Love Comes Home: A Collection of Second Chance Short Stories

by Kristi Rose

  “I’ve searched high and low for the path, checked the map. There’s no trail of breadcrumbs to guide me back. When I look around nothing is familiar but everything is the same. Have I walked in circles? Why do I continue to miss my aim?”

  With her words and voice around him, he pictured Shea doing the simplest of tasks while humming: arranging flowers, rocking a baby, and holding his hand.

  His eyes sprang open. Who was he kidding when he’d said he wanted to be her friend? There was something about this girl that he dug.

  She stopped and he held his breath, waiting, letting it out slowly when she restarted from the top, this time adding a line.

  “I’m only trying to get back home, someone please bring me home.”

  Leo watched her bend over the banjo, her body moving with the melody, her light red hair casting rainbows of light as she moved between beams.

  This girl knew his soul. Her words spoke to the deepest part of him. Bits that he’d thought he’d left behind when he finally learned how to be more than his disability. When he no longer believed in the can’t but started living the cans.

  He pushed off the tree, hesitating, wondering if he should move toward her or slip away, back in the direction he’d come. Clearing his throat, he stepped toward her. When she didn’t turn he took another step and called her name.

  She looked over her shoulder, surprised, a pencil stuck behind her ear, her hands still on the banjo.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you.” He came from around the bench and stood beside where she sat.

  “It’s not you. I hadn’t realized I was so lost in my own world.” The hollowness and desperation of her lyrics were etched on her face. He may want something more than friendship but right now, this girl needed a friend like people needed air. He was consumed with a prodigious need to ease her pain and offer a shoulder to lean upon.

  “Where’s Roscoe?”

  “He’s at home with my sister. He doesn’t like the heat.”

  “Do you mind if I join you, for a moment? I don’t want to interrupt your process.” He gestured to the open seat next to her and she shifted to allow him space.

  “You’re good. Once I’ve built a foundation it’s pretty easy for me to get my groove back,” she said. On her thumb and first two fingers were quirky little slide-on picks she twisted around her fingers as she talked.

  “You’re lucky. Sometimes if I lose the thought it’s hours before I can get back my direction. Writing is labor intensive for me.”

  “Sports writing? How so? Figuring out who’s on what? I’d have thought that would be brainless stuff.” As soon as she finished her sentence, she covered her hand with her mouth. Through her cupped hand she said, “I’m so sorry. That was awful of me to say. Anything creative, whether it’s painting, writing, or whatever, is still an art and I should not make fun of your art.”

  “I appreciate that. Thanks. But I wasn’t actually talking about my pieces for the paper. I actually write books.” He took a chance and told her part of his secret. He’d never told anyone, outside his parents, about the short pieces of fiction he wrote. Not since third grade when he’d mentioned he wanted to be a writer and his teacher told him he’d have to learn to read and write first and chances of that were unlucky.

  “That’s great. You’re more than just a pretty head full of sports stats.” She wagged her brows. “What kind of books?”

  He paused, wondering how much more he should share. “Mostly action and adventure. Guy stuff.”

  “Now the button-up shirts and glasses make sense. You’re a novelist. Though I would’ve gone with something more literary.”

  “I like being unpredicatable.” He winked, something he found himself doing often with her. “I figured you for a guitar player, but a banjo?”

  “Yeah, I worked part time in the Country Music Hall of Fame Museum and we had a lot of Earl Scruggs and Lester Flatt stuff... You know who they are?” She continued when he shook his head, “You ever watch Beverly Hillbillies?”

  “Yeah, they were the musicians.” He snapped his fingers in recognition.

  “Right. Well they were musicians long before they were on the show and Earl Scruggs invented a whole different style of banjo picking. Working at the museum, I got to watch lots of videos of him and the music and I fell in love. I taught myself how to play five string Scruggs style. I aim to write songs that use lots of banjo.”

  And songs that twist a soul up.

  “Is this where you write?” she asked.

  “Yeah, this is where I come to get unblocked when I’m having trouble writing.” He flipped open his messenger bag and pulled out a laptop. “Do you mind if I share space with you?”

  “Can you write with all this?” She gestured to the instrument.

  “Yeah, I think I can, actually. Listening to you helps clear my head and that’s what I need.”

  She gave him a skeptical look and began picking the banjo fast. “This helps you clear your head?” She laughed and picked faster and louder, her fingers working so quickly they blurred.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of what you were doing when I walked up. Not that that isn’t crazy amazing or anything.”

  She laughed again and slowed her fingers, returning to the melody she’d been working on earlier and began to hum.

  “Cripes, something about the way you sing makes me want to cry or laugh or...”

  “Run away screaming?” she sang.

  “Are you kidding? No way, it makes me feel a part of something. Something bigger than all this.”

  “That’s how I feel about music,” she sang to the melody. “Always have.”

  “‘If you stop long enough to listen to the song of your soul, you will always find your path.’”

  Her fingers stilled. “Who said that?”

  “Ah, I just read it in a book somewhere I think.” He’d written it in his third novel or perhaps the fourth. He couldn’t recall.

  “I love it.”

  They stared at one another and a soft whisper of a smile pulled at her lips. “I have felt so out of sorts since I came back. Being here, at this park, is the first in a long time that I’ve felt like I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

  Leo nodded in understanding and looked around. The lake, the ducks, the trees giving shade from the hot sun, somehow it all felt like life had slowed down a little and a person could pause long enough to get their bearings, to catch their breath. He elbowed her and when she looked at him, he indicated with his chin to Mr. Hubbs walking along the lake feeding the ducks.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Hubbs,” Shea called.

  The sour-faced old man looked at them both, frowned, but called out a greeting before moving on.

  Leo watched her look down at her arm, rub her smooth, creamy skin, and smile.

  Shea went back to working the melody. He flipped open the top and read through the outline he’d drafted and felt just as stuck. Something wasn’t working and he didn’t know what. Glancing at Shea, he watched as she picked a new set of chords and searched for words to finish the line, scratching out entire lines or words along the way. He longed to have words flow again and the fear that he couldn’t even start his first draft because he didn’t know what the hell he was doing made finding his muse all the more difficult.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked and he snapped his eyes away from her paper, bringing them to her face.

  “I’m sorry? What?”

  “You looked like someone had sucker punched you. You were staring at my paper and I thought you might cry.” She stretched her fingers and waited patiently.

  Leo looked back at her paper, at the progress she’d made. “I’m just blocked, that’s all.”

  “So walk me through it. Blocked how? Like, need a new idea or not sure where you’re going on the page?”

  He opened his computer again. “I have an idea. I just don’t like it and I can’t think how to f
ix it.”

  “Don’t fix it. Get a new idea. Let that one sit for a while but in the meantime work on something else. I have books with song lines and chords that just don’t work with anything yet. But their time will come. It’s just not today.”

  He nodded and closed his computer. “But I can’t even come up with a new idea.” He didn’t want to add that he felt like a hack at best, a failure at worst.

  She began to strum the banjo like a guitar. “I’ve often thought the same thing. But all you need is some distance. To step away from what you think you can’t do. So, let’s come up with a new idea. You said it’s adventure, right? Tell me about your characters.”

  He didn’t know how he was going to have this conversation without tipping his hand. He’d kept his writing a secret from everyone because of what he wrote. He wanted the work to stand on its own and not be judged because of him. He may not look it, hell he’d done everything to make sure he didn’t look like it, but at his core he was the epitome of a dumb jock who was a slow reader and a bad speller. Technology was the learning disabled kid’s friend, it certainly had been his.

  “I need a mystery—”

  “Someone found a mythical unicorn,” she blurted.

  “What?”

  “I think unicorns should be in every book, and ninjas. Someone says that they were taken down by a ninja but all signs look like the ninja was a unicorn. A NINJA UNICORN!”

  “Ninja unicorns?”

  “Yes, and no one believes them—”

  “What possible signs could a ninja leave behind that lets everyone think it might be a unicorn?” He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation; yet, he couldn’t stop himself from asking for more or laughing.

  “I don’t know. You’re the writer. Maybe it’s a trail of banana slugs.”

  “Banana slugs?”

  “Sure, they’re real. I saw a documentary of them on TV last night. I couldn’t sleep and was flipping through the channels—”

  “And you stopped on one that was doing a documentary on banana slugs.”

  “Yes, sometimes when the mind is bored it’s free to be creative. I think I saw a study on that or something.”

  Leo laughed. “Ninja Unicorns. Banana Slugs. This is the best conversation— That’s it!” He snapped his fingers and jumped up from the bench, clutching his computer.

  “What? What just happened?” She looked up at him with large brown eyes, laughter on her lips.

  “Shea Barker, you’re brilliant. I just figured out the next story. I’ve got to get home and get it all down before I forget.” He tucked his computer back into his bag.

  “I’m glad I could help,” she said as she flipped her hair over her shoulder and then reached back to pat her back.

  “You did more than help. You...you...cleared everything up. Thank you. Thank you.” Exuberance poured from him.

  Maybe it was something in her smile or the way she looked up at him, her face alight with pleasure. There was no stopping him; momentum and desire pushed him headfirst and he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and planted a firm kiss on her lips.

  Shea gasped against his lips but as he moved to step back, she pulled him toward her, deepening the kiss. When they separated, she giggled. Leo brushed his thumb over her bottom lip, his smile big.

  He stepped back. “Thank you,” he said again. “I can’t wait to start writing. I owe you.” He turned toward his car, ideas running at full throttle, desperate to get on paper.

  “You’re welcome. Any time,” she called after him.

  Leo turned and walked back to her. “Let’s meet tomorrow for breakfast, at the diner. I’d love to see you again.”

  “Sure. I can be there around eight.” Pink tint colored her cheeks.

  Leo’s lips continued to tingle from their kiss and he stepped closer. “Eight sounds great.”

  “You going to kiss me again?” she asked.

  “You want me to?” He’d been thinking about it.

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t stop you if you tried.”

  Taking the invitation for what it was, he bent toward her, slid his hand around the back of her neck for the second time, and pulled her toward him. This time their kiss was gentle and full of exploration. When she parted her lips and his tongue touched hers, his body pulsed.

  They pulled apart slowly and Leo felt as if he were resurfacing, or better yet, coming alive.

  “Thanks for your help,” he said.

  “Anytime.”

  He backed away, smiling. “Don’t forget. Tomorrow.”

  “Eight a.m. I’ll be there.”

  “I can’t wait,” he said.

  She blushed. “Go write your book.”

  “Until tomorrow,” he called before he turned and jogged off to his car. Ideas were all around him. Most about the book but others about Shea and he felt like a schoolboy who’d just figured out how to ace a test and win the girl. He felt like a champion.

  Lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling, there are no glow-in-the-dark stars to carry away this scared feeling. There are no monsters in the closet, no boogey man at the door. Just a broken father who is drunk and passed out on the floor.~ "WHISKY AND WATER."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Do you want to go to the diner with me?” Shea asked Evie, who was suited up in yoga clothes.

  “Actually, I would love to go with you but I think I’m going to take this chance, while I’m off work, to try this hot yoga thing.” Evie laced up her shoes.

  “I’ll be home in time to go with you to the attorney’s so we can tie up the loose ends with momma’s will.” Knowing that their momma had gone to such lengths, had the foresight to plan beyond her death, still baffled Shea. Being in her small hometown had her constantly reexamining her childhood. It was shitty, without a doubt. Stressful, absolutely, but maybe it had also had its good times too. Maybe.

  “Ok, I’ll see ya then. Get me a pecan roll, please.” Evie hugged her briefly, gave Roscoe a scratch on the hindquarters, and was gone in a breath.

  She had to leave in two days at the latest if she wanted to arrive for her interview in the best possible shape, well rested and put together. She and Kimberley had gone over the day ad nauseam in an effort to get her mentally ready. She didn’t have a new song geared toward kids ready, like they’d stipulated, but the song she’d started working on after the funeral was really coming together beautifully. She was just going to go with what she knew and hope for the best, it was what drew their attention in the first place. Time to write a kids’ song was evaporating quickly.

  Roscoe ambled over to the large picture window, circled a sunbeam three times before he stretched out across it. He sighed happily, his tail giving two thumps.

  “You like it here, don’t you, boy?” Shea bent down to give his belly some rubs.

  His tail thumped again.

  “Yeah, I do too. But don’t get too attached, we’re not staying.” Shea glanced at her arms, surprised that hives were not blooming, even though she was planning to venture out into a place where people still remembered her past.

  The large clock on the wall chimed the half hour, prompting Shea into action. Discarding her robe, she changed into a flowy, white summer skirt, a navy blue tank top. With a quick swipe of gloss across her lips, she ran a brush through her hair and sat on the hall bench to pull on her navy cowboy boots. Grabbing her banjo case and purse, she jumped in her truck and drove to the diner, arriving a few minutes before eight.

  “Hey, girl,” Andee called and pulled out the box of teas.

  Shea sat in her sister’s seat and smiled. “Hey.”

  “Where’s Evie?”

  “She’s off trying hot yoga. But I’m to get her a pecan roll.”

  “Hon, she’ll want two of them after she’s done with hot yoga. I tried it once. I didn’t pee for days. I think I was so depleted of fluids that my body just reabsorbed it. That’s a true story.” She poured
hot water into a mug.

  Shea laughed. “I tried it once and all I could think about was that wicked witch from the Wizard of Oz. I kept wanting to call out in class ‘I’m melting.’”

  They shared another laugh. Further conversation was cut short when the door chime went off and Andee said, “Oh my word. Would you look at him? Leo! What in the world happened to you? Were you mugged?”

  Leo staggered into the diner wearing running shorts and a tight, white, stained t-shirt. Except for his glasses, he looked like the jock sports writer he was. His hair flopped over his eyes and his beard looked scragglier, if that was even possible. Shea stared at his arms and chest, her eyes gliding over the subtle definition of muscles.

  Damn, he had a body that could make a girl forget she was in mourning or, at the very least, ease some of the ache.

  “Are those orange stains from eating Cheetos? Did you wipe your hands on your shoulder?” Andee asked.

  He looked at one shoulder, then the other, sniffed the first one, and scratched his beard. “I think it’s from Dorito’s. I haven’t had sleep or any nutritional food since I saw you last,” he said to Shea and fell into the chair next to her. He took off his glasses, turned his blood shot eyes to her, and smiled.

  “Did you drive here?” Shea asked.

  “I think so. I don’t remember.”

  “What happened? Last I saw, you were running off to...”

  “Plot.”

  “Plot your story. Today you look like you’ve been on a bender.” She leaned in close and sniffed. “Have you been drinking?”

  “I had a beer but only because I was out of milk, energy drinks, and Coke. I wrote the first half of my book.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “After I talked with you I was all pumped up. I sketched out my plot and then sat down to do the first chapter. The story just poured out of me and I couldn’t stop. I’ve been up all night. I stopped so I could meet up with you.”

  “You should’ve gone to bed,” Shea said.