Home Song

by Thomas Kinkade

  “Why stop? We’re just getting to the good part,” Lillian said with false cheer. “And so, sick as you were, you had a baby. Premature, complications. It’s amazing the child survived. And you cried like a little girl to keep it, as if it were a dog or a cat and needed no more care or thought than that. As if you, with no money or education, not to mention maturity and common sense, had the wherewithal to raise a child.”

  “I could have taken care of my baby.”

  “Not without our help, you couldn’t have. And why should we have gone the limit for you? After everything you did to us, the way you disrespected our wishes and ran off with that—that layabout fisherman. I think it was very good of your father and me just to bring you home again. And after your father died, I found a way to keep you in college until you finished your degree—to give you a decent future, a chance to make something of yourself. Was that the act of an unfeeling mother?”

  “What about me keeping the baby and coming back here to live? Didn’t that ever occur to you?” Emily asked in a strained tone.

  “Why should I have done that? It was bad enough you ran off to Maryland. Most people didn’t even believe you had gotten married. And they wouldn’t have believed it, either, if you had come home alone, with an infant in your arms.”

  “That’s enough. More than enough,” Emily retorted. “My husband was killed! I was a widow!”

  “Well . . . we know that. But that’s not what people around here would have believed.”

  “You know,” Emily said slowly, “sometimes I think that with the exception of marrying Father, everything you have ever done has been motivated by what people will think of you. There’s nothing more important to you, is there?”

  “Why do I even waste my breath arguing about this with you?” Lillian asked, ignoring her question. “If I hadn’t done what I had, you never would have become mayor in this town, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “Yes, my life would have been different,” Emily agreed. “Not nearly so empty.” She sighed and ran her hand through her short, thick hair. “I’m sorry, Mother, but sometimes I don’t think I can ever forgive you.”

  Lillian’s eyes widened in outrage. She started to stand up, then sat down again, holding the arms of her chair for support.

  “Whoever asked you to forgive me? I refuse to be blamed for your great mistake, your great unhappiness, Emily. You have no one to blame for it but yourself. I did what I thought was best at the time, for you and for the rest of the family. My conscience is clear, dear girl. You signed those papers. I certainly did not.”

  When Emily didn’t reply, she added, “It’s yourself you can’t forgive, Emily. Not me.”

  Emily couldn’t answer. Her mother’s indictment was chilling.

  And yet Reverend Ben had said the same in a far more gentle manner. Was her mother right?

  Emily felt completely overwhelmed by emotions. She felt herself starting to cry and knew that she couldn’t stay in her mother’s house another minute. Brushing back tears, she stood up, knocking her teacup off the coffee table. She watched it roll under the sofa without bending to pick it up.

  “I-I’ve got to go,” she stammered, then rushed out of the room.

  “Emily? . . . Emily? . . . Oh, for goodness’ sakes. Why must you always be so emotional?” Emily heard Lillian mutter as she grabbed her coat and purse in the foyer.

  Emily slammed the door shut and ran down the path to her car.

  It was ironic to hear her mother accuse her of being too emotional when she felt as if she had spent years hiding her emotions, carefully pushing them beneath the surface, and pretending they didn’t exist. She, who was so careful to always act coolly and rationally, was being accused of being too emotional!

  It would almost be funny, she thought, if she weren’t weeping.

  “WE’RE PRETTY SURE WE FOUND THE CAUSE OF THE FIRE,” CHIEF RHINEHARDT reported over the phone on Monday morning. “Can we meet with you?”

  “Yes, of course,” Emily replied. “Come over right away.”

  Twenty minutes later Jim Sanborn and Ed Rhinehardt entered her office. Ed turned and closed the door. “Well, here it is,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He withdrew a plastic bag that contained the charred remains of a pipe.

  It was the second plastic bag of evidence tossed on her desk in two weeks, more than she’d seen in three years.

  “It’s Digger’s,” Jim said. “It’s got to be. He’s the only one who’s been anywhere near that property who smokes a pipe.”

  “Besides,” Ed added, “I recognize the long curly handle.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean.” Emily sighed and sat back. Even she recognized the pipe. “Are you sure this was the source of the fire?” she asked. “He didn’t happen to drop it, unlit perhaps, where the fire occurred?”

  Ed shook his head. “No, that’s not the way it happened. You can read these things in the debris, especially in a relatively small fire that was contained and put out quickly. It was all right there—like an open book,” he added, glancing up at Jim Sanborn.

  “I feel terrible about Digger,” Emily admitted, “but I am so thankful it wasn’t arson.”

  Ed gave her a weary smile. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “How do you want to handle this, Emily?” Jim asked.

  Emily massaged her temples. Despite her relief at learning that the fire wasn’t caused by arson, knowing that Digger started it presented a whole new set of problems.

  “It was an accident,” she said, thinking aloud. “And fortunately no one was hurt. So I don’t see the point of going public with this and embarrassing Digger and Grace. Can we simply declare the fire an accident and say the cause was unknown?”

  The two men looked at each other.

  “That’s fine with me,” the police chief said. “But we need to tell McAllister. He deserves to know the full story.”

  “We also have to tell Grace and Digger what we’ve found,” Ed said. “We all love Digger, but somebody needs to keep a closer eye on him. We can’t have him wandering around, sending the village up in blazes because he’s gotten so absentminded.”

  “No, of course not,” Emily said quietly. She suspected that Digger would be devastated when he learned the true cause of the fire, but Ed was right. They had to tell him.

  “I’ll go out to the property today and talk to McAllister,” Jim said. “He should be happy to hear that it wasn’t arson.”

  “I’m sure he will be,” Emily replied. She planned to go out to the cottages herself this afternoon to see Luke and Sara.

  The news would make a big difference to Luke, she was sure. It was already lifting a layer of despair from her own heart. She felt deeply grateful that no one in Cape Light had been so hateful. This could work out yet, she thought hopefully.

  IT WAS JUST AFTER TEN ON MONDAY MORNING. SARA WAS PACKING UP HER books when she heard Luke at the door. She raised her eyebrows, surprised. He was supposed to go down to Boston today to meet with Dr. Santori and discuss the future of the program.

  “Hi, I thought you left,” she said, opening the door.

  “Soon,” Luke said.

  He was dressed up, she noticed, or as dressed up as Luke got. He was wearing a dark tweed sports jacket, black corduroy pants, and a gray V-neck sweater over a pale blue tailored shirt.

  He had an odd look in his eye, Sara thought, excited and wary at the same time. “The police chief just came by to see me,” he told her. “He said it wasn’t arson.”

  “Really? That’s great!” Sara exclaimed. “What was it, then—an electrical fire?”

  Luke looked away. “If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone,” he warned her.

  “I promise. Heaven knows, you have the dirt on me,” she reminded him.

  “It was Digger’s pipe. He must have dropped it in the pile of supplies next to that cottage. Just an accident. The town is going to keep Digger’s name out of it. The official story is an accidental fire, cause unknown, okay?�
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  “Got it.” She nodded. “But you must be relieved to hear it wasn’t someone from the village, trying to destroy the program.”

  “Of course I am,” Luke said. “I knew people here were upset about the center—but I never thought they would resort to arson. I’m glad I was right.”

  “How are the kids doing at the Potters’?” Sara asked. Luke and Sara had helped the six teenagers and their counselors move to the Potter Orchard yesterday. Sophie had seemed so delighted to see them, you would have thought they were part of her own family.

  “Paul says great, so far. The kids are going to paint all the outbuildings, starting with the barn. That should keep them busy until Thanksgiving,” Luke predicted with a grin.

  “Well, they’ll have to come back here once the work starts again. Some of them at least.”

  Luke glanced quickly at her, but didn’t say anything, an uneasy look in his gray eyes. “How’s the packing coming?”

  “Fine. It isn’t all that much.”

  “That’s what you say.” He pushed one of the boxes with his booted toe. “What do you have in there, bricks?”

  “Books.”

  “Figures. I hate helping brainy women move. It throws my back out for weeks.”

  Sara smirked at him, but didn’t say anything. How many women have there been in his life? she wondered, feeling a surprising flare of jealousy.

  She busied herself with packing a box of spices and canned goods, avoiding his eyes. She was falling for him. There was no getting around it. The last few weeks they had gotten closer and closer until it was hard to imagine what life around here would be like without him. She knew that once she moved into the village, they wouldn’t see each other as often. She would miss him; she almost did already.

  “Well, I guess I’d better go.” Luke glanced at his watch. He was nervous; she could tell from the sound of his voice. “The meeting isn’t until two, but you never know with the traffic.”

  “Sure. You never know. Are they still saying they don’t want to go through with it?”

  “I don’t know. I spoke to Dr. Santori on Saturday night, when everything was settled with the Potters. That’s when he asked me to come in. He said they just want to talk, but I have a feeling they’re going to put me on the spot. The controversy in this town is no secret. I even had some reporter from the Boston Globe calling me about it.”

  “The Globe? What did they want to know?”

  “I don’t remember. I hardly spoke to her. It was part of some feature story, I guess. Who knows if half this stuff ever gets into print? The point is, everyone at New Horizons is wary about this village now. Even though the fire wasn’t arson, I don’t know if I can convince them not to pull out.”

  “I think that ought to be a pretty compelling argument,” Sara said.

  Luke shook his head. “It may not be compelling enough. I think I’m starting to look disorganized, out of control. I probably should have written up some new proposal or plan, but I didn’t have the time.”

  Sara moved closer and touched his arm. “I think you will convince them,” she said. “And I don’t think you need a new plan. You just need to remember the old one—how excited you felt when you first told me you wanted to do this. You were practically jumping out of your skin,” she reminded him. “Think about that on your drive down to Boston.”

  He looked at her a minute and then smiled. “Okay, I will.” He paused, as if wondering if he should say something more, then he added, “I guess I’ll pray about it, too.”

  “You pray?” She didn’t mean to sound so shocked. As if he just admitted he could flap his arms and fly out of the room or something. She hoped she hadn’t offended him, but he just laughed.

  “Yeah, I do.” He nodded.

  “I don’t see you go to church much.”

  “Not so much, no,” he agreed. “From time to time, though. I like Reverend Ben’s sermons. He’s a smart guy. Ever talk to him?”

  “Once or twice in the diner.”

  “He’s helped me a lot since I got here,” Luke said. “And praying—well, praying is like talking to God. I think it is, anyway. It’s like writing a letter, except you’re writing a letter to God. . . . Ever try it?”

  She shook her head. “I guess I do pray once in a while. But only when things seem so desperate and black, I feel really panic-stricken. That’s not being religious,” she added with a slight shrug. “If I were God, I’d probably get annoyed at people like me, who only call you when they need a favor.”

  Luke’s smile broadened, the light of his gaze warming her. “I’ll have to tell the Reverend you said that. He could probably use it in one of his sermons.”

  She wrapped a jar of spaghetti sauce in a sheet of newspaper and placed it in the box. “All right, I’ll try it sometime. Instead of writing in my journal, I’ll write a letter to God. How will I know if he writes me back?”

  Luke smiled at her and straightened his jacket, preparing to go. “You’ll know,” he promised her.

  SARA CONTINUED HER PACKING FOR MOST OF THE MORNING, STOPPING only to eat a bite of lunch while standing over the kitchen counter. She had downplayed it when she told Luke it wasn’t much to move, she realized, looking at all the boxes lined up near the door. His back was going to be out for weeks. It was amazing how much a person could accumulate in four short months. And she hadn’t even tackled the mound of papers and books on the kitchen table yet.

  She heard a tapping sound on the glass of her front door. It was much too early for Luke to be back. Was it Lucy, stopping by to say hello? she wondered as she turned to the door.

  She stopped for a moment as she recognized Emily through the glass. Then she crossed the room and pulled open the door.

  “Hello, Sara. May I come in?” Emily asked politely.

  “Uh . . . sure.” Sara opened the door and stepped aside. “Hi. How are you?” she asked stiffly.

  “I’m fine.” Emily looked at her with a slight smile. “But I wasn’t caught in a fire on Friday. Are you feeling any ill effects?”

  Sara shrugged. “It was nothing, really. I’m okay.”

  “I came here on Saturday, but no one was around,” Emily replied.

  “I was in town, looking for a new place.”

  “Yes, my mother said you found an apartment on Clover Street. When are you moving?” she asked with interest.

  “Tomorrow. Luke’s going to help,” Sara added. She saw a certain look in Emily’s blue eyes at the mention of Luke’s name.

  “I didn’t know you and Luke were such good friends,” Emily said, clearly trying to be tactful. “No wonder you were so upset with me about not coming out more strongly for his program.”

  “Yes, no wonder,” Sara said tightly. She stared at Emily a moment, then picked up a pile of books from the table and dumped them in a box.

  “Is Luke around? I wanted to see him, too. I didn’t see his truck.”

  “He’s gone to Boston. To see Dr. Santori and the New Horizons people. He’s probably arguing his heart out right now, so that they won’t shut down the program,” Sara reported bluntly.

  “Oh . . . I see,” Emily said after pause. “He’s in a tough spot. I hope it works out for him.”

  Sara stared at her for a moment, surprised at the white-hot anger simmering inside her. She could feel her cheeks flush with hot color. “How can you say that?” she asked harshly.

  Emily’s eyebrows shot up. “Say what?”

  “How can you just stand there, sounding so nice and concerned, when all this time you didn’t do a thing to help Luke? You didn’t say anything or take any kind of stand against Charlie and all the others who were against this center.” Sara could hear her voice rising with anger, but she couldn’t stop herself. “People would have listened to you, but you wimped out, Emily. Just the way you must have wimped out when you gave me up for adoption!”

  Emily stared at Sara with her mouth hanging open. “When I—what did you say?”

  Sara t
ook a step back. She pressed her hand over her mouth, as if trying to push back her confession. Impossible. It was out now. She turned away from Emily’s searching gaze, feeling breathless, as if she had run a marathon. Her pulse was hammering, and she felt a little sick and a little exhilarated all at once, as if she had tapped into a vein of strength she hadn’t known she had. She took a long, steadying breath.

  “Emily, you’re my mother. My birth mother, I mean,” she forced herself to say.

  Emily blinked. Her complexion drained of all color, and her skin turned white and bloodless as snow.

  “You? . . . Sara? Is this true?” She took a shaky step toward her. “I don’t dare believe it.”

  “Believe it,” Sara said more forcefully than she intended.

  Moved to tears, Emily rushed forward and put her arms around Sara, but Sara felt stiff and wooden and couldn’t respond. She felt Emily pull back, sensing her distress.

  “I’m just so shocked,” Emily said quietly. She wiped tears from under her eyes with her fingertips. “So over—overjoyed, I mean. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

  She reached out and tentatively touched Sara’s hair. Then let her hand drop away.

  One part of Sara yearned to melt into Emily’s embrace, to put her head on her mother’s shoulder and cry her heart out and be comforted.

  But another part felt incredibly angry, so angry she could barely see straight. Sara felt shocked as the anger surged through her, taking over and rushing out.

  “Why? Just tell me that. That’s all I really came for,” she asked. “Why did you just—dump me like that? Didn’t you want me? Or was it just the easy way out? Like this problem with Luke and your election?”

  Emily pulled back, looking suddenly smaller, as if she had somehow retracted into herself, Sara thought.

  “Nothing can compare to that decision, Sara. Hardly this election,” Emily said bitterly. “Giving you up was the biggest mistake of my life. I’ve thought about you and regretted it every single day since.”

  “Then why did you do it?” Sara repeated, refusing to be put off.