Clover Creek (Sweet Southern Nights Book 1)

by Heather Michelle

  Maybe no one had explained this to Garrett. Maybe he’d missed the memo.

  “I’m your biggest client,” Garrett argued without acknowledging that I’d cut him a heck of a deal.

  “You’re my oldest client. Don’t get confused.” I leaned against the head of the conference table and folded my arms across my chest. “So, what do you suggest I do, Garrett? Have my people fill your orders for free?”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “But you want me to lower the margin?” I asked as I stuffed my hands back in my pockets and lowered my chin. “Please tell me you didn’t fly all the way from Rhode Island just to ask for a discount.”

  Silence.

  Something was up. Garrett was a pain in the neck and sometimes a tad irrational, but this was out of character, and I was going to get to the bottom of it.

  Before Garrett had time to respond, one of the switch board operators burst into the conference room breathless and flushed like she was in a hurry to get there.

  “Mr. Sterling, I’m so sorry, but… it’s your father. He said it’s an emergency.” Rebecca stammered through her words.

  I felt the blood rush from my face all the way to my toes in a single whoosh. My stomach churned, and every possible worst-case-scenario flashed before my eyes. Jared Sterling didn’t call. It just wasn’t his thing. Especially since he’d gotten sick. The man didn’t talk on the phone. He didn’t talk much, period. My father was a quiet man who kept to himself. And he was far too stubborn to throw around words like emergency.

  As soon as my mouth stopped feeling like my lips were sewn shut, I excused myself from the meeting.

  We hurried down the wide corridor to the elevators. Rebecca matched me step-for-step.

  “He’s on line two,” she said as she pressed the up button.

  “Wait, he’s still on the phone? You put him on hold?” I couldn’t imagine my father agreeing to be put on hold.

  The silver doors opened, and we stepped inside. Rebecca cleared her throat. She fumbled with her fingers like she was nervous. “I had to.”

  “Probably a good idea. He never answers when I call him back.”

  “I don’t think that would’ve been possible anyway,” Rebecca nearly whispered.

  I leaned back against the wall and faced her. Her eyes bounced from one wall of the elevator to the other, but I caught her gaze in the mirror. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

  She looked like she was about to cry. “Mr. Sterling, your father… he’s calling from jail.”

  Chapter Six

  Jayce

  If there was one thing I knew about Clover Creek, it was that nothing ever changed. The moment the tiny purple blossoms from Wisteria trees hit my windshield, the warm summer breeze blew them away. Old man Johnson sat in his usual spot on the wooden bench outside the barber shop, reading the paper and waving at people as they walked by.

  And my father sat in a jail cell on the second floor of the police department.

  The man who wore flannel shirts, a crooked smile and steel-toed boots and taught me that coffee should only be consumed black had been arrested. I supposed some things did change.

  “How much does he need?” I asked the sheriff’s deputy on duty.

  The officer spun around in his chair and set the magazine he was reading on the desk in front of him. His shoulders shook when he laughed at the sight of my open checkbook. He stopped chewing on the end of a plastic straw long enough to reply.

  “Unless you’ve got a miracle in that bank account, he’s here for the weekend,” he said, then stuck the straw back into his mouth.

  “Right. My father told me the judge is out until Monday. If you could just give me his contact information—”

  The deputy’s laughter rumbled throughout the entire room. He leaned back in his chair and held his stomach until he finally got it under control. “Son, it’s after 5:00 on Friday and Abigail Cunningham doesn’t come in on weekends. Not even for pretty city boys like you.” He emphasized her name, letting me know that the judge wasn’t a he after all. Like he took great pride in making the announcement.

  The underhanded insult about my appearance didn’t even process thanks to the immediate throbbing in my ears. Abigail Cunningham. Claire Cunningham’s mother. She hated me. And for good reason. I hurt a lot of people when I left. I knew Claire’s mother was a lawyer. Now she was the city judge. Of course, she was. No wonder my father called me. He thought Abigail would listen to me, that she would help me because of my history with her daughter. Pops was reaching pretty far on that one. The last thing Abigail Cunningham would want to do was help me.

  “Can I at least speak to him? To my father?”

  The deputy leaned forward and studied me for a minute before answering. He pulled the straw from his mouth once more. “You’re gonna need to leave the jacket out here,” he said then leaned back in his chair again.

  I went straight to Clover Creek from work without changing. I didn’t pack a bag. Didn’t even bring a toothbrush. I’d planned on being in town two hours, three at the most. Not stuck here until Monday. And unless I paid a visit to Abigail, that’s how it was going to be. Even then, I wasn’t sure she’d hear me out. My father was charged with a DUI and destruction of property. Not exactly something you talk your way out of. Then there was all the inevitable questions and memories I had been avoiding for thirteen years that were bound to come up. Leaving my jacket in the front office was the least of my worries.

  “Yeah, that’s not a problem.” I slipped the jacket off my shoulders.

  The slightly overweight and heavily judgmental deputy passed me a clipboard. “Fill this out and I’ll need to make a copy of your driver’s license.”

  ***

  Ten minutes later, I wished I’d kept my jacket. Something told me the deputy knew that when he took it. He was probably sitting at his desk laughing around his half-chewed straw. The visitation room was cold and dark, except for a single fluorescent bulb hanging from two chains in the middle of the ceiling.

  The door opened and light from the hallway flooded the room. My father walked in and slid his chair across the concrete floor then took a seat on the opposite side of the small wooden table.

  “You called me here to talk to Claire’s mother?”

  “I can’t miss work tomorrow. I’ll lose my job,” my father said with desperation in his tone.

  “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you got behind the wheel.”

  “I wasn’t drinking, Jayce. You of all people should know that. I haven’t had a drop since the day your mother left.”

  My dad had always told me that my mom walked out of our lives because of his drinking, but I had a feeling it had more to do with me and less to do with my dad’s bad habits. My dad never said as much, but I was pretty good at picking up unspoken clues… and overhearing conversations. Raising a child freaked her out. She was twenty years old when I was born and nowhere near ready to stop living her life her way.

  “How do you explain the DUI? Or the broken fence,” I asked, hoping there was some kind of miscommunication.

  “It was a rough day. I took my medication before I left work, hoping it would kick in as soon as I got home. I don’t know what happened. One minute I was fine. The next minute the road was blurry. I got dizzy, and then… there was the fence.” He leaned across the table. His eyes were full of expectation when they met mine. “I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.”

  That was the truth. Jared Sterling was a stubborn man. In all the years since I’d left Clover Creek, my father had never asked for a single thing. Not even when he found out he was sick. I’d offered to move him to Houston, but he refused. I’d offered to hire a live-in nurse, but he wouldn’t have that either. He needed me to fix this. He said he wasn’t drinking, and I believed him. My father had worked at the steel plant for nineteen years. He was so close to retirement. I couldn’t let him lose his job over a misunderstanding.

&nbs
p; It looked like I would be paying a visit to Abigail Cunningham.

  Chapter Seven

  Claire

  I stored my clothes in the hand-painted armoire next to the fireplace. Mrs. Abraham said every room had one. I didn’t know if she meant the armoire or the fireplace, but they were both a comforting touch. I changed into a navy-blue sundress and slid my feet into a pair of strappy sandals. I even managed to throw on a little makeup in order not to give my mother a total coronary.

  Mrs. Abraham was settled back in her rocker when I went downstairs to meet the cab. “Please tell Abigail I said hello and that her baked apple crumble recipe was voted as one of the favorites in the church cookbook,” she said, looking up from her cross-stitch circle.

  No one could top my mother’s baked apple crumble. My mouth watered just thinking about it. “She’ll be happy to hear that. Thank you.”

  ***

  Abigail Cunningham, pillar of the community. That was my mother. They might as well have put a star on the sidewalk of Main Street and engraved her name inside. She was a local celebrity. In the eyes of Clover Creek, the woman did no wrong.

  The whole town probably expected that I would grow up to be exactly like my mother. Go to law school, follow in Abigail Cunningham’s footsteps and take her seat on the bench as the town judge when she retired. Or maybe they had figured I’d go to medical school and take over my father’s practice. Instead, here I was, neither one of those things, with a failed marriage and in desperate need of a pedicure. I shuddered when I looked down at the chipped pink polish on my toes. Such a perfect representation of my life at the moment —falling apart but it had potential.

  “Is it the one with the brick mailbox?” the cab driver asked.

  I didn’t realize we had already made it to my old neighborhood.

  “Yes, with the black truck in the driveway,” I replied, pointing to the home on my right. I probably could’ve just said the biggest house on the block without ever giving an address. He pulled into the circle driveway and shifted into park. I climbed out of the car and handed him a twenty through the window. “Thanks.”

  Three stories of red brick stared back at me, towering over me, scolding me for hiding from it for far too long. I took a deep breath and reminded myself of the good memories. But those always lead back to Jayce.

  My mom approached as soon as I walked through the door, a sympathetic smile painted across her flawless face. If Stepford Wives were a real thing, my mother would be the spokesmodel. She held both arms out as she stepped closer, her head tilted to one side as she took in my appearance. Her open-mouthed smile faded to a tight-lipped one, letting me know I was subpar.

  Shoes off at the door, Claire.

  I didn’t even wait for my mom to say it. I kicked out of my sandals and braced myself.

  “Oh, honey. I’m so glad you made it,” she said, circling her arms around my waist.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I needed a shower and some fresh clothes.”

  My mother scanned my outfit and whimpered a judgmental hmm. Apparently, fresh wasn’t as impressive as designer.

  Abigail peered over my shoulder like she expected something to appear before she finally closed the door. “Where’s David?”

  Oh boy, here it goes.

  “He didn’t come.” And please don’t ask why. I said a silent prayer. Dear Lord, I’ll sacrifice my right kidney if You could just make it stop. Please make it stop.

  “A husband should stand by his wife in a time like this,” my mother said through pursed lips.

  He should also love, honor, and cherish, which I was pretty sure meant staying out of other women’s bedrooms but alas… Thankfully, he wasn’t my husband anymore, and I could gladly stand all by myself.

  I glanced up at the ceiling. That’s it. I’m keeping my kidney.

  “There’s my beautiful girl,” my dad sang when he entered the room.

  I closed my eyes and let out a huff. Does this mean You get the kidney?

  My father’s voice was as sweet as the heaven’s opening up, and the angels singing hallelujah. No more talk about David. My eyes darted to the ceiling once more. We’ll finish this conversation later.

  I immediately found comfort in my father’s arms. I’d spent most of my life trying to make up for what happened when I was five-years old. I felt like my mother punished us both for that day, when it was really my fault. I never should’ve gone with the lady. I should’ve known better. I’d made a mistake, and my dad paid the price. My mother probably still blamed him even though that was a lifetime ago. I wrapped my arms around his middle and smiled.

  “Hey, Daddy. How are you doing?”

  If I was doing any better, I’d be you.

  He was every bit my grandma’s son. Every ounce of kindness that was within my Gram was passed down to my father. He squeezed me tight then kissed the top of my head.

  “If I was doing any better, I’d be you,” he said, confirming my thoughts. No matter how many times I’d asked him that question or under what circumstances, he’d always had the same answer.

  “How’s Gram? What’s going on?”

  It was the question of the day, and I wasn’t about to ask my mother. She had a flair for the dramatic, and I wanted to get right to the point.

  “Maybe we should have a seat in the living room,” he said. He pulled back and guided me by the elbow into the other room.

  Winter nights in front of the fireplace listening to my father’s childhood stories were some of my favorite memories. I settled into my favorite corner of the U-shaped sectional and tucked my feet under my butt, making sure my dress covered my knees. I looked around the room, expecting to see my Gram walk in at any moment. She didn’t.

  My father took a seat in his leather recliner and my mother walked into the kitchen and began cutting lemons for tea. Every once in a while, she looked across the granite countertop and through the brick archway into the living room and smiled. It almost looked genuine.

  “A while back, we noticed she started to forget things. Little things. Like where she left her purse. She’s getting older. We didn’t think much of it,” he said, and I couldn’t help but wonder how long ago, a while back was. He cleared his throat and continued. “Then we started to notice odd behavior. She stopped wanting to go into town with your mother. She missed a few Sundays at church.”

  My mother walked in with a tray of iced tea. My father took one of the glasses and a piece of lemon. I took the tea, no lemon, just like my mother. Lemon is bad for your teeth. She thought I’d forgotten. No way. Those priceless little parenting gems were branded into my brain. They were as much a part of me as knowing my ABC’s. They weren’t going anywhere.

  “We’d walk into the kitchen and find her rummaging through the drawers with no idea what she was looking for,” my mom added as she took a seat at the other end of the sofa. She pulled two coasters from the stack in the middle of the coffee table and handed one to me.

  “So, where is she now?” I asked, because I was too afraid to ask the other obvious question.

  “She’s at home. Annie is with her. For now,” my father said.

  For now. With Annie? I was thankful for that, but Annie wasn’t family. She was a kid who grew up down the street.

  I set my glass on the coaster and straightened my shoulders. My pulse pounded loudly in my ears. The silence in the air was thicker than morning fog in a New England bay. The unspoken words were heavy. The clues were obvious. I knew why I was here. I knew what was wrong with my Gram. I couldn’t imagine how difficult it was for my mother to swallow, knowing the disease she’d spent so many years despising was now so close to home.

  When I was little, it didn’t make sense to me. The woman asking me to go for ice cream, calling me Natalie, then crying for no reason. But as I got older, the pieces started to fall together. The woman couldn’t help it. She was sick. She was someone’s Gram. Someone sat in their living room one day having the same conversation about her
that my parents and I had now. And my mother had made that woman a villain. I huffed a laugh under my breath and hoped my parents didn’t catch it.

  Well played, karma. Well played.

  “Is it…” The words got caught in my throat. I forced a cough to make room for them to come out. “Does Gram have dementia?” My father nodded. My mother sat so silent that I had to stare at her chest to see if she was breathing. “And you left her alone? With a stranger?”

  My mother finally decided to find her voice. “Annie is not a stranger, Claire. She’s—”

  “She’s not family,” I argued. They left my Gram at home. With the girl that owns a clothing boutique.

  “There was an accident. She won’t leave her house,” my father chimed in. His authoritative tone silenced the room. Or maybe it was the word accident. Either way, it took me a minute to remember how to speak.

  “What do you mean accident? Is Gram okay? Dad, tell me what happened.” My voice was a tad more frantic than I liked. I hated losing my composure in front of my mother. The eighteen-foot ceilings didn’t leave enough room to breathe anymore. The large open space felt too small for the three of us. “Thank you for the tea. Thank you for being honest with me. Now, if it’s okay with you both, I’m going to see my Gram,” I said then stood to leave.

  “Claire, she’s fine,” my father began but the sound of the doorbell chiming kept him from continuing. He looked over at my mother. “Are you expecting someone?”

  Too late. I was already headed for the door.

  Chapter Eight

  Claire

  I opened the front door and my stomach dropped. Jayce. My eyes froze on his long, lean frame. My breath caught in my throat. He was handsome as a boy, but as a man, Jayce Sterling was… Wow. Just. Wow. If what they said about milk was true, he must drink a gallon a day. Why was he here? Had he been talking to my parents all these years? Why didn’t they tell me?