Home at Last

by Shirlee McCoy

  In herself.

  In Matt.

  “Thank you for thinking of me, Byron,” she said.

  “Anytime, hun. It’s great to see you out and about. How about you bring the kids when you’re in town next? I’ll let them choose a bonbon or a caramel.”

  “They’d like that,” she responded as if lava weren’t trying to flow up her throat and explode out her head. “I’ll see you soon.”

  That was it. All she could manage.

  And then she was out of there, rushing to the door and stepping outside. Clouds had drifted across the sun, and the sky matched her mood—ominous and heavy.

  She kicked something as she walked, and it skittered across the cobblestone sidewalk. A purple rock. Shiny and smooth. Shaped like a heart.

  She left it where it was.

  She wasn’t surprised when Flynn appeared at her side, matching his long steps to her shorter stride, not touching her, but close enough that she could have touched him.

  If she’d wanted to.

  All she wanted right then was to be alone, to find her way back to the farm and sit in the living room and try to forget the ganache and the cake and the candy that had never made it home.

  For a moment, they walked in silence, the distant rumble of thunder and the quiet sounds of town life filling the space between them.

  When Flynn finally spoke, she could feel his words as much as she could hear them, the cadence of his voice as familiar as the melody of the river and the whisper of grass behind the farmhouse.

  “He was a bastard,” he said quietly. “I hate saying that about my brother, but it’s true.”

  She didn’t respond.

  She didn’t suppose he expected her to.

  After all, what could she say? That he was right? That the man she’d married had been a liar, a cheat, a charlatan?

  “He was a bastard, but he loved you, Sunday. I know he did. You. The kids. The life you had together.”

  “What kind of love buys chocolates for another woman? What kind of love orders flowers for his wife with one hand and for his mistress with another? What kind of love leaves debt and destruction and unhappiness? What kind, Flynn? I really want to know.”

  “The kind that isn’t mature enough to value what it has,” he said.

  “Love doesn’t have to be mature to value what it has,” she said. “Just look at the charts and calendars and lists the kids make me. Look at all the attention and time they’ve expended trying to keep me from failing. Not because they need me to succeed, but because they don’t want me to be hurt again, and they know that disappointing them upsets me.”

  “They learned their hearts from you,” he said, the words simple and eloquent and, probably, true.

  He reached for her hand. She let him take it.

  Let him weave his finger through hers, because she liked the raspy feel of his calloused palm against hers, and because Matt didn’t deserve her loyalty.

  He never had.

  The first raindrops fell as they reached the truck, bouncing off dry earth and pinging against the pavement.

  “I should have listened to Twila,” she said as Flynn opened the door and helped her in. “She said I should bring an umbrella.”

  * * *

  He called Porter and Clementine on the way back to the house, using his handless phone to give a report on the ganache and cake.

  He thought Sunday might chime in with her opinion, but she was staring out the window, watching as the landscape flew past.

  “Is Sunday there?” Clementine asked, her voice muffled by the rain. “I’d like to hear her opinion.”

  “She’s here,” he responded.

  “It was good,” Sunday offered.

  Good.

  As if that were going to help Porter and Clementine decide.

  “Which one did you like best?” Clementine asked. “We’ve got to order today. The baker is making a big stink about not being the one to provide the frosting. I keep trying to explain to her that Byron’s ganache is going to enhance her cake, but she’s not having any of it, so she’s being a pain in the butt about the deadline. We either tell her what we want today, or she won’t have the cake ready for the wedding.”

  “There are other bakers,” Sunday offered.

  Again. Not helpful.

  “True, but she makes the best marble cake I’ve ever had.”

  “Then order that,” Sunday said. “It will be great with the ganache.”

  She sounded as enthusiastic as a dead man at the gates of hell.

  He wanted to disconnect the call, remind her that Clementine and Porter were a little excited about getting married, and tell her to turn up the enthusiasm.

  But she must have realized how she sounded.

  She rubbed her palms over her thighs, cleared her throat. “What I mean is, the ganache is to die for. I don’t even like chocolate, and I could have eaten a cup of the stuff. You could slather it on anchovies and people would eat it.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. Do the marble cake with the ganache. We’re having the ceremony and reception at the farm, right? Rosie and I can make apple pies and cider. The kids can make cookies.”

  “That’s too much work, Sunday,” Porter cut in. “You have enough on your plate with the fall festival coming up. We just thought we’d do the ceremony at the chapel and then have some cake and punch.”

  “The festival is a month away, and we’ve got everything under control. Besides, your wedding is just as important. What if we drag out the smoker I saw in the garage? We can have pulled pork and chicken sandwiches. Chips. A dessert bar. And that delicious cake.” She was on a roll now, tossing out ideas like a Google search engine.

  “That sounds like fun,” Clementine said. “A nice barbeque at the end of summer.”

  “I bet some of the women from church would be willing to bring side dishes. Salads and pastas. You know how the community is. Always happy to have something to celebrate.” Her voice broke, but she was in it for the long haul, chatting with Clementine until Flynn pulled up to the house.

  “Hey, Clementine?” he said, interrupting her description of flowers she was planning to order for the ceremony. “We’re back at the house, and we’ve got some work to do. We’ll talk later, okay?”

  “Sure! I’ll take a picture of your brother in his tux and send it to you so that you can laugh at him.”

  “There’s not going to be anything to laugh about,” Porter said. “I wear tuxes all the time, and I look pretty damn good in one. If I do say so myself.”

  “Nothing like a big head to get a guy noticed,” Clementine responded, her laughter ringing through the truck as Flynn ended the call.

  He turned off the engine and clapped.

  “What’s that for?” Sunday asked, her face gaunt, her eyes deeply shadowed.

  “That was a stellar performance. You deserve a standing ovation, but I can’t make it work while we’re in the truck.”

  She smiled. “In that case, I’ll take the applause and be happy with it.”

  “Of course, your performance has created a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Clementine and Porter like your ideas. Now we have to pull them off. The smoker. The food. The decorated tables and little twinkly lights.”

  “Fairy lights,” she corrected, opening her purse and frowning. “I forgot I’m not taking notes anymore.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since the day you told me I needed to be there for my kids.”

  “I don’t remember saying that.”

  “I’m paraphrasing, and you had a point. I was spending so much time worrying about forgetting that I wasn’t living. Not the way the kids needed me to.”

  “What about the way you needed?” he asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “One of the things I know that your brother didn’t is that it isn’t all about me. Not this life. Not this house. Not this land.” She waved toward the
landscape, the rain pouring down onto green grass and golden fields. “I’m doing this for the kids. All of it, because I want them to have it when I’m gone.”

  “And what do you want them to have when you’re here?”

  “Me. My presence. My involvement. I want them to know that if they wake up afraid in the middle of the night, they can climb into bed with me. I want them to understand that they can tell me the truth about anything, and I’ll still love them. I might not remember to take them shopping for clothes, and I might put the wrong snack in their lunch boxes, but I want them to remember that I was always there for them.”

  “That’s quite a legacy,” he said, oddly touched by her words.

  He’d never thought about having kids.

  It hadn’t even occurred to him to want them.

  He’d planned his life around ranching, and he’d figured that would be enough. He’d passed his knowledge on to ranch hands as eager to learn as he’d been, and that legacy was one that he knew would stick.

  But children?

  No. He’d never planned them. He’d never wanted them.

  Now, though, he thought it might be nice to stick around after the wedding, to keep teaching Heavenly about horses and the boys about being young men. To keep listening to Moisey’s endless chatter and marveling at Twila’s organized planning.

  He thought it might be nice to be around when Oya said her first word and when she rode her first bike.

  He thought it might be nice to watch Sunday grow older, her hair turning white, her skin more transparent.

  And it might be nice to hold her hand as the sun set on their final days.

  Whoa!

  He pulled himself up short. In his world of right and wrong and good and bad, he could fathom falling in love with Sunday, and he could also imagine hurting her.

  He could imagine stepping in and being a father to his nieces and nephews, and he could also imagine failing them. Disappointing them.

  Teaching them what not to be.

  Just like his father had done.

  He opened the door, letting rain splash into the truck.

  It splattered his face but did nothing to clear his thoughts.

  “We’d better go inside,” he said, not looking at Sunday, because he was afraid he’d see his future in her eyes, and he was even more afraid of what that future would be.

  “What are you running away from, Flynn?” she asked.

  “I’m not running away,” he said, and felt her stiffen.

  “I thought you were different,” she said, and he finally met her eyes.

  He expected anger, but all he saw was disappointment, sadness. Maybe a little relief.

  “I thought you were a straight shooter.”

  “I am.”

  “And yet, you just lied.”

  “I didn’t lie. I’m not running away,” he repeated, and this time anger flared in her eyes.

  “And now you did it again.”

  “Sunday,” he began, wanting to explain the unexplainable. Wanting to tell her that he wasn’t running away, he was leaving, because he never wanted to hurt her or the kids, and he was afraid he couldn’t trust himself not to.

  “You’re the one who made me look at the moon when I wanted to close my eyes. You’re the one who made me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry. You’re the one who told me I could when I thought I couldn’t, and I believed you, because I never thought you would lie. But I was wrong about you. Just like I was wrong about your brother, and I’m glad I figured it out now, because I don’t want to be standing on the dock in ten years, tossing heart-shaped rocks into the river and cursing your name.” Her voice broke, and he reached for her.

  But she stepped out into the rain, falling as her feet slipped out from under her. She landed in a puddle of mud, and he bolted from the truck.

  But she was up before he reached her side, hobbling toward the house, her soaked hair stuck to her scalp. He could see the scar, snaking around the curve of her skull, and he could remember how she’d looked, lying helpless in the hospital bed.

  And he knew he’d failed her without even meaning to.

  He waited where he was until she was inside, his clothes heavy with rain, his body chilled.

  Twila had been right.

  They should have brought umbrellas.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He woke to a hand on his shoulder, the pitch-black house pulsing around him.

  “Uncle Flynn,” Moisey said, her face so close to his, she could see the whites of his eyes through the darkness. “We have a problem.”

  “We do?” he asked, a rumble of thunder and a blast of wind nearly drowning out his words.

  “Yes,” she responded, her breath fanning his face. Froot Loops and milk with a hint of mint.

  “Have you been eating cereal?” he asked.

  “I told her not to. She dropped some on the floor, and I couldn’t find them. I would have turned on the lights, but the electricity is out,” Twila responded, and he realized it was her hand on his shoulder.

  “What’s going on, girls?” he said, sitting up.

  The boys were a few feet away, their hair glowing white in the darkness. “And boys?”

  “I told you, we have a problem,” Moisey repeated.

  “The electricity will come back on soon. How about we all just go back to sleep before we wake up the rest of the house?” he suggested.

  “That’s the problem. The rest of the house isn’t here,” Milo replied.

  At least, Flynn thought it was Milo, his voice a little higher-pitched than his brother’s.

  “What do you mean, it’s not here?”

  “The rest of the house isn’t here,” Milo repeated, as if that made perfect sense. As if, somehow, part of a house could disappear.

  The wind howled again, rattling the windows, and Flynn thought he finally understood.

  “Did a tree fall on the house?” he asked. “Is there a hole in the roof?”

  “No,” Moisey said, and he could hear tears in her voice. When he leaned closer, he could see them tracking down her face.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” He pulled her into his arms, surprised when she burrowed against him, her hands clamped around his waist.

  Something inside him melted.

  This must be what it felt like to be a parent. This soul-deep love that sprang out of nowhere and made a guy like him go soft. He could imagine it would be enough to keep a temper in check, to keep fists relaxed. To keep any normal person from harming his child.

  Because it didn’t just feel like love.

  It felt like a fierce need to protect and comfort and provide for.

  He’d always thought his father was a bastard.

  Now, he realized he’d been a monster, too.

  “Mommy is gone,” Moisey wailed, her voice rivaling the storm raging outside.

  “What do you mean ‘gone’?” he asked, turning his head so he could see Twila. She was the calm one. The organized one. The one who should be able to help him figure this out.

  Even in the darkness, he could see that she was crying, too, her shoulders shaking with the force of her tears. He reached for her hand, tugged her closer.

  “Hey,” he murmured, keeping one arm around Moisey and throwing the other around her. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “No, it’s not,” she said, her voice so clear and precise, he wouldn’t have known she was crying if he hadn’t seen her shoulders heaving.

  “Tell me what’s going on? Okay? Because there’s nothing in this world that we can’t fix together.”

  “We can’t fix the fact that Daddy is dead,” she said.

  “Right. There aren’t many things,” he corrected. “So tell me what’s going on. Why do you think your mother is missing?”

  “Because she was looking for me.” Heavenly stepped into the room, a white wraith moving toward him through the shadows.

  Her hair was wet.

  Soaked.

  And she was w
rapped in the terry-cloth robe that usually hung on the back of the bathroom door.

  “Looking for you where?”

  “I didn’t latch one of the stalls properly this morning, and when I went to feed the horses this evening, Chance was gone.” Her voice broke, and if he’d had an extra arm, she’d have been in it.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” He stood, easing the younger girls from his arms and grabbing his shirt from the back of the chair.

  “You were out all night. Probably having beers with your buddies.”

  He didn’t like her tone or her implication, but he didn’t have time to deal with a teenage attitude, so he ignored both. “I was out with my brothers, touring the property next door to yours. After that, we went to dinner,” he corrected.

  “Why would you tour property for six hours?” she demanded.

  “Two. And then I had dinner, and then I drove around for a while.”

  Because he hadn’t wanted to return until he knew what to say to Sunday, knew how to make it right.

  But the words hadn’t come to him, and he’d finally driven back to the house, the wind just beginning to howl as he’d walked inside.

  “Men are all liars and pigs,” she spat, and he’d finally had enough.

  “Wrong, but we don’t have time to discuss it. Chance got out of the stable, and you could have reached me, if you’d wanted to. You have a cell phone. You have my number. Why didn’t you call?”

  “Because it was my fault,” she admitted. “And I didn’t want to get in trouble. I figured I could find him and bring him back, dry him off and give him some good feed, and everything would be all right.”

  “Okay, so how did this turn into your mother missing?” He opened his suitcase and used his Maglite to find his emergency pack. He knew what it contained. He checked it before he traveled. First aid kit. Compass. Emergency phone zipped into a waterproof bag. Flare gun. Fire starter. Mylar blanket. MREs.

  He grabbed his duster and slid into it, then put on the pack.

  “Hurry up, Heavenly. Every minute I’m in here, I’m not out searching for your mother,” he said, because the teen had fallen silent, and he didn’t have time to coax the answer out of her.

  “I waited until everyone was asleep. Which took forever, because Sunday didn’t stop pacing her room until you returned from whatever happy little jaunt you’d been on.”