Home Song

by Thomas Kinkade

  “Oh, nothing much. Just wanted to say hello.” Her mother sounded concerned, Sara thought, but as usual was trying to mask it with a cheerful tone. “Did you get our letter?” Laura Franklin asked.

  “Yes, I got it last week,” Sara replied. But she had read it so quickly she wasn’t sure now what it said.

  “Well, what do you think about our idea of coming up to Cape Light? Your father and I always wanted to see New England in the fall. We could drive up over the weekend, take in the foliage, and stop to see you. No big deal,” her mother added quickly. “We don’t even have to stay the night with you. We’ll find some inn or something. We thought it would be fun. . . .”

  Sure, no big deal. You’re just going to drive for about sixteen hours to take me out to lunch and look at the leaves. Just for fun, she replied silently. Good one, Mom.

  “I’m all right,” Sara assured her automatically. “You don’t have to do that, really.”

  She heard her mother swallow hard. Sara knew she was hesitating, afraid to say the wrong thing. Her mother taught high school and had always been easy to talk to. But Sara’s need to confront her birth mother had pushed her mom’s understanding to its limits. Although her mother tried hard to be supportive, Sara could sense her struggling. Her dad struggled, too, but avoided talking to her directly about it. In a way, that was easier.

  “We really want to come, Sara. We don’t even have to meet you in Cape Light—if that would make you uncomfortable,” her mother added.

  Sara could tell that her mother was trying to be considerate—thinking Sara might be worried they would all run into Emily somewhere and Sara would be freaked out. Well, she would be, Sara realized.

  “I don’t know, Mom. It seems like a long drive for a weekend,” Sara said, avoiding the real issue.

  Through the small glass window on her door, Sara saw Luke, stacking firewood on her doorstep. She turned away and focused on her conversation with her mother.

  “We miss you, Sara.”

  “I miss you, too,” Sara said honestly. She thought she had never missed her mother so much as she did at that very moment. Still, her need to confront and connect with Emily tugged at her. But maybe that need would never be satisfied. Maybe that confrontation would never take place, she realized.

  The half-packed duffel bag caught her eye, and she felt the impulse to return home grow stronger.

  “You don’t have to worry so much. I might be coming home soon,” she added.

  “Really?” her mother said hopefully. “Why didn’t you just say so? When did that happen?”

  Sara heard Luke drop some more wood on her top step and saw his dark head right next to the door window.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think I’m just tired of this place. I’m starting to think that it wasn’t worth the bother.”

  “But I thought you found her and you know who she is. . . .” Her mother sounded surprised, but Sara wasn’t ready yet to explain.

  “I really can’t get into it now,” Sara said slowly. She turned her back to the door. “But I’ll call you soon. As soon as I know when I’m coming back.”

  “Okay, honey.” Her mother sounded as if she wanted to talk longer, but was satisfied to hear Sara was coming home. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” Sara said. “Tell Dad I said the same,” she added. Her mother said good-bye and hung up.

  Sara turned and saw Luke wave at her through the window. She put the phone down, walked to the door, and pulled it open.

  “Just stopped by to bring you some wood.”

  Sara glanced at the replenished woodpile. “Yes, I see. Thanks.”

  “I heard it was going to get colder. There’s a front moving down from Canada,” he added.

  “I hadn’t heard that.” The way he was looking at her made her feel self-conscious. What did he really want?

  “But not down in Maryland, I guess,” he added, surprising her. He glanced over her shoulder at the duffel on the couch. “It will be a lot warmer down there, right?”

  Sara met his gaze, feeling confused, then caught. He must have overheard her phone conversation, she realized. How long had he been listening?

  When she didn’t say anything right away, he added, “I’m sorry, but I was standing right near the door. I couldn’t help hearing what you said.”

  “And you did tell me once you liked eavesdropping,” she reminded him.

  He shrugged. “Cop training, remember?”

  She didn’t know what to say for a moment. What was the use of denying it? “Yeah, well, I think I am going back.”

  “Your boyfriend finally persuaded you?”

  “Boyfriend?” She gave him a look. “That was my mother.”

  “Oh.” He looked embarrassed for a moment, then frowned, his thick eyebrows drawn together. “Did something happen at home?”

  “No, everything’s okay. I told you the other day, I had no idea how long I’d stay here.”

  “Yeah, you did. But this seems sort of sudden. Too sudden, I’d say.”

  His steady glance challenged her to deny it, and she had the urge to tell him everything. She had a feeling he, of all the people in this town, would understand. But finally she turned away and hugged her arms against the chilly air outside.

  “I really wish I could tell you what it is. But I can’t,” she said again.

  “I already told you, I don’t have to know.”

  She waited a moment, then looked up at him. “Do you want to come in? I’m getting cold out here.”

  He followed her into the cottage, and she shut the door. She turned to see him staring at the duffel on the couch. He looked away and unbuttoned his jacket but didn’t sit down.

  “Look, you don’t have to tell me anything that you don’t want to. That’s okay.” He shrugged. “I’m just not sure you ought to take off in such a rush. Maybe you ought to think it over. Sleep on it,” he suggested.

  She leaned against the counter and pushed a strand of dark hair off her cheek. “Maybe if I think about it too much, I won’t go,” she replied.

  “Well, maybe you shouldn’t, then.”

  “What if I’m not running away? What if I’ve just . . . had enough?”

  “Maybe you have,” he agreed. “Or maybe you’re just mad at something and think you’ve had enough.” He moved toward her, his expression stone-serious. “I just get this feeling that whatever you came up here for is important to you. Very important. And it isn’t finished yet.”

  She nodded and looked down at her hands. “You got that right.”

  “Besides, I don’t want you to go, Sara.” He moved closer. “I want you to stay.”

  A silence fell between them, and Sara felt frozen, watching his expression turn even more intense. She felt his strong hand cup her cheek, his palm rough and calloused, and then the pressure of his mouth as he kissed her, hard and brief. She felt herself leaning toward him, holding his shoulder for support as she suddenly kissed him back, surprising herself.

  His hand drifted lightly through her long hair, then he pulled away. He briefly met her gaze and stepped back.

  She felt stunned, couldn’t speak.

  “It’s your call. Totally. I know that.” He lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender and stepped toward the door. “Just let me know what happens, okay?”

  She knew what he really meant was, please don’t leave without saying good-bye. The note of need and caring in his voice touched her.

  “Yes. I will.”

  “Okay, then. Good night.” He walked out and shut the door.

  Sara remained standing by the counter, as if frozen in place. The duffel, still open on the couch, odds and ends spilling out in all directions, looked ridiculous to her now. The act of someone in a state of sheer panic. Or a child having a tantrum.

  Luke had been right
. She felt angry and frustrated. But maybe she had to stick it out here. She had come to confront Emily, and it wasn’t finished. She would at least sleep on it.

  She touched her lips, remembering how he kissed her—and how she kissed him back.

  Something was happening between them, even if she wasn’t ready for it. They were getting involved. They were already involved.

  She had to face that now, too.

  JESSICA WALKED UP THE PATH TO HER MOTHER’S HOUSE WITH A POT OF mums in each hand. Halfway to the porch, she stopped and nearly turned around. Then she saw the curtain in the bay window stir. Too late. She’d already been spotted. Besides, she knew this visit was something she had to do if she were ever going to work things out with Sam.

  Her mother came to the door and opened it, before Jessica even rang the doorbell. “Hello, Mother.” Jessica forced a bright, natural note to her voice, ignoring entirely that they hadn’t spoken now for weeks. “I picked up some mums for you. I thought I’d freshen up the planters.”

  Her mother gave the flowers a brief, dismissive glance. “Leave them out here on the porch,” she said curtly.

  Jessica set the flowerpots down near the door and followed her mother into the shadowy house. She took off her coat and hung it on the antique coat tree.

  “Come into the living room,” Lillian directed, using her cane to walk ahead at a slow but steady pace.

  Lillian sat on her favorite chair, a high-backed armchair upholstered in dark green velvet. It often reminded Jessica of a throne, and never more than at that moment.

  Jessica took a seat across from her mother on the sofa.

  “I’ve barely spoken to you in weeks and suddenly here you are, delivering flowers, with no explanation and no word of apology,” Lillian began. “What am I supposed to do now? Clap my hands and exclaim with delight?”

  “Mother, I’ve tried to speak to you in church twice now, and both times you totally ignored me,” Jessica reminded her.

  “You already know why I wouldn’t speak to you, Jessica. I’ve never made any secret of my feelings for Sam Morgan.”

  “But, Mother, we’re engaged. We’re going to be married.”

  “I heard that the wedding was off. The novelty had finally worn thin, I assumed. Is it on again?”

  “It was never off, Mother. It’s only been postponed.”

  “That’s right, postponed. Indefinitely, I hope.”

  “No, not indefinitely,” Jessica insisted, though in her heart she feared that was exactly what might happen.

  “Mother, please listen,” Jessica beseeched her, shifting to the very edge of her seat. “I know Sam is not the man you had in mind for me. He’s not the man I thought I’d marry, either,” she admitted. “But he’s the one I fell in love with. We love each other very, very much. He’s a good man, a good person, and I know we’ll be happy together. I just wish you would give him a chance.”

  There, she had said it. She had thought long and hard about what to say and had even prayed about it. Would the words find their mark in her mother’s mind and heart? Would they sway her just the tiniest bit? Jessica watched her mother’s face, searching for some flicker of sympathy or understanding.

  Lillian cleared her throat with a harsh, rattling sound. “You don’t know the first thing about love. Or what it takes to make a marriage work,” she said. “I’m certain that Sam Morgan will make you very unhappy. Clearly, he’s already begun, to hear Emily tell it—”

  “Emily? What do you mean?” Jessica cut in. Then she pulled back, realizing it was just one of her mother’s typical tactics, trying to distract her and pit her daughters against each other. “I doubt Emily has ever said one negative word about Sam to you.”

  “She tells me you’re miserable, broken-hearted, not happy anymore with your muscle man. The wedding is off and everyone is in an uproar.”

  “I’m unhappy because you won’t accept Sam. You refused to come to our engagement party. You refuse to come to our wedding. You won’t even give him a chance—”

  “A chance to keep you down, you mean? To chain you to this small town, limiting your aspirations and your ambitions? Squandering your talent and intelligence? Is that the chance you want me to give him?” her mother asked. “Over my dead body.”

  Jessica sat back, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She fought for control, unable to think of anything to say to her mother that was even halfway civil.

  Please, Lord, please give me patience, she prayed.

  “When will you believe me?” Lillian demanded. “You’re making a terrible mistake, and you’ll live to regret it.”

  Jessica came to her feet. She had heard enough. Why had she ever thought she could come here and persuade her mother of anything? The hope now seemed absurd.

  “You already told me that, Mother, weeks ago. I guess that’s all we have to say to each other.”

  As she picked up her purse, she glanced down at the coffee table and saw some old photographs. It looked as if her mother were making an album. An image of her father caught her eye, young and handsome, his eyes sparkling from beneath the shadow of a dark fedora, the brim turned at a jaunty angle.

  What did her mother feel now, looking at that picture? Regrets for having married him—or no regrets at all because she followed her heart?

  “It’s not the same at all as when you married Father,” Jessica said, slipping the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “Just because your family disapproved and then things turned out badly for you, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t marry Sam. You, of all people, should understand what I’m going through.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Her mother grabbed her cane, her hand shaking, and pushed herself up out of her chair.

  “You heard what I said,” Jessica replied quietly.

  “You’re right, there is no comparison. Your father had means and position when I married him. Oliver Warwick was a gentleman,” Lillian stated. “Now please go and take those flowers with you. I’ve no need for them. Or any more of this ridiculous conversation.”

  Jessica stared at her mother long and hard, but couldn’t muster another word. Her vision blurry from unshed tears, she quickly walked out of the house. On the porch she bent to retrieve the flowerpots, then changed her mind. Let her mother keep them, a reminder that at least she, Jessica, had tried.

  She hurried down the walk, feeling through her purse for her car keys. Was her mother right? Would she and Sam end up unhappy together, after all? Was she making the biggest mistake of her life? She thought of the job offer and their argument. He had felt so threatened, so angry. Jessica had felt worlds apart from him then. Would the differences between them eventually be too much to bridge, just as her mother predicted?

  Jessica yanked open her car door and pushed the key in the ignition. No, she couldn’t even think such a thing. Her mother’s words were toxic, souring her happiness, shaking that sure solid feeling she had about Sam deep inside.

  I have to get away from here right now, Jessica thought, putting the car in gear. And I don’t know if I’ll ever come back.

  EMILY WAS WORKING ON THE DRAFT OF HER SPEECH FOR THE ROTARY CLUB when the phone rang, shattering the silence in her office and throughout the empty Village Hall. She kept her eyes on the computer screen, listening for the caller’s voice as her answering machine picked up. Who would be calling her office at half past ten on a Thursday night?

  The beep sounded, then a deep, familiar voice came on the line. “Hi, Emily, it’s Dan Forbes—”

  Emily grabbed the receiver. “Hello, Dan. I’m still here.”

  “I thought you might be,” he said with a laugh.

  “Why is that?” She tossed her glasses on her desk and leaned back in her chair.

  “Because you’re the only person in town who keeps longer hours than me.”

  “Tha
t’s debatable,” she replied, then nearly bit her tongue at her choice of words.

  “Speaking of which, let me offer my sympathies.”

  “Well, thanks, but don’t send the funeral wreath quite yet. There’s plenty of campaign left.”

  Did she sound defensive? She didn’t mean to. But she hated that Dan, of all people, was feeling sorry for her. Last night must have been even worse than she thought.

  “It ain’t over till it’s over. Everyone knows that. And off the record, you were bushwhacked.” He sounded morally outraged on her behalf, reminding Emily again of how much she liked him.

  “Off the record, thanks, I was,” Emily replied.

  “Charlie’s sly. I think you might have underestimated him.”

  “Agreed,” she said with a sigh. “He’ll get a lot of mileage out of this. He may even ride this issue right in to the finish line. It’s the one he’s been waiting for.”

  “Exactly, so get ready for a fight.” Dan’s voice was reassuring somehow. She pictured the hard, clean lines of his profile and his clear, blue eyes shining at her the other night.

  Emily sat up straight in her chair, both shoeless feet on the floor again. “I’ve been painted into a corner, don’t you think?” she asked quietly.

  “Well, yes, you have.” He hesitated, and she felt the easy flow of their banter suddenly melt away. “Does that mean you aren’t going to support Luke’s project?”

  She bit down on her lower lip. “Is this the paper asking—or just you?”

  “Just me.”

  “It’s complicated. I can’t just hand Charlie the election. He set me up. You said it yourself.”

  “I said you were in for a fight. I never thought you were going to sidestep. But it’s a viable strategy, I suppose.”

  She didn’t like his tone now, distant and analytical. That subtle note of warmth was gone. She felt the chill as if someone had opened a window.

  “I never said sidestep,” she corrected him.

  “What are you saying, then?”

  “I have to figure this out, weigh the options. I can’t do Luke McAllister’s project any good if I’m sitting in my little house on Emerson Street and Charlie Bates is sitting here.”