by Melissa Tagg
The inside of the house was as shabby as the outside. Not dirty, just aged. The faded fabric of the couch had once been a country blue, and the blinds on the windows hung at an awkward angle. He followed Jenessa past a dining room table that looked like she was using it to dry laundry—shirts and jeans hanging over each chair. Didn’t she know her wet clothes would leave rings around the wood?
In the kitchen, one of the bulbs was burnt out in the light fixture overhead, and the dishwasher gurgled under the counter. “Fridge or freezer?”
She answered by opening the freezer. Empty save for a few ice-cube trays and a stack of one-person frozen dinners.
He slid the pans in. “Kate wrote the oven temps and times in Sharpie on the tinfoil.” So awkward, this whole thing.
“We’re not a charity case, Logan.”
“I know that. I just . . .” A dish clanked inside the dishwasher. “I just wanted to help somehow. And I don’t know—in rural Iowa, help tends to look like food even if you don’t need it. I know you’re taking care of both parents right now and working full-time and—”
“Jenessa, who’s here?”
Logan closed his eyes at the sound of the barking voice. He should’ve skipped the rambling explanation. Better yet, just handed Jenessa the pans at the door and turned around.
Brigg Belville appeared on the opposite side of the galley kitchen, at the top of a stairway that probably led down to a basement den. Gone was the brawny stature he used to wear like a uniform, though his chest seemed distended—a symptom of his emphysema? The years had paled his skin and whitened what thin hair remained.
But his voice still carried the imperious edge it had back when he was a candidate for governor and Logan a small-town reporter just beginning to develop a taste for politics.
“What. Is. He. Doing. Here?”
The window over the kitchen sink ushered in a sticky breeze, air thick with cloying moisture. “He’s just leaving, Dad.”
“I don’t want him in my house.”
Any ire Jenessa had hurled his way the couple times he’d run into her was nothing compared to the malice in Brigg’s yellowed eyes. “Brigg—”
He didn’t know what he was going to say. Didn’t have a chance to say it anyway. Because a fit of coughing wracked through the narrow kitchen—harsh, cringing.
“Dad, let’s get you back downstairs.”
“You ruined my life, Walker.” Brigg forced his words through rasping coughs. “Ruined all our lives. You’re just like all the other media people. Dirty, rotten.”
The man doubled over with another fit of coughing, and Jenessa hurried to his side, held his arm, and turned him to the open door at the top of the stairway. “Please just go, Logan.”
He heard Brigg’s coughing holler through the house as he turned, pace nearly a jog to escape the house. But another voice stopped him, this one from the open stairway at one end of the living room.
He turned to see Mrs. Belville, straggles of stick-straight hair and a flimsy nightgown that gaped below her neck. “Who are you?” She slurred the question, the veins in her hand purple where she gripped the banister. A line of framed photographs—buildings and scenery he might’ve stopped to admire at any other time—tipped and shook as she rocked against the railing.
“Logan Walker, Mrs. Belville. I was just leaving. Sorry if I disturbed you.”
“Walker? Why do I know that name?” Each word seemed to tip into the next, her voice tinny and her gaze distant.
Oh, Jenessa.
“Where’s my daughter?”
“Uh, she’s downstairs. Looking after your husband. He was coughing—”
“Of course. She’s always with him. Always the dutiful daughter where he’s con . . . concerned.” She swayed with the words.
And he had no idea what to do. Help her before she fell?
But then she seemed to right herself, turned as if she’d forgotten he was even there, and climbed back up the stairs.
He just stood there, sick inside, the casseroles he’d stuck in Jenessa’s freezer feeling suddenly paltry and pointless. No wonder she’d practically scoffed. His gaze returned to the photos hanging along the stairway wall. They seemed almost too bright, too alive for this house.
“Logan?”
Jenessa walked into the living room.
“Sorry, I was just leaving. Your mom—”
“I heard.” She brushed past him, and instead of marching to the front door to hurry him out, she lowered—slowly, tiredly—onto the worn couch. “Now you’ve seen it all. How the Belvilles have fallen.”
“Don’t say . . . you haven’t . . .” He felt like a tree or something, planted in the wrong place but rooted to the floor. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this alone. Does your husband know how bad it is? He should—”
A scathing laugh ripped through his words. “He’s not my husband.”
“What?”
“We aren’t married. Never were.” She flicked her wrist as if the revelation was as trivial as the weather. “We ran off the night of high school graduation. Went to Vegas. I thought we were going to get married, but Gage, not so much. But I’d left a note for Mom and Dad saying we were eloping, so . . .”
Despite her father downstairs who wanted him out and her mother upstairs who . . . well, who knew what . . . he went ahead and sat in the recliner next to the couch, its leather webbed with cracks. “You’ve been pretending you’re married all this time?”
“Trust me, it was easier. Gage got a kick out of fooling everyone, and frankly, I think he was scared of my dad. Plus, you remember his family. He had six younger siblings. Pretending to be married to me meant my parents paid for an apartment for us during college semesters and let us stay here during summers.”
“Yeah, but . . .” He had to count. “Sixteen years of pretense?”
“I guess if we’d actually lived together all those years we’d have a common-law marriage. But he’s on the road most of the time, and I stay here, and nobody’s ever had reason to question.” She laughed—a nonsensical, dry laugh. A laugh that said she found this anything but funny. “’Course it’s ridiculous to think about now. I didn’t want to tell them I’d run away with a guy who had no intention of marrying me because I didn’t want to ruin their fine, upstanding image of our family. Eloping might be impulsive, and I might’ve been young, but better that than running away with a guy who has no intention of marrying you. But if I’d known then how they’d turn out . . .”
She laughed again, but this time it was almost a cry. He couldn’t help it. He abandoned the recliner and moved onto the couch. “Jen, is there anything I can do?”
“Can you rewind time to back before my dad tried to lie his way into the governor’s seat and my mom decided alcohol would solve her problems? Before Dad got sick . . .” Her eyes were dry, but her voice clogged anyway. “You could drag Gage home.”
“Why? He’s a jerk.”
“My dad’s going to die, Logan. And my mom, best case scenario, she finally listens to me and goes to rehab. Worst case, she gets sick of my nagging and throws me out. Gage is all I’ve got.” She leaned her forehead into her hands. “He’s all I’ve got.”
Her shoulders shook with silent cries he didn’t know how to soothe. Why couldn’t he be like Dad in this moment? Say the right thing, find the perfect words . . .
The sound of coughing rose from the floor below, and outside a tree branch rapped against a window. Or maybe that was the first tapping of rainfall.
Jenessa stilled.
“He’s not all you’ve got, Jen.”
She didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t even raise her head.
“Listen, there’s a fundraiser next week I’m helping with. Colton Greene—I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to meet him. But he’s opening that transitional home for teens, and I’m helping with this event, and . . .” Where was he even going with this? “Why don’t you join us? I know you’re busy. I know you’ve got a lot to take care of. But
it’s a fun group of people working on it.”
She finally looked up, maybe—just maybe—faint interest playing over her face. “What day?”
“It’s on Saturday. We’ll be setting up that morning.”
Her nod was so slight he might’ve imagined it. But something had shifted. “He shouldn’t have said those things, Logan.” She swallowed. “My dad, what he said about you ruining all our lives. He made his own choices. We all did. And it was just easier to blame you.”
She stood then, and he did, too. Followed her to the front door. But he paused before moving outside. “Hey, those photos hanging around the stairway. Did you take those?”
“Yeah, actually I did.”
“They’re good, Jen. Really good. You’re talented.”
It was as if he was the first person who’d ever acknowledged it—the lifting of her shoulders, the shadow seeping from her eyes.
“I’ll be there Saturday.”
Dear Mary,
If you were my daughter, I’d tell you about my faith. Because if you were my daughter, I think I’d still have some.
But maybe that’s where I was most wrong as a hurting young adult.
My parents would disagree. Eleanor would disagree. They would say dropping out of college and eloping and following Jeremy blindly were my biggest failures. Old church friends might say not being able to fix my marriage was my hugest mistake.
But I’m starting to think maybe the worst was abandoning God when I needed him most. Thinking he abandoned me the day I lost you.
If you were my daughter, perhaps I’d still be the same devout follower I used to be. But only because I’d placed all my rickety hope and shallow faith on circumstances going my way.
But real faith is bigger than that. Deeper.
And maybe it can find you again, even years later, after you’ve let it go. And you can welcome it back—tentatively, perhaps, but with a hopeful sense that maybe, just maybe, it might be stronger this time.
10
Hey, bro.”
The singsong voice of Raegan Walker hauled Amelia from sleep. Wait . . . Rae?
She opened her eyes, sight hidden by the mound of pillows and heavy navy comforter huddled around her, a nest of warmth and comfort and . . . confusion. Because the striped sheet around her smelled like a man—and not just any man, but . . .
Where in the world . . . ?
“I have to get ready for work, but I wanted to check on Charlie first.” Raegan’s voice came closer. “She’s finally all better, yeah? If you need someone to stay with her today, I might be able to get Roxie to cover my shift.”
Charlie . . . last night . . . Logan’s bedroom.
Amelia shot up, hair flopping over her face and Raegan’s shriek joining her own gasp.
“You are not my brother!”
Hands pressed into the mattress on both sides of her, Amelia whipped her gaze around the room. She’d been in here last night, babysitting a sleeping Charlie, dozing off and on as an old movie she’d found on a shelf in the living room played on the computer. Had felt the satisfied sigh of every maternal instinct inside her as Charlie nestled into her. She’d closed her eyes. “I’ll just nap until Logan gets home . . .”
“Amelia?” Logan’s sister stood with her hands on her waist, spicy glint in her eyes. She held a towel over one arm, wet hair draped around her face.
“This isn’t what it looks like, Rae.”
“What do you think I think it looks like?”
Amelia dropped her feet to the floor. “Don’t.”
“I mean, I did find you in my brother’s bed.”
“I was babysitting last night.” Light spouting through half-open blinds drew lines on the opposite wall—the one with the bulletin board still packed with old photos and ribbons from Logan’s high school years.
“Then where’s Charlie?”
Amelia wrangled her fingers through snarled hair. “I don’t know.” A whine rippled her voice. “I’m very confused right now.”
She still wore the jeans she’d slipped on before heading to work yesterday and the baseball-jersey-style shirt, now wrinkled from a night of sleep. The smell of coffee and breakfast food drifted in from the open bedroom door behind Raegan, mingling with that piquant evergreeny, minty, mannish scent she’d come to associate with Logan.
She hadn’t even seen him last night, though, had she? Yeah, that was one of his dress shirts swathed over the desk chair and his laptop bag hanging over the knob of the closet door. But . . .
“Well, if Logan isn’t in here, where is—”
“Hey, guys, thought I heard voices.” Logan appeared in the doorway. Collared light-blue shirt unbuttoned and white tee underneath. Tie draped over one shoulder. Khakis. “Amelia, I’m making omelets. Do you do onions? Mushrooms?”
She couldn’t make last night come into focus—nothing past the movie and Logan’s daughter snuggled up to her.
“I promise, no kale or tofu. Rae, do you have time before work? Want me to make you one?”
“Sure, but only if you can make it fast. Work in an hour.” She rubbed the towel through her damp hair.
“Can do. Amelia, you didn’t answer. You okay with the works?”
Raegan turned to Amelia. “Let him do the works. He makes the best om—”
“What am I doing here?” She finally made it to her feet as the question squeaked from her, flustered and shrill. She must look and sound ridiculous.
“Um.” Raegan stopping drying her hair. “I’m going to go change.” She disappeared.
Leaving Logan to step the rest of the way into the stripey light of the room, a look of pure delight passing over his way-too-awake face. “Memory a little jumbled this morning, is it?”
“I feel like I was drugged.”
“You never caught up on sleep after South Dakota, did you? I told you to stay home from work and nap on Monday.” He stepped closer and patted her head. “You should’ve listened to your elder, Amelia Anne.”
Why did he have to stand so close? Close enough he could probably smell her morning breath and hear her heart trying to punch its way out of her chest. And not because she was confused about why she was here, but because the moment she’d seen Logan in the doorway, everything she’d decided yesterday afternoon—distance, focus, detachment—slipped through the crack in the open window, where last night’s rain still dripped from the eaves and tapped against glass.
“You still look confused.” Logan’s lips stretched. “Okay, you were sound asleep when I got home last night. So I picked up Charlie and the two of us bunked in Beckett’s room. No biggie. That’s where she’d been sleeping anyway before she got sick.”
Amelia dropped her arms. “W-why didn’t you wake me up? Send me home? Do you know h-how it looks, me waking up in here?”
“I already told Dad and Seth why you’re here. Would’ve told Rae too if I’d gotten to her first. No one thinks anything untoward about you.” He over-exaggerated the word untoward, unable to hold back another smirk. “Besides, I tried to wake you up. You mumbled something incoherent and pushed me away.”
“Don’t you dare laugh, Walker.” Her eyes narrowed, but Charlie came bustling around the corner before she could say anything else, curls sticking up every which way and wearing zebra pajamas Amelia had changed her into last night. At least she remembered something.
Logan swung her into his arms. “Char-lie.” He drawled her name as she looped her arms around his neck. “I was wondering when you were gonna wake up.”
She planted a kiss on his cheek, then looked to Amelia. Recognition landed in her eyes, and she wriggled out of Logan’s arms to instead hook a hug around Amelia’s leg.
Logan lifted his eyebrows. “So? Omelet?”
“I don’t know. I feel weird about going down there with your family and all.”
“Well, we’re on the second floor. You can’t exactly climb out the window.”
Wasn’t there a drainpipe or tree branch she could climb dow
n?
“Come on, Hildy. Let me introduce you to a Walker breakfast.”
It did smell amazing. And there was Charlie, beaming up at her, those emerald eyes repeating Logan’s request.
“Could I at least brush my teeth first?”
Logan grinned. “Bathroom’s across the hall. The drawer at the far right has extra toothbrushes.” He reached for Charlie’s hand and started for the door. “Oh, and in your omelet?”
“Go ahead. The works.”
He tapped the doorframe on the way out. “You won’t regret it.”
In the bathroom, she found the drawer of toothbrushes and a tube of Crest in the medicine cabinet. Please tell me the light in this bathroom exaggerates the smudges of day-old mascara under my eyes.
She ripped her focus away from the mirror and looked around the bathroom instead. A pair of pink little-girl slippers—Charlie’s, of course—had been abandoned in the corner. A hunter-green robe hung on the back of the door. She could see a couple bath toys on the tub ledge where the shower curtain had been pushed aside. And an electric razor sat on the counter next to Logan’s glasses.
All the signs of a shared family bathroom. Voices and laughter drifted through the vent in the floor. A pang bolted through her, sharp, carrying with it desires she’d thought she’d packed away long ago. She turned.
“Our guest is here.” Case Walker’s voice caught her on her way down the stairs.
“Hey, everyone.” She gave a tiny wave to the family gathered around the table—Case, Seth, Charlie propped in a booster seat. Raegan must still be getting ready. Logan stood over the stainless-steel stove in the kitchen. But no Kate . . .
Oh! “Megan’s baby?”
Case stood and pulled out a chair for her. “Born about an hour ago. Six pounds, which apparently is really good for how early she is. Both mom and baby doing good. Did I forget anything?”
“Name’s Delia.” Logan turned at the stove, spatula raised. “Omelet’s ready.”
The next twenty minutes passed in a blur of storytelling and laughter, arms jutting into the center of the table for more food, pitchers of orange juice and chocolate milk passed in a circle. Her self-consciousness dissolved as she ate her omelet at a turtle’s pace. Partially in order to savor each bite, but mostly to stretch out these few perfect moments.