by Grace Greene
FICTION BY GRACE GREENE
Emerald Isle, North Carolina Novels
Beach Rental
Beach Winds
Beach Towel (A Short Story)
Beach Christmas (Christmas Novella)
Beach Walk (Christmas Novella)
Virginia Country Roads Novels
Kincaid’s Hope
A Stranger in Wynnedower
Cub Creek
Leaving Cub Creek
Stand-Alone Novels
The Happiness In Between
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Grace Greene
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503943148
ISBN-10: 1503943143
Cover design by Laura Klynstra
Everyone wants, needs, to be loved and appreciated. I encourage my readers to look for opportunities to share love and appreciation with others and offer a helping hand. Whether the need is in an animal shelter, an adult memory care unit, or protecting the weak from abusers, be aware and provide support and encouragement whenever and wherever you can.
I dedicate this book to those who offer love and kindness, and to those who need it. Through the efforts of all who care and act upon it, may we all be blessed by the seeds of kindness we sow.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
READING GROUP GUIDE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
Sandra Hurst didn’t call ahead. She drove through the night across Virginia, from Martinsville to Richmond, with her music turned up loud to shut out unhappy thoughts. She focused on home—on running away to home—because sometimes running away was the sensible choice, sometimes the only choice. She envisioned her parents’ driveway bordered by trim, mature hedges of Japanese holly and sheltered by long-lived dogwoods. It was too early in spring for the dogwoods to be showing off their pink flowers and foliage, but she wasn’t coming home to admire the view. All she wanted was to park in the driveway and doze quietly in the car. She wouldn’t bother anyone. She’d wait until the sun was up and her mom and dad had started their day.
The neat, tree-lined streets were familiar and peaceful in the dark. It felt like home, though she hadn’t officially lived here for a long time. A large brick house in an established neighborhood just off the Boulevard in the urban suburbs, before the city became downtown living—she’d never thought much about it, but as an only child, she’d assumed the family home would shelter her parents for years to come and still be there for her, or for her to deal with, in the distant future. It was the house she’d grown up in. Home.
She hadn’t thought that way twelve years ago when she left for college. Life was ahead of her, and all good things were possible because she’d always done what was expected of her. She’d been the good, obedient daughter who brought home near-perfect report cards and the responsible young person teachers and neighbors praised. A nice person. Tonight, she was hoping for comfort, at least for the physical comforts. She didn’t expect sympathy, but her parents wouldn’t turn her away. In fact, she could help them. As Dad’s memory had grown faulty, the weight of managing their personal and business affairs had fallen on Mom. Mom had been talking about simplifying their lives, downscaling, and perhaps moving to Florida. Some of her friends had already made the move south.
As Sandra pulled into the driveway, she saw lights on in the living room. Was there a problem with Dad? Or was someone awake and waiting for her?
She parked and cut the engine. The porch light came on. The front door opened, and bright light spilled out from the foyer, along with her mother’s shadow. Mom stood in the doorway silhouetted in her fluffy bathrobe.
She didn’t open the storm door, didn’t come halfway out, and didn’t offer a hand with Sandra’s suitcase. She stayed inside, watching, as Sandra hitched her purse up on one shoulder and tried to ease the car door closed so as not to disturb the neighbors. She carried her small suitcase up the steps, and, in the end, her mother did open the door wide and allow her inside, so that was something.
“Is Dad OK?” Sandra asked. “You’re up early.”
“Trent called.”
Of course he did. She set her suitcase beside the chair.
“I didn’t expect him to realize I was gone until morning. I left a note, but it’s like him to call anyway, to stir things up. I’m sorry. I’m sure it was alarming to be awakened in the night by the phone.”
“Stir things up? He was worried.” Mom closed the door and locked it. “He wanted to know if you’d called us. Perhaps you should have.”
“I wanted to tell you face-to-face.”
Mom was wearing her pink bathrobe and pink leather slip-ons. Her brown hair was short, curly, and naturally highlighted. Sandra had inherited her dad’s straight black hair. She’d also inherited her mom’s large, dark-brown eyes, and this wasn’t the first time they’d engaged in a staring contest. Sandra knew this game was impossible to win, and she broke off from her mother’s gaze.
Sandra walked to the kitchen and pointed at the fridge. “I’m thirsty. Mind?”
Mom’s behavior was odd. She’d stayed in the hallway and was now standing in the kitchen doorway.
Her mother. Her childhood home. Shouldn’t Mom have asked if she was all right? If Sandra was hungry or if something was wrong? That’s what Mom had done when she’d left Trent before. Apparently it only worked that way the first time one’s daughter left her husband and divorced him. Mom continued to stand in the doorway, her hands in the pockets of her robe, her lips pressed together.
“Mom, won’t you talk to me?”
Her mother frowned. She pulled her hands from her pockets and waved them as she spoke, but she kept her voice almost whisper-low, for Dad’s sake, of course.
“I don’t understand you, Sandra. I didn’t understand the first time, neither of us did, but we tried to, and we helped you. Now I have your father to consider and my own health, too. I urge you to work this out with Trent, but I can’t get in the middle of it, not again.”
Unfair! Sandra wanted to shout. Instead, she forced down the shame that made her face burn. Her mother’s words were true. She took a deep breath, then said softly, “There’s nothing to work out. I’m sorry my mistakes inconvenience you.” She paused before asking, “Where else would I go?” Sandra pretended not to hear the whine in her voice and ignored the prickling of tears in her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. Not here, not in front of her mother.
Mom closed her eyes and sighed, then looked at S
andra again. “You can stay here, but only for a little while. We signed with a real-estate agent today. The house is going on the market at the end of the week.”
Sandra turned her back to her mother and reached into the fridge to grab the orange juice. It gave her a moment to collect her thoughts and control the slight shakiness that had suddenly overwhelmed her and was showing in her hand. A familiar shortness of breath threatened. Anxiety. She coughed to force it away. “You’re selling the house?”
“I told you before. Your father and I are moving to Florida. We’re going now before he’s . . . while he can still enjoy it.”
“Good. Sounds good.” Sandra nodded. “I understand. Makes sense.” What else could she say that wouldn’t sound foolish or self-serving? “I’m surprised, that’s all. I didn’t know you were that far along in the planning.”
Her mother crossed her arms and sighed. “I told you. Perhaps you were focused on your husband and your marriage?”
“Or should’ve been? Is that what you mean?” Sandra pressed her hand to her forehead. “Sorry. I’m tired. I’ve been driving most of the night . . . well, almost four hours, but I haven’t slept in a while. Do you mind? I’ll bring in my other stuff tomorrow. I have what I need for tonight in my suitcase.”
Mom shook her head. “I don’t mean to seem unwelcoming, but understand that within a few days, people will be coming through the house, viewing it. We are busy packing and cleaning. We’re hoping for a quick sale.”
Sandra pretended not to understand what her mom was saying: Don’t get too comfy—was that what she meant? Panic tried to creep in, and Sandra stopped it. She could turn this around. She could show her mother this could be a good thing for the family. She forced a smile. “Well, then, I’m glad I’m here to help.”
“What about Trent?” Mom asked.
Sandra stared, this time at a total loss for an acceptable response. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Mom. Or I guess that’s actually later today, right? I’m going to grab a few hours of sleep. Unless you’ve already packed up my bed?” She’d tried for a joking tone, but it fell flat.
Still standing in the doorway, her mother asked, “Are you going to call him? He’s worried.”
“No.”
“If he calls back?”
“Tell him it’s over and not to contact me again.” Sandra moved close to her mother, wanting to hug her despite the lack of warmth and welcome, but Mom’s hands went back into her robe’s pockets, and she moved aside.
“Thanks, Mom,” Sandra said. “Sorry to be a bother.”
In the daylight, after having slept for a few hours, Sandra saw the truth of what her mother had said. Many of the furnishings in the house were already gone. In storage? Boxed? Sold? That included most of the framed photos in her bedroom, from the dresser as well as the pictures on the wall. Her childhood room. She was an adult now. She had no real claim except that of sentimentality, but she’d expected to find home as she’d driven through the night.
Her mother had left two framed photos on the dresser. One showed Mom with her siblings and her parents. Sandra recognized her Aunt Barbara and Uncle Cliff with their sister as young adults. With them stood their parents, Sandra’s grandfather, whom she’d never known, and her grandmother. Sandra barely remembered her grandmother despite being her namesake. She was also the only grandchild. Yet, never had she called the woman “grandmother” or any form of it. That’s how the Shoemakers were, at least in her experience.
The other photo was of Sandra with her parents. Was she destined to be the end of the line for the Shoemaker family? Her dad’s family was different. Dad’s family had spread far and wide. She didn’t know her distant cousins, but she knew they existed. It was funny to have had so much family but to feel so alone.
Sandra returned the frames to the dresser and went to see what else had changed.
In two of the upstairs rooms, boxes were taped and stacked. Markers were used to identify the contents. She recognized her mother’s penmanship, the perfect slants and loops not in the least compromised by uneven, yielding cardboard surfaces. Other boxes were open, their flaps wide and beckoning. Dad was standing among them in the guest room.
The sale would happen quickly. Sandra knew it. That’s how her luck ran. And, given her mother’s welcome, she wasn’t expecting an invitation to move to Florida with them.
“Dad?”
He was randomly picking up items and shuffling them between boxes. Only the taped boxes were safe from his busy hands. Sandra went to stand beside him. He smiled broadly. He was dressed well, his hair was combed, and his eyes were bright. He looked like himself. The vague motions, the lack of focus and direction in his expression, betrayed his reality.
“Cassandra. Hello, dear. When did you get home?”
She hugged him. “Middle of the night. You were sleeping.”
“How is your husband?” Dad frowned. “Is he here?”
“No. I came alone.”
“I see.”
“What do you see? Other than boxes?” she joked as she kissed his cheek.
“The last time you came home without him you divorced.”
His eyes were on her, but he couldn’t hold his concentration, and he looked away. She hooked her arm in his and put her head against his shoulder. Standing there, not seeing his lost eyes, she could pretend for a few seconds that she had her father back. But then his hands began to fidget again, and she felt a slight tremor run through him as if something in him was resetting. His memory, she supposed.
Sandra sighed. “You’re right, Dad. That’s true. We’re going to divorce again.”
She released his arm and took his hand, wanting to explain to him, to tell her dad everything. But dementia had been creeping up on him, becoming more noticeable and undeniable over the past year. If this was a good day for him, she wouldn’t ruin it by reminding him that her worthless husband was cruel.
“No one can say I didn’t try.” She gave him a smile and another hug. “Are you OK up here?”
“Yes, lots of work to do. Cleaning, you know.” He was staring at the boxes again. He reached in and selected a book. “Is this yours?”
“No. Not mine.” She accepted the book from him. As a child she’d often held this book in her hands, running her fingers over the pebbled texture of the old leather binding and the embossed lettering on the cover. Mom had cautioned her many times not to mess with her father’s books. Dad had never minded.
She smiled at him. “It’s a book of stories and poetry. Poe. One of your favorites. ‘Is all that we see or seem . . .’” She paused, waiting for him to say his part. He was watching her, but he didn’t respond to her cue. She touched his arm and finished the verse for him. “But a dream within a dream.”
“What is that?”
“Edgar Allan Poe. One of your favorites.” She laughed quietly. “With you living and teaching in Richmond, he’d have to be.”
“Oh. Well, then I should read it.”
“Reread it, you mean, though it’s been a while, I’m sure.”
“Really?” He picked up the book again, looked at the flyleaf, and thumbed through the yellowed pages. “Looks good.”
She touched his silver hair. He’d grayed young. He was still young, barely retirement age. For two decades he’d lectured on American literature at a nearby college. This morning those memories were absent. It was so tempting to tell him, to remind him, to push him to remember, but she stopped. It wouldn’t be a help to him, and it would cause him dismay and confusion and cause her frustration and grief.
“You can read it when you take a break.” She took the book, put it back in the box, and patted his arm. “I’ll talk to you later. I’m going downstairs to say good morning to Mom.”
He nodded but pulled the book back out of the box. He stood there looking at it.
Sandra found her mother working in the kitchen. Small appliances and cookware were arranged and stacked on the granite counter. Empty boxes waited on the floor to be fil
led. One appliance was actually on duty—the coffeemaker. A few cups of the dark brew were ready in the carafe.
Sandra grabbed a mug and poured a cup. “Mom, about those boxes upstairs? Dad moved things around, so you might want to check before taping them up.”
“The open boxes in the guest room? No worries. Those are for your father to . . . pack. He wants to contribute. So long as he doesn’t open the taped boxes, it’s good.”
“Can I help?”
After a pause, she said, “Maybe later.”
“He called me Cassandra.”
“It’s your name.” She twisted the paper around the mixer and wedged it into a box next to another wrapped item.
“True. It’s . . . it’s been a while, I guess. I’m not used to hearing it. Doesn’t matter.”
“He’s been going back in time more and more.”
Sandra nodded and spread a piece of white packing paper on the counter. She set the electric can opener on top. As she folded the paper over it, Mom stopped her, saying, “I’ll do it. Otherwise, I’ll lose track of what’s where.”
Sandra pulled her hands away from the paper and stepped back.
Mom finished wrapping the can opener and put it into the box. She gestured at her daughter. “You are so thin. If you’re dieting, please stop.” She added, “What are you going to do about your marriage?”
Caught between the dieting remark and the one about her marriage, Sandra hesitated. She decided the “thin” comment was just one more criticism and skipped to the marriage question. “I can’t go back. It’s over.”
“I remember when you said that before.”
Frustrated, Sandra raised her voice. “You’re right. What do you want me to say?” Sandra bit her lip, shocked by how rude she’d sounded. She didn’t want to add to her mom’s worries. “I tried. I truly did.” She grabbed the loaf of bread from the counter and hovered where the toaster used to be. It wasn’t in its usual place. It was over by the stove, and it wasn’t plugged in.
“I’ve cleaned it, and I’m about to pack it.”
“No problem.” Sandra settled for butter from the fridge. “Buttered bread will be fine.”
