish, unlike her own. Slim jeans and skater shoes. He wore a fitted button down shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was a dirty blond, wavy and unkempt. Not hanging in his eyes, though. Not long and obnoxious like some of the other boys’ haircuts. She noticed his cat green eyes, like peridots, and the soft sprinkling of light freckles over the bridge of his nose. Oh yes. He was cute. And she wondered if he knew it.

  “I didn’t know you knew who I was,” Evan said. His voice was deep and soothing. Clara wanted to sink down into it like a warm bath then wondered if he could hear her thoughts.

  “Everyone does,” she replied.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  He didn’t sound like he was lying, so she decided to believe him. But how on earth could he not know that everyone knew who he was? He wasn’t a jock; he didn’t move in that crowd. He also didn’t move in the popular crowd of nonathletic students, but everyone still knew him. And they liked him. She watched as they flocked to him at lunch, in between class periods, at assemblies. Everyone: popular kids and nerds. Even nobodies. He was the cool, smart, tech guy with actual social skills. It made him monstrously attractive, and even Clara, being the antisocial student she was, couldn’t help but be drawn to him as well. She looked his way on occasion last year, but he never seemed to notice. But then why would he? She wasn’t outgoing and bubbly and on the hunt. She was reserved, preferring to hang back in the shadows and dream.