by Julia London
“What?” Holly had demanded, incredulous. “Jesus, do you ever listen to your voice mail? I am trying to find Hannah. I’ve had Mason for over a week, and my life is going to hell as we speak. I can’t compose, I lost my job at the Java Hut, Hannah has disappeared, and you act like this is some great imposition on you. I am so worried about her, Loren!”
“She hasn’t disappeared,” he’d said dismissively.
“Oh yeah? Do you know where she is?”
“Not exactly,” he’d said with a shrug, “but I’ve spoken to her.” He’d nudged the chair again. “Come on, sit down.”
Holly had sat just because she didn’t think she could stand any longer, and she’d bent over, her head in her hands, trying to catch her breath. It had felt as if her lungs would not open.
“Look … Hannah had to take care of something very important,” Loren had said while extricating his tie from Mason’s grip.
“What?” Holly had lifted her head. “Where?”
“I can’t tell you that, but she has my full support.”
Holly had never trusted Loren, and she certainly didn’t then. “Support for what? Why can’t you tell me?”
“Because she asked me not to,” he’d said impatiently. He was not the sort of man who liked to be questioned. “She wants to tell you herself when she’s ready. She’s going to call you.”
“No”—Holly had shaken her head—“no way. I won’t leave until you tell me—”
“She’s in rehab, okay, Holly?”
Stunned, Holly had reared back. She couldn’t even make sense of that word in relation to her sister. “Rehab?”
“Yes. Rehab,” he’d said tightly, seeming almost embarrassed by it.
“For what?” Holly had exclaimed. “And why? When?”
Loren had sighed. “She’ll explain it to you. The point is, she’s fine, she’s not lying in a ditch, but she needs some time.”
The news was more than Holly could digest. It had seemed as if the walls were moving closer to her as she tried to make sense of what Loren was saying. She’d thought of Hannah the last few times she’d seen her—the distraction, the smell of alcohol on her breath at her mother’s funeral. Was that it? Was she a drinker?
“So you need to buck up here,” Loren had added, as if it were somehow Holly’s job.
“Are you kidding?” she’d gasped. “Are either of you the least bit concerned that my life is falling apart because of this?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Loren had said impatiently. “That’s the problem with you, Holly. You can’t handle anything. This is the one time you need to step up. You’re pampered with some pie-in-the-sky ideas, and the one time life gets a little hard, you fall to pieces.”
Holly hadn’t been able to even think of what to say to him. He’d acted as if he bore no responsibility to his son, that it was all Holly’s.
“Hannah has obviously been through a lot, and if you can’t help your sister in her darkest moment, you’re selfish.”
“Oh my God, you are so unbelievable,” she’d said breathlessly. “He is your son.”
“Look, I can’t take Mason right now,” Loren had doggedly continued. “The office in San José is very important to this firm, and I have to be there to launch it if I have a prayer of making partner here. Which means providing for Mason’s future, if I have to spell that out.”
“But he is your son, Loren! You haven’t even called to check on him! It’s like he doesn’t even exist to you!”
“That’s not true!” he’d said heatedly. “I haven’t called because I’ve been out of town, and frankly, Holly, I knew if I did, you would give me the load of shit you’re giving me right now,” he’d snapped. “I know he is my son and I love him, but he’s a baby, and I can’t take on a baby right now. Think about it! I can’t take him to Costa Rica! What am I going to do with a baby in Costa Rica?”
Holly’s heart had pounded so painfully that she’d bent over again. This could not be happening.
“When I get back, if Hannah isn’t … through,” he’d said awkwardly, “I’ll deal with it then.”
“And what the hell am I supposed to do in the meantime?” she’d demanded in disbelief. “I don’t even have a job now, thanks to you and Hannah. And I have a contract to deliver three songs. I can’t afford to just sit around and wait for you or Hannah to show up and take your kid!”
“You can do it,” he’d said, but he’d avoided her gaze and looked at his watch. “Millions of people do it every day. They work, they take care of kids. Look, I’ve got to get back.” He’d handed Mason to her, and Holly had taken him, suddenly wanting Mason as far from his narcissistic father as she could possibly get him. But Mason had reached for his father again.
Oblivious, Loren had pulled his checkbook from his pocket. “I’m not saying I don’t know this isn’t unusual and somewhat of a pain,” he’d said as he dashed off a check, “but divorce is painful for all the parties involved. It’s probably best for Mason that he’s away from all that negative energy anyway.” He’d torn the check out and passed it down the table to Holly. “That should more than take care of his needs.”
Holly hadn’t even looked at his damn check. “This is insanity, you know. You and Hannah are treating Mason like a dog that needs a good home. It’s unconscionable, really. I always knew you were a colossal asshole, Loren, but this is the cake topper, even for you.”
“I don’t need any lectures from you of all people,” he’d said. “I’ll call you in two weeks. But stop calling my cell phone every ten minutes.” He’d run his head over Mason’s crown, then kissed his cheek. “You be a good boy for your aunt Holly, and Mommy will be home soon,” he’d said, and walked out the door.
Mason had screamed. He’d cried so hard he began to hiccup.
Holly had felt dizzy with despair and incredulity. She’d shoved the check into her purse and held Mason tightly as she walked out.
She’d gone back to her apartment that day in a state of devastation. There’d been no escaping it—her life had been irrevocably changed, and she’d had no say in it. And as for Hannah … Holly couldn’t even begin to wrap her head around the news that Hannah was in rehab. How was that possible?
That night, she’d lugged the Pack ‘n Play up to her bedroom, wedged it between her bed and the wall, and put Mason in it. He had fussed a little but fell asleep. Holly had lain on her back in that darkened loft, her arms and legs spread wide, staring at the ceiling, still unable to manage anything but shallow breathing, tears falling silently, soaking one big spot on her pillow. Holly had had a meltdown, had just melted into nothing. How would she ever manage this? How would she juggle her songwriting career around a baby? And what about Mason? How long could one baby be confined to a Pack ‘n Play because she was too afraid he would get hurt in her child-unfriendly apartment?
When she was all cried out, and her breathing had returned to normal, Holly had decided to think logically about it. Hungry, she’d gone down to the kitchen to eat and think.
First, this space wouldn’t work for Mason. It was about as safe for a kid as playing in the middle of the street. Second, she couldn’t work like this. She did not want to rush the creative process; she had a real shot at something big, and she didn’t want to risk ruining the opportunity by rushing through it. Holly needed time and space to work.
In the course of making herself an enormous sandwich, Holly had heard Mason sigh.
It was a small sound, but so sweet, and it had occurred to Holly again that this might be a nightmare for her, but her nightmare was actually a blessing for Mason. Where would he be right now had Hannah not brought him here? Foster care? Maybe Holly was meant to be home that afternoon. Maybe she was meant to do this. Maybe she had to make herself believe it so she could deal with it.
That’s when Holly had decided to come home. She’d stood over the sink, munching her sandwich, and decided it was the only option. The last place she’d wanted to be was the homestead, but she’d had
to admit, it was big enough that she’d have the space she needed to work. It was childproof and definitely child-friendly. And honestly, it was time she did something about her mother’s will and the homestead anyway. Hannah was right—she’d let it go too long.
It had taken a few more days for her to get things squared away. She’d given Barb a check to cover the next month’s rent, then had called Loren and left a message that he would be paying the rent on her apartment until Hannah came home. Next, she’d called Quincy and explained her situation. Quincy had seemed confused about how they would possibly finish their songs, but Holly had promised him they could make it work. She’d had no idea how, but she’d promised that she’d have something for them to work with in a couple of weeks.
Then she’d called her uncle D.J., who had made a point of going by to check on the homestead from time to time, and told him she and Mason would be there for a few weeks. Uncle D.J. was old and didn’t get around as well as he used to, and as she’d guessed, he’d been happy to hand off the responsibility for the place to someone else. “You and Hannah make sure that gate is locked when you’re not there,” he’d said.
Holly had assured him they would and let him believe that she and Hannah would both be out there, that all was well with Hannah.
Then Holly had called a few friends to tell them she’d be out of touch for a while. She had told them she was working on her music.
“No way!” Ossana had said when she told her she was going out to the homestead.
“You can come out and see me,” Holly had suggested.
“I guess I could. Yeah, maybe I’ll do that when I have a weekend off from work,” Ossana had said. But Holly knew she wouldn’t. Ossana enjoyed the nightlife in Austin too much to be poking around some ranch on the weekend.
And with that, Holly had packed her guitar, her music files, her bags. She’d strapped Mason into his car seat between the portable crib and the giant duffel that now held Holly’s clothes and she had headed home, composing a song in her head as she drove:
Packed her bags and drove all night
Couldn’t get his image from her sight
Came back to the place she was supposed to be
Surrounded and steeped in misery
She’d come home, ooooh, ooooh, she’d come home.
Maybe, Holly had told herself on the drive out, maybe this could work. She’d tried to recall the last time she’d been left alone to really work on her music—when she hadn’t been interrupted by her job and friends—and she had not been able to recall one occasion in recent memory. So maybe this was just what she needed to get the creative juices really flowing.
She’d arrived at dusk. The gate Uncle D.J. was so concerned about locking had a new combination lock on a chain that wrapped around the gate and the fence post. Holly had memorized the combination, but when she’d lived out here, they’d never shut the gate—it had always been open, because none of them had liked having to get out of the car to unlock it and then lock it again after them.
She had driven up to the house and looked around. The old windmill, which hadn’t pumped water in years, still squeaked something awful. The yard had become overgrown and the house needed a coat of paint.
Holly had found the key to the house under the welcome mat where they’d always kept it. The house had smelled musty when she opened the door, and it was cold too. She’d forgotten that it really cooled off at night out here in the sticks, and insulation had never been a top priority. She’d vaguely remembered Hannah saying something about turning off the utilities a few months earlier, but Holly hadn’t wanted to think about it then, and held her breath when she tried the lights. They were still on, and Holly had pretended that miracles really did happen.
“Well, Mason, say hello to your home away from home,” she’d said, putting him down next to the old plaid couch so he could inch his way around while Holly dragged a couple of bags inside.
She’d spent the next day dusting and washing bed linens, running into town for supplies, and playing through a couple of song ideas, but she hadn’t been very pleased with what she’d come up with.
She’d been looking forward to working more today, but then Wyatt Clark had come riding up to her fence with those vivid blue eyes. Lonesome cowboys always made for good song material, she mused. Who knew? Maybe he’d be her muse and she would actually write a Grammy-winning tune or two.
Chapter Eight
A week after her return to the homestead, Holly was sitting at the Formica-covered breakfast bar, going through some of her mother’s papers. Mason was playing with cars on the on the linoleum floor—which, Holly noted ruefully, she needed to mop.
Okay, all right, she could admit it: she wasn’t exactly a go-getter. Hannah was right that Holly had a tendency to flit from job to job and from guy to guy. The only constant in Holly’s life was music and a burning desire to create it. Melodies and lyrics were constantly running around in her head, and when she was composing, Holly felt the most at peace, the best version of herself.
But she realized now, as she sat in her late mother’s kitchen with her sister’s child, that she was thirty-four years old and her last job was working at a coffeehouse. She hadn’t had a meaningful relationship in a couple of years … or longer. Holly didn’t know why nothing seemed to last with her, but there had been times in her life that it seemed easier if she just moved on instead of trying to make a bad situation better.
She was fortunate that she had managed to score the contract with ASC. She truly believed she could make it in the music industry if she kept at it, and had long ceased caring if anyone else believed it. Most people she knew would have given up if success hadn’t come to them by now, but Holly was more persistent than that. Slow and steady progress, she told herself. And she had an unflappable belief in herself. How she’d managed that, Holly could not say, because most of her other beliefs were pretty flappable. But not this.
For a long time, she’d tried to make her family understand that. She looked at the empty chair at the kitchen table, near the window, her father’s chair. He’d sat there every meal that Holly could remember, and she could still see him leaning over a plate of eggs, buttered toast, and crispy bacon. He would put the salt and pepper on the edge of his rubber place mat in case he needed to re-up in the course of the meal. Her father had believed in Holly’s talent. He would listen to her songs and applaud. He would brag about her to his friends. “That’s my little songbird right there,” he’d say, pointing proudly to Holly. “She might sing at the Opry someday.”
Holly’s mother, on the other hand, thought Holly was a flake and was hiding behind her dream of being a successful songwriter. “People get jobs,” she’d say when she lectured Holly, which had been regularly. “Hannah knows that. Hannah applies herself. Why you don’t, I can’t begin to understand. I don’t know what we’re going to do with you, Holly.”
Her mother had never accepted that things didn’t come as easily to Holly as they did to Hannah. For starters, dyslexia had made school hard for Holly—her grades had been solid Cs and never better than a B. Except in music. In music class, she had excelled.
Holly had never measured up in her mother’s eyes, and moreover, somewhere along the way, she’d begun to fear she couldn’t measure up, that maybe her mother was right; maybe she really wasn’t as smart as Hannah. Well, she was determined to make this contract work, and to use this time at the homestead to write some great songs. And someday, when she heard her songs playing on the radio, she’d look up and smile and say, “See, Mom? I told you I could do it.”
Later that morning, Holly put Mason down for a nap under a blanket and wandered about the house. She hadn’t really looked around yet, other than to pick up toys and vacuum a little. She hadn’t been out here since her mother had died. That was something else that had made Hannah angry, that Holly had not been helping with the property, or done anything to probate the will. When Holly had tried to explain to Hannah how difficult it wa
s for her to come back here, Hannah had dismissed her feelings as irresponsibility. Okay, she’d own up to some irresponsibility, but she really had found it painful, and she wished her big sister understood that.
Holly opened the door to her mother’s room. It had been left like it was the last day she’d lived in it, except that the bed had been made. Empty pill bottles were still standing like soldiers on her vanity, and there was a selection of books on her nightstand by her favorite authors: Carl Hiaasen, Robert Ludlum, and Debbie Macomber. It was weird to see her mother’s clothes still hanging in her closet, as if she would be back to wear them sometime soon. Her shoes were scattered on the closet floor as if she’d just kicked them off. Someone really needed to do something about her things.
The blinds had been drawn and the drapes pulled, but her mother had always liked them open, so Holly opened them.
She walked on, to the room she’d occupied through high school. Her mother had converted it to a sewing room when Holly had left for her short-lived stint in college, so it didn’t really resemble anything in Holly’s memory. There was a daybed shoved against one wall with a few bolts of material stacked neatly on one end.
In the closet was a stack of her school yearbooks and the dress she’d worn to Hannah’s wedding. She’d hated that dress. It was green with poofy sleeves, exactly the type of thing Hannah would love and Holly would hate. In a moment of frustration with Hannah, Holly pulled the dress down from its hanger and tossed it on the bed. Someone needed to do something, and it occurred to Holly that the someone was her.
Through a door next to the closet was the bathroom she’d shared with Hannah. It had an old claw-foot tub and a black-and-white-tiled floor. The vanity mirror was chipped and tarnished, and the twin sinks looked like big clamshells. Holly could remember the school mornings she and Hannah had stood side by side, brushing their teeth and trying not to laugh at each other. The bathroom was as spotless as it had been in their youth. Holly guessed Hannah had stayed here a night or two after the funeral and had kept it nice and neat.