Home at Last

by Shirlee McCoy

  “I’m not my brothers, and, as you’ve mentioned, you’re a grown woman. If you want time alone, you have a right to it. I’ll wait here with the puppy until you’re ready to go back.” He pulled the collar of his coat close around her neck, his knuckles brushing the underside of her jaw. “Keep this on, okay? It’s chilly tonight.”

  She nodded, because she couldn’t speak.

  Her thoughts were on the quick brush of rough warm skin against hers. She’d been touched a million times since the accident. By nurses and doctors, friends and family. Most of it impersonal, therapeutic or comforting. None of it making her think of the past, of the way it felt to have warm hands slide along bare skin, sweet kisses pressed into the crook of her neck, the hollow of her throat.

  She turned away, appalled and alarmed, annoyed with herself and the fickle way that her bruised and traumatized brain functioned. Because that quick split-second thought about warm hands and smooth flesh could only be a product of the injury she’d suffered in the accident.

  She was too damaged for it to be anything else.

  She walked into the chapel, inhaled the cool damp air. She just needed to center herself, find that sweet soul-space where peace and contentment had always dwelled. She dropped onto the nearest pew. A varnished wood bench that had been salvaged from a church in Seattle. Soft with time and use. Silky smooth from decades of dresses and slacks brushing against its surface. Gouged and nicked from Sunday after Sunday of children’s dress shoes scraping against the surface as they shifted and moved, bored and trying to behave.

  Suddenly, she could see Moisey as she’d been the first time she’d attended service at Benevolence Baptist Church. Her gleaming patent leather shoes buckled around her ankle socks. Her dark eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. Three years old and new to the country and the family, but not afraid. Not at all.

  “I wish I had your courage,” she murmured, picturing her daughter’s impish smile, trying to remember if she’d said good night to the seven-year-old, given her a hug and kiss. Told her she loved her.

  It bothered her that she didn’t know.

  Something jumped onto the pew beside her, and she screamed, her heart in her throat as the thing took shape in the shadowy darkness. A dog. The dog.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked with a shaky laugh, running her hand over his still-wet head and neck.

  “He refused to listen to reason, and insisted on following you inside,” Flynn said, taking a seat beside her.

  “You used reason on a dog?”

  “I told him you wanted some time alone,” he replied, grinning at her through the darkness.

  “Apparently, he’s not concerned about my need for personal space. Or, maybe, you’re just using him as an excuse to follow me in here.”

  “That’s a possibility, too. My brothers are worried about you, Sunday. If they are, I am.”

  “Why are they worried?” she asked, but she knew why. As much as they tried to encourage her to be more involved in the lives of the children, she couldn’t seem to get into the swing of things. The muscle memory that carried her from place to place on the farm, didn’t carry her from moment to moment of motherhood. Nothing about her kids felt familiar. Not their likes or dislikes. Not their personalities. Not their needs and desires. Every interaction she had with them felt stiff and unnatural, forced in a way that made her feel guilty.

  “They think you’re too hard on yourself,” he responded. “That your expectations are too high. You’re early on in your recovery and beating yourself up because you can’t do as much as you’d think you should, is only causing you frustration.”

  “So, they’re spying on me and reporting back to you?” she replied, the sharpness in her tone surprising her more than it seemed to surprise him.

  “No one is spying on you,” he said calmly, gently. As if she were a wild colt that needed taming.

  And, that only made her feel worse.

  “That didn’t come out the way I meant it to.”

  “What way did you mean it to come out?”

  “A lot less accusatory,” she replied, and he smiled again.

  “I don’t guess I’d feel happy if a bunch of near-strangers were calling the shots and running the show for me. This is your place, Sunday. Your farm. Your kids. Your family. If you’re feeling smothered, you just have to say it. We’ll back off.”

  “I’m not.” That was the truth. She didn’t feel smothered. She felt lost.

  “No?” He was staring into her eyes, watching her in a way she couldn’t remember anyone ever doing. Not before the accident when she’d been the busy mother, rushing from place to place. Not after when she was the invalid, lying in bed or sitting in a chair or limping her way through stores and up the aisle at church.

  This was the kind of look that asked questions.

  The kind that demanded answers. The kind that wanted to see beyond the surface truths to the deep ones.

  “No,” she said, because she couldn’t explain without fumbling for words and struggling to express herself.

  “Okay.” He nodded, stood, stretched to his full height. “But, if you ever decide that you do, let me know. I’ll make sure things change.”

  He lifted the dog from the pew and walked away, his feet nearly silent on the old wood floor.

  And, then she was alone again, the small chapel still and quiet. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the pew in front of her. There were windows at the front of the small room, flanking a cross hewn from salvaged wood. The place was as beautiful as it had been when the family had built it. Snapshots taken by traveling photographers nearly a hundred years ago depicted the same rough-hewn style cross and tall windows. The rehab had been done with care and with attention to detail.

  Sunday hadn’t been involved. She’d been attending daily rehab, going through intense therapy that had worn her out. She hadn’t watched the progress, but she’d seen pictures snapped on cell phones. The twins hammering nails. Moisey standing on a pew wearing a tutu, a tiara, and work boots.

  Those were the images she remembered.

  She knew there had been others, but the rest were lost to her.

  She walked to the front of the room, ran her hand across the small pulpit that stood there. Another salvage from a church in Spokane. Or maybe Seattle or Portland. She didn’t remember. It was smooth with age. Just like the pews.

  A cool breeze blew in through the window openings, carrying the scent of water and summer grass. No glass to keep fresh air from circulating. No shutters to keep out the wind or rain. This was the way things had been a hundred years ago—simple. The floor swept and dried by the family after storms. Leaves and debris removed before Sunday service. Fresh air and sunshine the only incense needed.

  She walked to one of the windows, listening to the world’s night song. The hush of rustling grasses. The burble of water over rocks. No traffic this far from town. No voices. Nothing but nature playing its stunning symphony.

  She climbed out the window without thinking, her bad leg catching on the window ledge and almost sending her to the ground. Thanks to dozens of hours of physical therapy, she managed to catch her balance and right herself. Dry grass swished against her legs as she moved through it and headed around the side of the building. She could see the cemetery from there, the old grave markers shimmering in the moonlight. It didn’t take long to make her way to the gate and walk through it. Four generations of family members had been buried there, and now Matt was too.

  She settled onto a spiky blanket of grass a few feet from his grave. His brothers had chosen the spot. They’d chosen the marker. They’d contacted the pastor and arranged the funeral and done everything they could to make things easier on the children. They’d taken them to Spokane and bought the boys suits and the girls dresses. They’d let them choose the flowers that would be placed on the casket during the service, the songs that would be sung, even the scripture that would be read.

  She knew, because she’d been
told the story by friends and church members, by the pastor and his wife. She’d heard it so many times, she might never have forgotten it, but she’d written the details in her journal. Just in case. She’d wanted to remember that her children hadn’t faced their father’s death alone. That their uncles had been there when she couldn’t be.

  She sighed, pulling her knees up to her chest, ignoring the twinge of pain in her leg and the ache of discomfort in her ribs.

  “Hey, hun,” she said, running her hand over the marble headstone. “I miss you.”

  If he’d been alive, he’d have pulled her in for a hug, told her that he missed her too.

  He’d been good at telling her what she’d wanted to hear.

  She had notes and cards to prove it, written words that she found herself pouring over in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep, searching for clues to the truth about who Matt had been, what he’d really thought and desired.

  “The kids start school soon,” she continued, forcing herself to stop thinking about what she might have missed.

  Because, Matt was gone.

  The fact that she’d discovered his infidelity just a few days prior to his death didn’t change the other truth: They’d been married for a decade, had been raising children together as a team. A team that had worked well.

  Most of the time.

  “The twins are going to be in the same class this year. Remember how we talked about whether or not they’d do better together? The principal thinks they will, so I agreed,” she murmured, hoping she was getting the details right.

  Just in case he could hear.

  Just in case it mattered somehow to a man who’d been dead for nearly a year and who’d been thinking about walking away from his family when he died. She had that, too—the email that had given away the truth, that had proven what she’d probably suspected long before she’d confronted him.

  She’d read the email as many times as she’d read all the love notes and poems and letters he’d written to her. She’d studied the words, trying to make sense of it all. She couldn’t remember discovering the email. She couldn’t recall printing it. She only knew she had. She’d never been one to snoop. She’d trusted Matt. Too much. So, she guessed that he’d left his laptop open, that maybe he’d wanted her to see the note he’d written to his lover. The one that professed his love and his desire to leave his family and make a new life in Seattle.

  But, of course, she could only guess.

  She remembered his betrayal. She had no idea how she’d learned of it. She just had the email. Printed out and folded neatly, hidden in the packet of written missives she’d collected during their nearly twenty years of friendship and love.

  They’d been babies when they’d met.

  First graders. Younger than Moisey.

  And, maybe, that had been the problem. Puppy love wasn’t really meant to last.

  She touched the cold stone again, tracing her fingers through the carved letters of his name. “Heavenly has a choir competition coming up. You were right about her voice. It really has been her pathway to friendships. You wrote that in last years’ Christmas letter. Remember?”

  He didn’t respond, of course.

  And, she felt the futility of what she was doing. Sitting at his grave, trying to connect with him. Trying to find some reason or meaning that would help her make sense of what happened.

  She pressed her forehead to her knees, wanting to pray. No words came. No thoughts. No longings or dreams. Everything she’d wanted had been tied up in her family, and now that was slipping through her fingers.

  A wet nose pressed against her cheek, and she realized the puppy was there. Fur still wet, body shivering. He was cold, and she was too.

  It was time to get up and go back home, but she felt too tired to move and too defeated to care.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Flynn said, suddenly at her side, reaching down to slide his arm around her waist and help her to her feet.

  “What?”

  “Whatever it is that’s making you cry.”

  “I’m not crying.” But, maybe she was. She could feel moisture on her cheeks, and she would have wiped it away, but he was already doing it, his palms warm against her cold skin.

  “So, these are just fairy kisses slipping down your cheeks?” he murmured, his voice as gentle as the first spring rain and as soft as the kiss of a butterfly’s wing.

  “Fairy kisses?”

  “That’s what my mother used to say when I caught her crying,” he replied. “They aren’t tears. They’re fairy kisses. Just like the dew on the roses in the morning.”

  “Your mother was a poet.”

  “She was an artist. A good one. If she’d been married to a different man, she’d have probably become a book illustrator.” He shrugged. “But, she wasn’t, and all her illustrations were created for me and my brothers.”

  “Matt never told me that.” At least, she didn’t think he had.

  “He might not have remembered. He was very young when she died.”

  “Yes. He was.”

  “He loved your mother. Both your parents. He used to tell me that. About how he married you and finally got the family he’d always wanted.”

  A cool breeze ruffled her hair and seeped into her damp clothes, chilling her. Or, maybe it was his words that had done that. She’d kept journals all her life—diaries filled with accountings of thoughts and dreams, her friendships, her interest. She’d read through them since the accident. She knew how much Matt had loved her parents, and she’d wondered . . . because why shouldn’t she? . . . if that had been part of the reason why he’d fallen in love with her.

  “My parents loved him, too. He was the son they never had,” she said, because it was true, and because she had no intention of talking about her suspicions and her insecurities.

  “I know he wasn’t always easy, Sunday,” Flynn said quietly as they walked back to the river, his words so surprising, she stumbled and would have fallen if he hadn’t still had his arm around her waist.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was obvious to me and my brothers that he hadn’t been doing his part around the farm.”

  “He had a lot of big dreams,” she responded, defending him the way she always had.

  “And, that didn’t leave a whole lot of room for pursuing the smaller ones? Like keeping the farm financially stable? Making sure the house you’d inherited didn’t get sold out from under you?”

  “He wanted to sell it,” she admitted. “He had dreams of moving to Seattle or Portland. Maybe even Texas.”

  “Texas?”

  “He talked about you a lot. About your ranch and all the things you’d accomplished.”

  “He sure as heck wasn’t going to own a place like mine, and I don’t think he’d have been happy in Texas. Matt hated wide-open space and dirt.” He laughed quietly.

  “You’re right. He did.”

  Matt had hated the country. He’d hated rural life.

  He’d longed for high-rises and busy streets.

  How is it that she hadn’t learned that until it was too late?

  She pressed her lips together, sealing in words she couldn’t say. Not to Flynn or to anyone. Enough people had already been hurt by Matt’s death.

  She didn’t want to compound the injury.

  She wouldn’t.

  They crossed the bridge silently, the puppy trotting along behind them. When they reached the house, Flynn held the back door open with his foot and lifted the puppy in his arms.

  “I don’t suppose you have a plan for this guy?” he said.

  She didn’t.

  She hadn’t thought beyond rescuing him from the river.

  “I guess he can stay in the house for the night.”

  “Not in your room,” Flynn responded. “He’s got too much energy, and you need your sleep. I’ll keep him with me.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  “As sure as I am that addin
g a puppy to the household mix is a good idea.” He said it deadpan, but there was just enough humor in his eyes to make her smile.

  “I know it’s not a good idea, but the kids have wanted a puppy forever.”

  “It’s your house, Sunday. It’s your decision. Can you make it up the stairs yourself? Or do you need help?”

  “I’ve been getting up the stairs by myself since before I turned two,” she responded, flicking on the light in the mudroom.

  “That was before you broke your femur,” he responded, his gaze dropping to her thigh. She knew he couldn’t see through her leggings, but she had a feeling he was looking straight at the scar that curved down her leg.

  That made her wonder if he’d seen the wound while she was in the hospital. She’d been in a coma for a few months, had nearly died enough times that people still mentioned it. She had no memory of anything that had happened before she’d woken in a rehab facility.

  “My femur is as good as new,” she murmured. “But, thanks for your concern.”

  He smiled. “Then, you go up to bed, and I’ll go get my bag.”

  “You’re staying at the house?” She didn’t know why that hadn’t occurred to her before.

  “Would you rather I didn’t? I can stay in town with Porter, but I plan on doing some work on the farm. Staying here will make it more convenient.”

  “Of course, you should stay here. It’s just, Rosie is in one guest room, and Heavenly has taken over the other. She thinks she’s much too old to have to share.”

  “I can sleep on the couch.”

  “It’s not very comfortable.”

  “I’ve slept on worse.”

  “Do you know how many kids have jumped on those cushions? And with how much vigor?”

  “Like I said, I’ve slept on worse.” There was a smile in his voice. “I’m going to grab my bag and try to get some sleep. It’s been a long day of travel, and I’m beat.”

  “Alright. Good night,” she responded, because what else could she say? That she’d rather he stay with Porter? That she found his presence oddly unsettling?

  “Good night.” He closed the door, and she walked through the mudroom and into the kitchen, floorboards creaking and groaning under her feet. A draft seeped in through the windowpane above the sink, the air felt musty with damp and cold.