The Way Home

by Jean Brashear

  She glanced at him, and he thought, for a second, that tears glittered. “Once you loved a girl who was different,” she murmured, and lifted her bag. “But we’re living your life, James, the one you said you didn’t want. The one you asked me to make sure you left behind.” She touched his cheek, and her eyes were as beautiful as ever but so sad that his own grew damp.

  “I don’t think I can live this way anymore. Something inside me is dying, and I can’t—” Her voice broke, and she spun away.

  He grabbed her arm. “Bella, we can fix this. Just tell me what you want and I’ll make it happen, but don’t leave. Or, let me go with you.”

  She stood quivering in his grasp, head bowed. “I never thought I’d say these words, but…” She glanced back over her shoulder. “I don’t want you with me, James. At least, not right now. And if you love me, you’ll let me go.”

  “For how long?” He could barely choke out the question.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bella, this is crazy. We belong together. We always have.”

  Her eyes filled then. “I thought that was true.”

  “It is, damn it. You know it is. Bella, you can’t go. How can we repair anything if you’re not here?”

  “Not everything is a puzzle to be solved. Sometimes there are no clear answers.” She smiled at him then, through tears rolling down her cheeks. “Logic can’t fix this.”

  “Love can, damn it. How can you just walk away? How can you leave me?”

  “Please,” she whispered.

  Fury and fear rendered his voice harsh. “Go ahead, then. You’ve got your mind made up. You don’t really care what this does to us, do you?”

  She held herself very straight as she walked slowly to the door. “I’m doing this for us, James. For what we once were.” She bit her lip. “Be well, my love.”

  And then he uttered the words he wished daily, hourly, he could retract.

  “If you leave now, Bella, there may be nothing for you to come back to,” he roared as she vanished from sight.

  He’d listened, over and over, both in dreams and waking, for the faintest murmur of a response from her, but as far as he knew, Bella had left him with only his angry threats ringing in her ears.

  He sagged onto the mattress and buried his face in his hands.

  Then he rose from the bed they’d shared so many nights, and left the room that had once been their haven. At the doorway, he stopped, viewing it all as if for the first time, and contrasting the impeccable good taste of cool, muted shades and pricey antiques, with the bedrooms of their early days, brimming with flamboyant paisley hangings, eye-popping batik furniture covers, macramé tables and plants everywhere, most of which she’d grown herself from cuttings and seeds obtained free.

  Something inside me is dying.

  The evidence had been before him all along—the home that might as well have been his mother’s, the clothing she wore that no longer bore the mark of the magpie.

  Bella. I remember the girl you were. How much I loved her. What sparkle she brought to my life.

  I swear that when I find you, I will spend the rest of my days nurturing whatever is left of her within you.

  And I will find you.

  Knowing he would not sleep this night, that he couldn’t stand to be in this bed without her again, James strode down the stairs to his office. He would tie up his own loose ends, so that the moment he found out where Bella was, he could responsibly leave to go after her.

  People depended on him to be steady, and however rocky he felt, he would do his best by them.

  But if push came to shove, Bella was his first priority. Too often in the past, she hadn’t been.

  To the end of his days, he would regret that.

  THE NIGHT CREPT IN through the window, tree branches chattering against the hoot of an owl. She drew her new fleece robe around her. Soon the ever-present wind would be cold and snow would fall.

  Would she still be here? Or would her memory have returned and she would be certain where she belonged?

  Belong. She clasped the word to her bosom, attempting to imagine how that felt. How did you know where you were meant to be? Lucky Draw was becoming more familiar by the day and some of its three hundred or so residents evolving into what might be friends.

  What was a friend? Did she have any in that life she’d left behind?

  Why had she gone? Had she chosen to be alone, so far from the South from which her accent indicated she had come? Or was she a transplant who now lived nearby, and she was only slightly off her chosen path? The questions circled her like raptors, each one seeking the moment when fear rendered her vulnerable to a deadly strike.

  But more than anything, she could not afford to be weak. If darkness and solitude enervated her, made her want to lie down and weep, then they must be avoided at all costs. She would remain busy from morning until night, until she was so exhausted that sleep would overtake her without this dreaded time when longing pierced her to the heart, sliced away what little armor she could manage.

  She could try being aloof and silent, she supposed, but within her was a tearing, agonizing need for connection. To reach out; to have a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on. Someone who’d known her as a girl, who’d cherished her as a woman.

  And someone, lots of someones, for her to love.

  Suddenly, she had the sensation of a baby’s head beneath her hand, of stroking fine hair, dark and straight. A tender part revealed pale skin, and as her hand moved downward, she touched a small ear, a cheek, a chin—

  Breathless, she bit her lip and waited for more.

  Mama. A voice, young and adoring.

  She closed her eyes and focused hard.

  One glimpse of brown eyes, and—

  Nothing.

  She shook her head. “No,” she moaned. Extended her hand to recapture—

  Gone.

  The rush of love bowled her over. Knocked her legs right out from under her, and she sank to the floor, head bowed, gripping her fingers for fear the memory would be lost once more.

  Mama. The child’s voice echoed in her head. She squeezed her eyes to prevent the face from drifting away.

  Don’t leave me, baby. Please don’t…

  On her knees, she rocked, her arms empty beyond bearing, her heart full and aching. For an instant, she thought she could feel a bundle of blankets.

  Could see a man’s hand cradling the tiny head, fingers brushing her breast. Feel sunshine and joy pouring from her to him and back, through the body of this child.

  More, please…oh, please, please…let me see more.

  Long after the images had faded and she was alone again, she remained hunched over her imaginary burden, rocking and sobbing with a desperate yearning flooding her chest. The night surrounded her again, and she came to herself in this place that no longer felt familiar, only strange and…wrong.

  Even as the loneliness overpowered her—

  Hope, faint as breath, flickered to life.

  She had loved. Had been loved.

  And she’d had a memory of a life, if confusing. The child’s voice was too old for the infant’s face. Were they the same person?

  Urgency zinged through her. She must write this down, keep every snippet, for surely—oh, please, God, surely—there would be more. And somehow, she would piece them together and find out where she belonged.

  Frantically, she searched the apartment, but neither she nor Sam had thought about having pen and paper here. She glanced at the clock: 3:00 a.m. Her gaze darted toward the house. Sam would be sleeping. He needed his rest.

  So did she, but she was terrified to lie down, for fear she would forget. That the endless void would swallow this precious clue.

  Sam would understand, she thought.

  She charged through the door on winged feet and charged down the stairs, across the yard. “Sam—” She pounded on the backdoor, all the while clutching at each detail, over and over again. “Sam, wake up—”


  Footsteps thundered. Sam yanked the door open. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Are you—” He pulled her inside, scanned her from head to foot.

  “No. I’m fine, I’m okay. Sam, I need paper, a pen—” She raced to the pad she knew he kept by the phone, crying and laughing at the same time.

  “What?” His voice was rough from sleep. “Why?”

  She found the supplies. “I remembered something. I have to write it down before—”

  He shook his head as if to clear it. “That’s great. What was it?”

  She paused in her scribbling, feeling a smile stretch wide. “A child.” Tears began again as wonder overcame her. “Sam…oh, Sam, I think I have a child.”

  He stood there, blinking in the light.

  “You said I hadn’t given birth, but I could have adopted, couldn’t I? Oh, God, Sam, it was wonderful and terrible at the same time. I heard a voice. I could feel the hair.” She halted. “I saw a swaddled infant, and—” Her head lifted abruptly as a new detail emerged. “And a man’s hand, Sam. Cradling the baby’s head, and we were happy—oh, beyond happy. We were a family, Sam, the three of us, and I felt so much love.”

  Pain swamped her then. Despair. “Where are they?” She looked up at him. “Why aren’t they searching for me?” Then the thought struck her, and she couldn’t breathe. “Oh, God, what if I’m the only one left? What if—” She bent double from the agony.

  Sam’s arms closed around her. “Shh. Take a deep breath, Jane. We’ll locate them, I promise. You don’t know enough right now, but…”

  “It’s time, Sam. Splash my picture all over everywhere. I need them to find me. Whatever that requires.”

  “Jane—”

  “No, Sam, don’t argue. I have a family. Please—” She faced him. “Please help me.”

  “I don’t like it, but I said it would be your decision, once you were stronger. I’m warning you, though, I’m going to monitor you. I know you’re impatient to get back to your life, but I will not allow you to compromise your health.”

  “I understand. Thank you, Sam.”

  “Okay.” He raked fingers through his hair and yawned. “I’ll go call the sheriff.”

  She pressed her lips together, fighting the anxiety that gripped her. “Get some sleep. It can wait until dawn. I’ll just go back and write everything down.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “Jane, I can make coffee. We can talk.”

  She tamped down the urgency. “You should get some sleep. I’ll be fine.”

  “You rest, too, okay?”

  Not likely, she thought. But she smiled to put him at ease. “Sure thing. See you in the morning.”

  “Jane—”

  She glanced back over her shoulder and noticed his worried expression. “What?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Please try to rest.”

  “I’ll be fine, Sam. I can handle whatever it is, I promise.”

  I have to. I want to go home.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JAMES LONGED to be anywhere but here, but this meeting with the bankers was critical to the company’s survival, life or death to the needs and dreams of over four hundred employees, their families and the town of Parker’s Ridge.

  And James struggled to concentrate. Because, suddenly, everything he’d believed true in his life seemed to be a lie.

  “Daddy?” Cele bent to him and whispered, “Lloyd just proposed terms for an expansion loan.”

  James snapped to attention. “Debt is not the answer. This company was built by my great-grandfather on a pay-as-you-go basis. That principle is all that kept us alive in my grandfather’s time, during the depression.”

  “James, we have to expand or this company is doomed. We cannot compete with cheap, assemble-it-yourself composite wood furniture sold over the Internet,” his accountant protested.

  “Quality, both in materials and craftsmanship, has always been this company’s byword,” he responded.

  “People don’t pay for quality anymore. Price is critical—”

  “Not always,” Cele interrupted. “There is a hunger in this country for things that last. For a sense of heritage that Parker’s Ridge symbolizes.”

  One of the bankers made a scoffing noise, but James held up his hand to quiet the man. “Go on,” he urged his daughter.

  Cele’s cheeks were bright with hectic color. She glanced sideways at him as if seeking reassurance.

  He nodded. He’d always hoped, as a man does, that Cameron would choose to follow his footsteps in the family business, but Cameron had been caught in the fever of flight, much as James had once burned to travel the globe. Bella had put her foot down, insisting that James give Cameron his chance. Don’t chain him to the family business, James. Let him fly free, as you once dreamed of doing.

  Unexpectedly, it was his daughter who had shown real interest in Parker’s Ridge. She’d majored in business at Vanderbilt and performed so well that she’d had her choice of job offers upon graduation. She’d requested a place with him, instead. Been willing to work her way through the departments these six months or so, storing up information and impressions and posing a million questions.

  But never before had she interjected herself, certainly not into discussions as crucial as this one.

  That’s our little girl, Bella had once said. She watches and studies without ever saying a word, but when she does, it’s often extraordinary.

  “Please. I’d like to hear more,” he said.

  “This is a wealthy country,” she said, “compared with the rest of the world. A technologically advanced one and an impatient one. It’s easy to get used to instant everything—communication, food, transportation, entertainment. You can click a mouse and have a dizzying array of goods at your doorstep the next day.” She glanced around the table. “But many among us are exhausted from the 24/7 bombardment of stimuli available.”

  “We’re in the furniture business,” Lloyd said with no little impatience.

  James saw Cele’s knuckles whiten as she formed a fist in her lap. He ignored the skeptical glances around the table and squeezed her hand beneath the table. “We are, Lloyd, and experience leads me to believe that Cele will show us the connection—” he sent the man a quelling glare “—allowed the opportunity.”

  Others traded glances, but the group subsided for the time being.

  “One of the biggest growth areas in retail is found in high-quality goods, preferably handcrafted,” Cele told them. “Likewise, young women by the droves have begun to learn to knit, though handmade garments not only require time but are a great deal more expensive than goods made in China, for example, in factories where workers earn pennies a day.”

  Her voice strengthened even as foreheads beetled. “On television, cooking shows, sometimes involving complicated and time-consuming recipes, draw a record number of viewers, and young singles form dinner clubs to try out new dishes they’ve made themselves, again at greater expense of both time and money.”

  She glanced at James, who was certain that he was not hiding a proud smile all that well. He winked at her, and her eyes reflected gratitude.

  “My point is that even for the prime buying demographic of eighteen-to-thirty-five-year-olds who have grown up on microwaves and instant messaging and family schedules so complicated that a shared meal is the exception in most households, there is a hunger for a world they’ve only heard about, one where you bought from the local merchant who was also a neighbor, and what you bought was made to last. They want some sense of stability in a world that changes so fast none of us can begin to keep up.”

  She scanned the group. “That nostalgia is exactly what Parker’s Ridge can provide them—handcrafted furniture would be one example, for those with the money to afford it, but another market comes from those who can’t pay for a one-of-a-kind item but would still relate to a family-owned business with a reputation for quality. Employees who are part of the family, as my
father has made the people here. A place where they could see furniture being made, both custom pieces and stock, and experience a small town in the mountains, one rich in artisans and craftspeople and bed-and-breakfasts—a whole experience, a destination.

  “We have the raw material here—more than that, actually. We have the reputation my father and his father and grandfather built over years and years. We can turn a negative to a positive by letting go of the notion that we must compete with cheap goods.”

  Her dark eyes were shining now with the fervor of her convictions, and though she shared no blood with her adoptive mother, James could hear and feel Bella in every word, every gesture. Bella’s passion for the handmade, the homegrown, had taken root in her daughter in a manner that would have Bella’s buttons bursting.

  For a moment, James could barely breathe for missing his wife. Only his love for their daughter kept him in his seat, when his whole being cried out to race from this room and devote all his time to the search for her.

  “WE HAVE TO HANDLE this carefully,” Sam said, raking fingers through hair that already seemed to have been through an eggbeater. “You’re positive you’re ready?”

  She nodded past her inner quiver. “There’s a child out there who might need me.” She sighed. “Given my age, I understand intellectually that the child is most likely grown, but in here—” she tapped her chest “—it’s only a baby.”

  It. Why didn’t she know instinctively if the infant was a boy or girl? Maybe the child wasn’t hers.

  But no—she was certain about that, and somehow it was not the baby’s head but the man’s hand that convinced her. That hand…

  Simply the image of it made her feel safe. Cherished.

  “Sam, I don’t care.” She leaned forward. “Whatever I have to go through, I need this. Need them.”

  His expression was both sad and resigned. For a second, she almost thought—

  No. He wasn’t getting attached to her. He was not looking at her as a man does a woman.

  She sat back in her chair, stunned by the notion. Sam Lincoln was the finest of men, kind and caring. He reached out to those in trouble, that was all. Compassion went deep into his bones, a necessary part of the healer’s makeup.