Coming Home to You

by M. K. Stelmack

  Mel, Seth and Ben exchanged glances, as they had for decades whenever Connie hatched a plan for the family. “The first one in the Greene family to have Mel’s nephew will call him Isaac. Deal?”

  “I’d have to clear that with Alexi first.”

  “I already did,” Connie said. “She’s all for it, so long as you agree. Do you?”

  “Do I have a choice?” Seth grumbled. “Never mind. I know the answer. And, yes, I agree.” He turned to Mel and Cal. “I don’t mind.”

  Connie switched to Ben, who held up his hand in surrender. “I won’t even pretend I get a choice. But Seth and Alexi have a head start, Connie. Any chance you could move up the wedding date?”

  Cal removed his glasses and pressed his fingers to his eyes. “I have a weak heart, Connie. That kind of offer should come with a warning.” He pointed to a foot-square plot next to Isaac’s. “Or next Wednesday, you might be doing this all over again with me down there.”

  Mel had purchased a double plot and told his father he’d done so. Cal, now set up in Mel’s bed, had said he wouldn’t let the extra expense go to waste, though he’d prefer not to take advantage of the offer anytime soon.

  “It’s settled, then,” Connie said, rising. “The first male baby born is named Isaac. Now, next item on the agenda. Cal’s living arrangement.”

  This time, Cal joined with the other men in exchanging glances. “Cal, you can stay in Mel’s apartment, right? Which means, Mel, you and Daphne will get your own place. So, since Ben hasn’t sold his house yet, you two could buy it.”

  Because Connie seemed to be overlooking the obvious, Mel stated it for her. “Daphne and I aren’t together.”

  Cal spoke. “Yet.”

  Now that he’d got his, Cal was holding out for Mel’s One Big Break, the kind of thing any father hopes for his son. No matter how the chips fell for him and Daphne, Mel would be forever grateful for her part in bringing Cal home to him.

  “How about we choose a different family night to talk about this, Connie?” Ben spoke mildly but in that special tone reserved for the sometimes indiscreet love of his life.

  Connie resumed her seat and launched into a funny story about the wedding plans.

  That night, after Mel had seen Cal safely inside the apartment, he drove over to Daphne’s motor home. She’d arranged for him to get the keys before leaving for the airport.

  He’d come by daily to check on it. After a week, he’d trundled the RV over to the local shop and had the headlight and grille replaced. When he’d brought it back to the site, he’d disconnected and removed the RV battery, locking it inside in case of theft.

  The interior of the motor home was a wreck. Daphne’s usual chaos had been ramped up to a new notch in her scramble to get to the airport. He’d not touched a thing out of respect, but tonight he made a mistake. He picked up a book, a biography of Jane Austen with a bookmark two-thirds of the way through. He set it on the dining room table. It didn’t belong there either, so he found a likely spot in a cupboard above her bed. After that, it only seemed sensible and helpful that he gather the others and store them away, too.

  Now that the books were off the bed, he might as well strip off the bedding and fold away the hide-a-bed.

  There was probably a place for the bedding. But he should probably wash it first.

  Once the load was on, he decided he might as well tidy some more until the cycle was done.

  Three loads later, the place was neat as a pin, except for the bathroom, where he’d hung towels and pajamas to dry. He rolled in the sliders and judged there was enough light left for him to refill the water tank.

  Except that meant reconnecting the battery.

  He could leave it until morning. No. He was on a roll.

  The battery reconnected, he backed the motor home up to the watering station and set to work.

  With the tank full, there was nothing left to do except park the unit and head home.

  Home. Sure, he’d do that.

  One thing first.

  He drove the motor home to the RV entrance and pulled up beside his truck. From his truck, he took out his charger and his Tim Hortons mug. He locked up his vehicle and climbed back into the motor home.

  Next, he stole into his apartment and threw some clothes and toiletries and a few other odds and ends together in a bag. He put it with the Spirit Lake tote Daphne had given to him for his birthday. Finally, he left a note for Cal.

  Outside Connie’s house, only the porch light was on, so he tucked his keys under the mat and sent a text to Connie, telling her that for the next few weeks, she could drive a real vehicle instead of her candy box on wheels. Work texts could wait until tomorrow.

  Then Mel got into the motor home and headed east.

  * * *

  DAPHNE WALKED DOWN the tree-lined sidewalk to her condo. She had always enjoyed this walk with the public gardens opposite, especially in the summer. Fran had often come over and they’d stroll through the acres, Daphne remarking on the flowers and Fran on the people.

  Well, never again. Fran’s memorial service had been a few hours ago.

  She had rallied when Daphne reached her side. She’d opened her eyes and scolded Daphne for coming when she ought to be with Mel.

  The next day, she’d asked, “What did you do with Frederick’s urn?”

  “Nothing. I brought it home with me.”

  “Good. You can take us both west when you go home to Mel.”

  Daphne hadn’t argued. Fran had then watched a talk show and sipped water, and eventually drifted off to sleep. Every time she woke, she asked if Dov, her baby grandson, was here yet.

  Fran was waiting for her grandson to arrive in this world so she could leave it. The days passed on without either a birth or death. Then, just over a week ago, Hannah went into labor. When Daphne had relayed the news to Fran, her face brightened. “Oh, finally,” she’d breathed.

  Baby Dov was born six hours later, and in a rare exception, whisked to the palliative care floor for Fran to touch the new baby’s cheek and give a faint smile when he let loose a terrific cry. She died an hour later.

  Daphne had endured a series of fourteen-hour days from then on, helping Moshe with funeral arrangements and the new baby. Now that the service for Fran was done, where Daphne had led the packed church in all the hymn singing, and Hannah’s family had descended with all their bustle, Daphne was looking forward to quiet.

  Except there, parked across the street, was The Stagecoach. Or did she just want it to be? It was quite conceivable that a similar RV existed, and that it would park during the summer season outside one of Halifax’s top tourist attractions.

  She crossed to the narrow, treed meridian in the middle of the street and peered at the front bumper.

  The headlight and grille were new, but, sure enough, there was the dent and scraped paint from the accident. Her summer home on wheels. How had it got here? Moshe had said nothing. Mel had said nothing. He’d not said much at all in the past weeks.

  He’d messaged her once two weeks ago to say that they’d laid baby Isaac to rest. And he’d sent his condolences via text about Fran’s passing. He had called first, but the reception was so bad that they’d ended the conversation two minutes later with him saying he’d call back soon.

  That had been a week ago, and no word. Letting go, he was. Not settling.

  Her phone rang. Mel.

  “Would you like to come over?” Mel appeared at the driver’s window, phone to his ear.

  He met her at The Stagecoach’s door and drew her into his arms. “Mel,” she said. “You’re here.”

  “Yep,” he said. “I buzzed up to your apartment, but there was no answer.”

  “No matter,” she said. “I found you.”

  “You want to come inside?” He indicated The Stagecoach.

  She shook her
head. “You must be heartily sick of it by now.”

  “It’s not so bad,” he said. “A little big for one.”

  If she missed his meaning, it lay naked in his eyes. He wanted her. He’d driven, alone, three thousand miles to be with her.

  It didn’t make any sense.

  “Mel. Before I left, you said you were letting go. I thought you meant me.”

  His arms tightened around her. “Of the past. Not my future.”

  “Oh. Oh.” She didn’t trust herself to stand. “Come. Let’s sit in my special spot.”

  Luckily, her bench under her maple was empty. They sat close together, his arm banded around her shoulders.

  “How long can you stay?”

  “As long as I’m welcome.” His hand tightened on her shoulder. “I’ll stay in the motor home, if you’re worried.”

  “I’m not. It’s just... I’m overwhelmed, to be honest.”

  “I’m sorry about Fran.”

  Daphne pillowed her head on Mel’s shoulder. “It has... I... Yes, me, too.” Squirrels descended pell-mell down one tree, across the grass and up another. The forerunner had something in its mouth. “How was your trip?”

  “Good. The memorabilia stuff came in handy. A lot more people know about Spirit Lake now.”

  She nestled closer. “I’m glad you liked my present in the end. I was going to solicit your opinion on something, actually.”

  “You were?”

  “I’m drafting a resignation letter.”

  He took in a deep breath, much deeper than she ever had while considering her options. “Are you sure? I could...move here, too. I’d have to work out what happens with the business. But I’m willing to do it. That’s what I’m trying to prove by coming here to your home. It sure is a pretty place. I didn’t realize the ocean was just down the street from you.”

  She believed him. You didn’t travel across the country unless you were certain of the risk. “No, this time I’ll come home to you. Your family is there. And I want my family portrait to have the same people in it as yours.”

  “But your job, your book—”

  “I can still write my book. Or a different one. I can still teach. Red Deer College is going to become a university, you know. I can do all that and still be your...”

  Oh. They hadn’t settled on what exactly she would be.

  Mel whispered against her hair, “I thought maybe for our honeymoon we could take the motor home out to the West Coast. Between the two of us, we could drive through the mountains. Both ranges. And home again. To Spirit Lake.”

  Daphne drank in his words of trust and belief in her to carry him through his fears. “I’d like that,” she said. “Besides, I have a promise to keep to Fran. I’ve got two urns to take out to the Pacific now.”

  “Did Fran opt for a fire extinguisher, too?”

  “A custom-made music box. It plays ‘Ode to Joy’ when you open it.”

  “Sounds like Fran.”

  The squirrel, apparently having deposited whatever was in her mouth, chattered from the top branches at another squirrel halfway up the trunk.

  “She should invite him up to her place,” Daphne said. “For a lemonade, perhaps.”

  “I hear it’s no ordinary lemonade.”

  “It isn’t. There’s a special story about it, you know.”

  “I’m sure he’d like that very much. Mind, he shouldn’t be pushy and let her pick the moment.”

  “Yes, after all...they’re already close enough right now to declare their undying love for each other.”

  “They are,” Mel said. “Let me declare mine. I love you, Daphne.”

  “And I love you, Mel.”

  They kissed. For no one’s benefit other than their own. The squirrels noisily negotiated further.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Tennessee Vet by Carolyn McSparren.

  Tennessee Vet

  by Carolyn McSparren

  CHAPTER ONE

  “THE CLOSEST SERVICE station that has snacks and drinks is eight miles away in that direction,” Emma Logan said and pointed out the window down the two-lane road to her left. “And it’s twelve miles in the other if you want to drive into Williamston. Can you stand to be so isolated? Seth and I live right across the road, but I’m either helping out down at the veterinary clinic or looking after whatever animals we’ve rescued. And in this condition—” she pointed down at her sizable belly “—I can’t pick you up if you fall.”

  Stephen MacDonald thumped his Malacca cane with the silver wolf’s head against the floor between his knees. “I do not fall, Emma. I limp. I am not an invalid.”

  “Then why hide out here? I’ve known you and your daughters since you all moved into the neighborhood years ago. I know you’re hiding. Takes one to know one. I came out here to hole up and lick my wounds when I lost my job and my fiancé, and look what happened.” She waved her hand at the living room of the farmhouse. From behind the back wall came the thud of nail guns and shouts of men. “It’s already nearly October. With Kicks almost here, we have to finish the nursery and the kitchen and the new bathroom fast before he, she or it arrives.”

  “Kicks?” He gave her the barest flicker of a smile. “I remember my Nina nicknamed our Elaine Salsa when she was carrying her. Anne was quieter. I can’t remember Nina’s name for her.” He turned away quickly, but not before Emma caught the flash of pain in his eyes.

  When Anne had called to make the appointment for her father to view Emma’s rental house, she’d warned her that she might not recognize Stephen.

  “He looks even taller now that he’s lost so much weight—like Abraham Lincoln without the beard. He’s also angry,” Anne had told her. “It’s almost as though he blames Mother for dying on him.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Emma had said. “She protected him from the world. I was terrified of him when I used to come to your house after school, until Nina showed me what a pushover he really is. And then his accident—it’s no wonder he’s bad-tempered. Pain makes everybody angry.”

  “Not like this. I hope he does rent your cottage, Emma. He’s not teaching until spring, and he’s driving us all nuts. Maybe writing his new textbook will pull him back into life.”

  Sitting across from him now in her living room, Emma saw what Anne meant. Stephen was perfectly polite, but he wasn’t quite there.

  “I assume you are calling him, her or it Kicks because it does?” Stephen asked as he nodded toward her midsection.

  “Does it ever. The doctor assures me it is not twins, which is all I cared about. Seth and I decided not to find out, which means the nursery will be your basic buttercup-yellow. Okay, enough about me. Why are you coming up here to hide out? I thought you were still in rehab. And you have a perfectly good house in Memphis. You could lock the door and turn off your phone if you want to write, couldn’t you?”

  “I do not intend to spend a day longer in rehab, Emma, even if our government would pay for it—which they wouldn’t. And I refuse to allow either of my children to become caregivers. If I were where they could get to me, I’d be up to my ears in casseroles and being ‘checked on’ a dozen times a day. I would get nothing done. Anne usually calls ahead when she comes to see me. Elaine always ‘just happens to be in the neighborhood.’ Nina...” His voice caught. He took a deep breath before he was able to continue. “Nina was my guard dog at the gate. No one disturbed me when I was working. Or if I was simply feeling curmudgeonly.

  “The official story is that I am moving to your cabin in the wilderness to work on my new textbook. You know, publish or perish? I already have tenure, but it doesn’t hurt to keep one’s name out there.”

  “Be careful. This place will suck you in. You’ll discover all sorts of interesting ways to take up your time that are not academic.”

  “Fine. I
need a quiet place where I am totally alone or surrounded by strangers. I am fed up with everyone I know commiserating with me over the accident. Nobody mentions Nina any longer. After three years, it is assumed I have gotten over my wife’s death. I have not. I’ll never be fully alive again without her, but that’s nobody else’s business.”

  “I suspect she would have kicked your butt if she thought you used her death as an excuse to stop living yourself.”

  “No doubt. Up to now I could hide in rehab and in hospitals. Since that is no longer an option, I am hiding in your rental cottage. At least I can avoid being checked out to see whether my limp is any better as I walk across campus.”

  “What do you expect?” Emma said. “You nearly lost your leg, Stephen.”

  “I know. I was there.”

  “If that truck had been any bigger, you probably wouldn’t be here to complain about your leg.”

  “No doubt. But I am here and I do complain on a regular basis, and I intend to finish my rehab out here in what my daughters call the middle of nowhere. My dean says ‘write, write, write that blasted textbook.’ The doctor says ‘walk, walk, walk on that leg.’ I’ll probably always have to use a cane, he says. No way, say I. I’ve already missed teaching the spring semester, I dropped my classes for summer school and I’m being allowed to take the fall semester as a sabbatical to write. By next spring I expect to be back a hundred percent.

  “Now, about the rent on— What do you call it? The Hovel?” He pointed across the street toward an old-fashioned Tennessee farmhouse sporting a fresh coat of pale gray paint and dark red shutters. “Doesn’t look very hovel-like to me.”

  “Not now, maybe, but you should have seen it before my stepmother, Andrea, came up and redecorated.”

  “I’m sure Andrea did a good job. She always does. So, how much rent? I may only be here for a couple of months full-time, but I will probably continue to use it on weekends, so I’ll be happy to sign a lease for six months with automatic renewal for another six.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of charging you rent.”

  Stephen cut her off by raising his hand. “No. Unless I pay the going rate, I cannot come. I am hardly destitute, Emma, and Andrea said you had redone the place to rent. So, how much per month?”