***
Baxter grabbed one of my shoes between his teeth and darted across the foyer and into living room the second I kicked them off at the door. I was too mentally exhausted to chase the pup the way I normally did. He made it to the middle of the shaggy gray area rug and stopped, looking up at me with expectant eyes.
“Not today, Bax,” I told him as I tossed my keys on the console table. The disappointed Yorkie dropped the shoe and flopped down on his belly, which I was convinced was the human equivalent to rolling his eyes.
“Rough day, pumpkin?” Stella said from the kitchen. She leaned against the refrigerator drinking a glass of grapefruit juice.
Who drinks grapefruit juice? On purpose? While not being held at gunpoint?
My roommate. That’s who.
I fell for it once and stole a drink when she first moved in. Never again. As much as it looked like a fruity refreshment worthy of a tiny umbrella and a cherry, it was actually a ninja assault on my taste buds.
Stella swirled the liquid around the ice then took a long pull of her drink. She looked flawless in her black and white pinstripe jumpsuit and four-inch heels. I wanted to pick up my other sandal and throw it at her. At 5’9” with long, jet black hair, Stella looked like a Brazilian supermodel. Normally, women like her made me want to vomit in my mouth. Right after I silently cursed them with premature balding and a loveless marriage. Nobody should be allowed that much perfection. But I loved Stella. It was unicorns and rainbows from the first hello. Stella was the yin to my yang. I kept her grounded, and she kept me from growing into a bitter old cat lady.
I walked across the hardwood floor and dropped a stack of mail on the kitchen island. “I saw David this morning at Korie’s coffee shop. He was with her. I don’t think they saw me, but—” I couldn’t even finish my sentence.
Part of me wanted to talk about what happened with David, and part of me wanted to take his name and stick it in a vault then toss it in the belly of a volcano so no one would ever speak it again. Sometimes I wanted to cry until there was nothing left. Other times I wanted to spray paint all the windows on his house black so that he always overslept. Because that’s what he deserved, to live in darkness.
Stella set her glass of juice on the counter and pulled me into a hug. “I’m so sorry, hun.”
“It’s a small town. It was bound to happen.” I knew all about small towns. What was I thinking when I left home, hopping from one small town to another? Nothing changed. Same story, different zip code.
“FYI, I told all of our friends to stop going to that hussy’s salon,” Stella said, and it made me laugh.
Five weeks ago, I found out my husband had cheated on me with the woman that cuts his hair. Four weeks and six days ago, I kicked him out of our house. And three days ago, I found out I wasn’t having his baby. Thank God for miracles. Babies and divorces went together about as well as grapefruits and ice cubes.
David tried calling for the first week after I made him leave. Apparently, that’s what five years of marriage got me, seven days of effort. He didn’t even show up for the divorce hearing, which would probably explain the missed period and nausea. Stress. I didn’t see any reason to drag out a long separation. I wasn’t taking him back. And as far as the state of Georgia (and I) was concerned, the marriage was over the minute David left our bedroom.
My phone rang, interrupting my conversation with Stella. I pulled it from my pocket and mouthed a silent prayer that it wasn’t Colby. I hoped he would at least wait a day before calling.
It was my mother. My mother never called. After years of getting sent straight to voicemail, I supposed she got the hint. I had no doubt that every time I hit the little red circle when her name popped up on my screen, that another tiny blood vessel exploded somewhere in her forehead. Another reason for Botox, I suppose. My mother loathed rejection and defiance, and I was a master at both.
“Claire, I need you to come home,” she said before I even said hello.
“Is everything okay? Is Dad—”
“Your dad is fine. It’s Gram.”
She didn’t have to say another word.
“I’m on my way.” I hung up without even saying goodbye.
Chapter Four
Claire
“Do you want me to go with you?” Stella asked after I told her about the phone call. She knew how I felt about Clover Creek. She knew I spent most of my adult life running from that town, running from my parents, and running from my past.
I left Clover Creek in a trail of dust one month after I graduated from high school and never looked back. Texas and I broke up a long time ago. With no hope of ever getting back together. The last time I visited was two years ago for Christmas. That trip was enough to remind me of why I left home in the first place.
“I’ll be fine. You just hold down the fort here, ‘kay?” I lifted my head and smiled.
Stella had that look in her eye that said she knew I was full of it. Any other time, she might have been right. But I was kind of looking forward to getting out of Hickory Falls. Anything was better than bumping into my ex-husband and his mistress all summer long. As much as I hated the reason behind it, that call couldn’t have come at a better time.
Stella studied me a minute longer. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Okay then.” She tugged at the bottom tips of my long blonde hair. “We should probably get you packed.”
***
Typically, staying with my parents should be the best idea— Sleeping in my old room, talking about my accomplishments and reliving my childhood. Only that was a horrible idea in reality. It sounded like the perfect Hallmark movie, but my life was more like a Lifetime/Comedy Central lovechild than a feel-good story.
Stories about my childhood brought up memories I’d spent years trying to forget. Memories of lying in bed and hearing arguments meant to stay behind closed doors. “How could you leave her alone,” my mom yelled. “She wasn’t alone,” my dad yelled back. Every time I thought of that day, I heard my parents arguing all over again. They always fought. Because of me.
When I was five-years old, I was abducted from the doctor’s office where my dad worked. Okay, abducted might be a strong word. I was taken. It was only for a short while, and I wasn’t hurt. I knew I wasn’t supposed to leave with strangers, but in my eyes, the woman wasn’t strange. She had reminded me of my Gram. She was nice. Even though she kept calling me Natalie. I’d told her my name was Claire, but she’d just laughed and shook her head. The Gram lookalike had taken me to the McDonald’s across the street and bought me ice cream. She’d convinced me that it was okay to walk to the park near the town square, that my father knew where I was. She was the grown-up, so I believed her. We walked to the park while I ate my vanilla/chocolate twist cone. The curly slide at the park was always my favorite. I climbed the ladder then slid down and laughed at least a hundred times, or so it seemed, then I’d gone to sit next to the lady on one of the wooden benches. She seemed lost —like she’d forgotten where she was— and she started to cry. It frightened me. Sometimes I can still feel the dread rushing through my veins when I think about it. I held the woman’s hand and asked her to take me back to my dad. She just kept crying. I remember wishing I hadn’t eaten all my ice cream, wishing I had had some left to share with her, to make her happy again.
Finally, a policeman showed up. He asked his routine-type questions and explained that the woman didn’t mean to call me by the wrong name. He explained that my parents had been looking for me, that they were very worried. Later, I’d found out that I’d been gone for hours and my mother had the whole town in hysterics. It took years for me to figure out what exactly had happened that day and what it all meant, but that didn’t stop my mother from going off the deep end with all the worst-case-scenarios.
You could’ve been hurt. What if she had taken you out of Clover Creek and never come back? If she was able to get to you that easily, someone dangerous could too.
&nbs
p; I had spent my entire adult life trying to bury those memories. Memories of not being able to do all the fun stuff my friends got to do, like hang out at the neighborhood park or ride my bike to the next street over. Memories of sympathetic smiles and whispers in passing every time we spotted someone who knew what had happened to me. You were really lucky. Thank God she didn’t hurt you. I ran from all of it. But mostly I ran from the memories of a brown-haired boy with eyes of honey— a boy who filled a void then walked away, leaving it bigger than it was before he ever made all his broken promises.
That was one thing I knew I wouldn’t have to face on my trip home. Jayce Sterling didn’t visit Clover Creek, Texas. When he left, he left. No kiss good-bye. No explanation. Just a letter on my dashboard and a bracelet made of clovers.
My mother offered to pick me up from the Houston airport. Hard pass. Being alone in a confined space with my mom wasn’t my idea of a good time. So, I took a cab. It took a little convincing (and a not-so-little tip) to get the guy to make the hour-long drive outside the city limits to Clover Creek. But even with the tip, it was still cheaper than an Uber.
Houston traffic was light. The world was quiet. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Maybe that was my brain’s way of preparing me for what was about to happen. A quiet calm before the storm. I leaned my head against the car window and watched as the world crept by. There were no trees or flowerbeds like those along the streets in Hickory Falls or Clover Creek. Just towers of glass and steel rising from the ground and soaring high in the sky.
When I was younger, visiting Houston was a big deal. The memories were fuzzy, but I remembered not ever seeing beyond the skyscrapers and busy roads. It all seemed larger than life, and I supposed in a lot of ways it still did. The difference was that now I knew the world was so much bigger. There was so much more. Everything changed after I was taken. Crowds and big cities made my mother nervous. The world suddenly stopped at the Clover Creek town line.
I wasn’t ready to see my mom. I wasn’t ready for her judgmental glare. You’re so thin. Are you eating well? We should go to Annie’s boutique and get you some nice makeup. Jane is free this afternoon if you want to do something with that hair. As if messy buns and sweatshirts were some sort of mortal sin.
I hadn’t told my parents about David or the divorce, and I wasn’t telling them now. I didn’t want to see the disappointment in my father’s eyes or listen to my mother’s I told you so.
Three days. I just needed to survive one weekend. I could fake a happy life for three days. I hoped.
***
The cab dropped me off in front of the Clover Creek B&B. I followed the brick walkway through the massive lawn and to the front door. The large white columns didn’t seem as tall as they had when I was a little girl. The bright red rocking chairs and black shutters were the only splash of color on the white Victorian style home. Leaves from the hanging ferns swayed gracefully in the warm summer breeze. The whole thing was like a life-size Norman Rockwell painting.
When I was little this was my favorite place to visit on holidays. Mrs. Abraham was always over-the-top with her decorating, and there was always a party at the B&B. Ain’t no party like a B&B party. Not in Clover Creek, anyway. This was where I was in life. Most people relived their glory days thinking about frat parties and clubbing ‘til the sun came up, and my favorite memories were of an old woman and her decorations. I really needed to get out more.
Halloween was always my favorite. Every Halloween, my childhood best friend Avery and I would weave through a maze of scarecrows, hay bales, and potted chrysanthemums to dig our fists into buckets of candy. Sometimes a stray piece of hay would find its way into our trick-or-treat bags. Tiny, fake ghosts swayed in the breeze as they hung from tree branches. There was always a Jack-O-Lantern carving contest and Mrs. Abraham would line the pumpkins up along the front porch of the inn afterward. And every year, without fail, Mrs. Abraham dressed up as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz.
The moment I walked through the door, I was greeted with a smile and the scent of sweet gardenia. “Claire Cunningham, as I live and breathe,” Mrs. Abraham said, setting her cross-stitch hoop to the side. The heavy wooden rocking chair creaked when she grabbed hold of the arms to help herself stand.
I rolled my luggage across the hardwood floor, stopping on the wool rug in front of the fireplace. A candle flickered on the mantle, illuminating a portrait of the front of the inn. There were stories about a boy who died in Afghanistan years ago, before I was old enough to know what Afghanistan was. I only knew about him because of a mural he painted on the back wall of the high school gym. Thomas Abraham. That was his name. He’d left his signature on the bottom corner of the mural. TA. And on the bottom corner of the artwork on the mantle, painted in shiny gold, were the initials TA. The name, the painting, the mural. It all made sense. Thomas Abraham was Mrs. Abraham’s son. He had to be. I wanted to ask about the painting but didn’t.
“Hi, Mrs. Abraham. How have you been?” I asked instead.
The older woman heaved an exaggerated sigh then shook her head. Her wire-rimmed glasses slipped down her nose, so she pushed them back in place with one finger. “Oh, somewhere between better and best.”
Mrs. Abraham took a seat in a wingback chair behind a clawfoot desk and started thumbing through the pages of a spiral guest book. “Here you are,” she said. She tapped her finger against the paper. “You know, when you first called to book a room, I couldn’t help but wonder why you weren’t staying with your parents.”
Oh, Mrs. Abraham, you know what curiosity did to the cat…
Of course, she would wonder. Most normal people don’t stay at bed and breakfasts when there’s a perfectly fine room waiting for them at their childhood home. Mrs. Abraham never was one to mind her business, though.
She held a ballpoint pen in my direction then slid the guest book to the edge of the desk. I wondered if the book was a preference or if she’d just waged a silent war against modern technology. I looked through the list of names before mine then did a double-take. I had to have read wrong. He didn’t come to Clover Creek. Ever. The floor turned to lava, and I felt like I was sinking. While burning alive. Not a good combination. My nerves fluttered in my belly. I was about to vomit all over Mrs. Abraham’s freshly polished wood.
Jayce Sterling.
“He comes to town about once a month,” Mrs. Abraham said, apparently knowing the reason for my sudden pale face. “Since his daddy got sick.” The smile on the older woman’s face revealed the thoughts going on behind her eyes. She knew I would see the name. She knew our history. The whole town did. Everyone had known Jayce and Claire. Now everyone just knew Jayce. And they knew Claire.
I didn’t think I could speak. “Wait, Mr. Sterling is sick?” I asked when I finally found my voice.
Mrs. Abraham nodded. Her smile faded. “His liver. Started about a year ago.” The woman slowly shook her head. “My momma used to say the past has a way of catching up with us. I guess poor old Jared finally got tired of running.”
Running from what? He had nothing to run from. Jared Sterling was one of the kindest men I had ever known. He was so strong, so healthy. Now he was weak and sick. Sick enough to bring Jayce back home.
I signed my name in the empty space then set the pen on the desk. “Thank you, Mrs. Abraham,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like my own.
The woman handed me a gold key hanging from a plastic heart-shaped key chain. Another apparent weapon in her battle against technology. Way to stick it to the man, Mrs. Abraham.
“You’re welcome, dear. It’s good to see you home.” There was a gleam in her eye, like she knew a secret I didn’t know. “Oh, and I’m so sorry about your grandmother. Justine is one of the good ones,” Mrs. Abraham added as I turned toward the staircase.
Great. The town gossip factory knew more about what was wrong with my Gram than I did. Thanks, Mother. I was too exhausted to continue the conversation, so I just turned and nodded over my shoulder.
“Thank you.”
Ten minutes in Clover Creek, and I was already ready to leave.
Chapter Five
Jayce
Static on an AM radio station talk show. That’s what Garrett Frost’s voice sounded like echoing off the walls of the conference room. He reminded me of my tenth-grade biology teacher. In fact, the only thing about Biology that I remembered more than how much I hated Coach Nelson’s voice, was how much I loved sitting next to Claire. Sometimes I would draw caricatures of Coach in my notebook then hold them up so that Claire could see. She would laugh so hard she almost swallowed her gum. That laugh. It did things to me.
I was tempted to pull out my notebook and draw a cartoon version of Garrett. But Claire wasn’t there to laugh. There was nothing other than the cloudy view outside the row of windows to distract me.
“Don’t you agree?”
Someone was talking.
“Jayce?”
It was Garrett.
I whipped my head around as soon as I recognized the voice. Sydney glared at me from her seat at the mahogany conference table. One of the board members repeatedly clicked her pen while another flipped through the pages of a manila folder far too quickly to be reading anything.
I stuffed my hands into my pockets and walked away from the window… and from haunting memories of an infectious laugh. “Don’t I agree with what?”
Garrett rolled his eyes and tossed his head back. “That the margin is too high,” he answered with a sigh.
I took the six steps to close the gap between myself and Garrett then looked the man in the eye. “The margin is too high?” I repeated because surely, I hadn’t heard him right. Garrett shrugged his shoulders. “You do realize we sell to you at cost plus labor?”
Clover Creek (Sweet Southern Nights Book 1) Page 2