A Sweethaven Summer

by Courtney Walsh

  Where’d this come from?

  She pulled the quilt off of the trunk and popped open the lock. Musty basement smell filled her nostrils, obliterating the serenity of her mother’s sweet scent. She coughed. A small quilt was folded on the top of the contents inside the trunk. She lifted it out, revealing stacks of canvases, not unlike those that filled Mom’s art studio.

  These were different, though. Striking. Magical.

  She flipped them over, one by one.

  Sweethaven Sunset. Sweethaven barn. Sweethaven dock.

  Sweethaven?

  Campbell glanced around the house, looking for other new additions. Things that hadn’t been there the last time she’d visited.

  She walked into Mom’s bedroom, trying to shut out the emotion that knocked at the door of her heart. The queen-sized bed had been made up with its red and white quilt and topped with pillows. She headed into the bathroom—fewer memories there.

  A white-framed mirror hung over a pedestal sink. She splashed water on her face and caught her reflection. She hardly looked like her usual self. Her blue eyes had lost their luster, and her skin looked pale. Her cropped blond hair was matted to her skull like an unattractive helmet. The mascara she’d carefully applied that morning had worn away, leaving her lashes to fend for themselves. Unsuccessfully.

  Behind her, a shelf decorated with seashells and photos caught her eye. She hadn’t noticed them before. A framed photo of her and Mom had been propped on one side of the shelf, but on the other side, something unfamiliar. She squinted at the foreign photo until she recognized her mother at the center of the group of four girls—probably thirteen years old—sitting on a long dock, their backs to the ocean. Or was it a lake?

  The frame, made of seashells, had a date etched in it. 1983. Mom’s long brown hair hung around thin shoulders, and a red polka-dot bikini top showed off her tan. Long and lanky arms draped around other thin shoulders attached to smiling faces.

  Who were these girls? Mom hardly ever talked about her childhood. Instead, she told vague stories with few details.

  And why had her mother never mentioned this place before? It must be real. The painted scenes matched the photo.

  Walking through the house, she found similar framed photos, though the girls seemed older in each one.

  She returned to the living room and flipped each frame over, facedown. Unhinged the backing from the frames and pulled out the photos. Each one had been labeled in a young girl’s handwriting.

  The Circle. 1983.

  The Circle. 1985.

  The Circle. 1986.

  1986. The year before Campbell had been born.

  She studied the photo. Four teenage girls sat on the same dock in each shot. Same pose—her mom always at the center, eyes beaming, so full of life. Girls who would now be women, and who didn’t know her mother had died.

  Girls who knew her mom when she got pregnant.

  Pulse racing, she rummaged through the rest of the trunk. At the bottom, she found a wooden box. She pulled it out and carefully removed the top.

  What if there were clues to her father’s identity here? She’d convinced herself over and over that it didn’t matter. Every daddy/daughter dance. Every major milestone and life event. The thought of one day walking down the aisle. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need a father. She had Mom. But now…

  Now she had no one.

  Inside the box, Campbell found an oversized packet of papers. She pulled them out. Pictures and phrases and sentences and snippets decorated the pages. A stack of them tied together with a ribbon. Why did her mother have what appeared to be only a portion of a larger scrapbook? Where was the rest of the album? Had it been torn apart in anger? Carefully separated with tenderness? She found a note attached that read:

  Suzanne,

  We wanted you to have the whole scrapbook, but we knew you’d never keep it if you weren’t coming back. We decided to divvy up the pages. Here’s some we thought were your favorites. Will you write? Call? Anything?

  Love you,

  Jane

  Jane’s note gave no reason.

  If they’d documented everything, shouldn’t there be a page somewhere that revealed her father’s identity?

  Campbell untied the ribbon and looked through the pages on her lap. Images of her curly-headed mother abounded. All of the journaling talked about a place called Sweethaven. One page showed a map of Michigan, a heart drawn around a tiny spot near the lake.

  Our Summer Oasis. Photos of the girls standing beside a tall wooden Sweethaven sign at the city limits filled the pages. Campbell read the handwritten journaling: We hated it here until we met each other. Now we wait nine months for summer to get here. We spend most of our time in Meg’s cottage because her mom makes the best food. The rest of the time we spend on the beach. Or in the Commons. Or in the Main Street Café. We love our Sweethaven Life.

  The handwriting resembled Mom’s artsy script.

  Why had Mom never spoken of this town? Sweethaven was a blip on the map at the center of the layout. A small gold star marked the spot in Michigan, north of her home in the Chicago suburbs.

  She flipped to the last page.

  Summer 1987. Broken Circle.

  A Polaroid photo had been stapled to the left-hand side of the page. A sheet of notebook paper with her mother’s handwriting had been stapled to the right-hand side. A painted collage background told her that Mom had certainly crafted this page. Campbell ran her index finger over the familiar cursive. Even her mother’s handwriting comforted her. She leaned in closer to the page. Her pregnant mother, frozen in time, stared back at her.

  She looked so young. Only seventeen, her belly round like a basketball stuffed under a too-small shirt. Her long brown ponytail hung to her shoulders. She held the camera in one hand and took the photo of her reflection in a long mirror.

  Campbell scanned the words on the page, and realized it acted as her mother’s good-bye.

  She’d never seen a picture of her mom pregnant. Mom said her grandma wouldn’t allow any to be taken. The shame had been too great. Not something to celebrate. Translation: she wasn’t something to celebrate.

  Campbell lifted it and a dried, brown-edged, yellow rosebud fell out. Had her father given her mother this rose? Had the two of them been kept apart in a tragic, Romeo and Juliet kind of way? She flipped through the pages searching for any mention of a boy’s name. Nothing.

  But this scrapbook was incomplete. What about the other pages? The pages the other women had? Would they connect the dots and spill the truth?

  Campbell didn’t have to look far to find the identities of the other three girls. The second page stretched across two sheets of worn cardstock. At the top, the title: The Circle. Underneath were four columns, with a photo of each girl in front of a cottage with a different house number and a brief introduction.

  Mom stood on the porch of a steep-roofed cottage wearing a terrycloth one-piece shorts outfit and a wild ponytail. Campbell zeroed in on the handwritten note beside the photo.

  My name is Suzanne Carter but my real friends call me Suzy-Q. I am one of the founding members of the Sweethaven Circle and spend my summers in this cottage, located on Juniper Drive. We just started coming to Sweethaven this year after my grandmother passed away. She left the cottage to my father. I like Bazooka Joe bubble gum, White Rain hairspray, and I’m obsessed with Michael J. Fox. (He’s so cute!) If I hadn’t met the other members of The Circle, Sweethaven would be totally lame. Oh, and I’m starting eighth grade in the fall. (Gag!) At least I’ll have the summer to look forward to!

  Yours Sincerely,

  Suzanne Marie Carter

  Campbell smiled at the thought of her mom as an almost eighth grader. She had no idea then how short her life would be. Only forty-two years.

  The other introductions were similar. Jane Anderson had been coming to Sweethaven her entire life. She had other friends but made mention of her “kindred spirit” Suzanne—someone who understood her b
etter than anyone else. Her “regular home” in Iowa wasn’t nearly as interesting. Lila Adler lived in Macon, Georgia, but traveled all the way north to Michigan to “give Daddy time away from the real estate business.” And Meghan Barber, a redhead with bright freckles across her nose and cheeks, had only recently moved to Sweethaven full-time. “To escape the ‘dangers’ of Nashville and because my mom made me.”

  These girls had been close to her mother. They’d watched her grow up. More importantly, they knew her when she’d made that terrible mistake…the one that led to Campbell’s conception. Those girls—women now—had known Campbell’s grandparents. They might even know who her father was.

  Guilt shook her. Would it hurt Mom to know she was already thinking about finding her father? Only hours after her funeral?

  She skimmed page after page of the papers that had been tied together with bright red ribbon, but she found no mention of a boyfriend. There were entries about a Blossom Festival. An entry about the old carousel on the boardwalk being restored. Even one page about Meg’s mom’s famous cheesecake. But not one word about a boy who might be her father.

  What if all the secrets had been preserved by one of the other girls? What if the other pages lay somewhere in Sweethaven? In one of those cottages? What if someone—after she’d spent years wondering—could tell her where her long legs and blond hair came from?

  What if she wasn’t alone after all?

  The phone rang, startling Campbell back to reality. She stared at it, not sure if she should answer Mom’s phone. Finally, after three rings, she walked into the kitchen and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Suzanne. It’s so good to hear your voice. I was just callin’ to check in on you. How’re you feelin’, darlin’?”

  Oh no, Campbell thought. Someone who hasn’t heard about Mom’s death.

  “I’m sorry, this is Campbell, Suzanne’s daughter.”

  A pause on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, yes, sweetie, I’m still here. I’m sorry. Is your mother home?”

  Campbell sighed. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but she passed away two days ago.” The words nearly stuck in her throat.

  The Southern woman on the other end of the line let out a faint gasp. “Oh, hon,” she said, “I’m so sorry. I hadn’t heard.”

  Campbell stared at the ceiling—something that always kept her tears from escaping. “Who am I speaking with?”

  “I’m an old friend of your mom’s,” the woman said. “Adele Barber.”

  Campbell frowned. Barber. She walked to the living room and picked up the scrapbook pages on the couch. Meghan Barber.

  “As in Meghan Barber?”

  “That’s my daughter,” Adele said. “So your mother did tell you about Sweethaven.” Adele sounded relieved.

  Campbell started to respond and considered pretending she knew everything—she’d get more information that way—but she’d never been a good liar.

  “Actually, no,” she said. “I just found some photos and scrapbook pages. Do you know where these other women are? And your daughter?”

  Adele cleared her throat. “Maybe it’s best if we meet in person,” she said. “Can you come up here? To Sweethaven?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Campbell said. “I’ve already been off work for a week.” That part was true. She didn’t mention she’d called her boss at The Buzz, the Internet tabloid site where she worked, and taken the rest of the week off.

  “I see.”

  “So, my mom’s friends don’t know she’s gone?”

  “No, darlin’. I don’t see how they could. The girls haven’t spoken in years.”

  Campbell frowned. “Why not?”

  “It’s a long story. I was hopin’ your mama would get in touch with them before she passed away.”

  “You knew she was sick?”

  “I did. She came to see me not too long ago. Wantin’ to make amends, I suppose. Wantin’ some advice. I’m sad she didn’t get to say a proper good-bye.”

  Confused, Campbell glanced around the kitchen, not wanting to get off the phone, but not sure what else to say. Maybe her mom had planned to tell her a lot more than just who her father was that night. Maybe she planned to tell her about Sweethaven.

  The outgoing mail pile still sat in the organizer on the edge of the counter. In it, a stack of small envelopes caught her eye.

  She picked them up and flipped through them one by one.

  “Huh,” she said. “It looks like my mom planned to get in touch with them. I just found three cards, one addressed to each of them.”

  “Oh dear.” Adele’s voice wavered. “She just ran out of time.”

  “Why didn’t she tell me about any of this?” Campbell wondered aloud.

  “I’m sure she had her reasons, hon.”

  Campbell studied the envelopes. Should she mail them? Read them? What would the women do if they heard from her mother? Would they call? Write? Then Campbell would have to tell them each they were too late. Her mother was gone.

  “I have to go,” she told Adele. “I’m sorry.”

  “I understand, hon, but you write down my number and call me if you need anything,” Adele said. “And when you’re ready, my door here in Sweethaven is always open.”

  “Thank you.” Campbell hung up, confused, as more questions swirled around in her mind. She considered reading the cards intended for her mother’s childhood friends, but something about that felt wrong.

  She glanced at the clock. The mail hadn’t come yet. Without giving it another thought, she stuck all three envelopes in the mail box just outside the front door.

  Even if she was gone, her mother’s friends had a right to know what she had to say.

  She shut the door and braced herself for the questions that could come her way in the next few days.

  For once, she’d be the one with the answers.

  THREE

  Jane

  Three o’clock already? Jane sighed. Where had the day gone? She looked at her to-do list and crossed out Fold laundry. Still staring at her were Cook Dinner, Do Bible Study Lesson, and Make “North Wind” costume for Sam’s kindergarten class play. She’d agreed to volunteer at the school one day a week, but it seemed like the projects always waited until the very last minute.

  She looked at the piles of folded clothes stacked on the kitchen table. At least she’d gotten that done.

  She hurried to her minivan and backed out of the driveway, pulling next to the mailbox as she reached the road. A stack of bills and junk mail waited for her. She tossed the pile on the front seat and drove toward the school.

  Her cell phone chirped from the pocket in her purse. Keeping one eye on the road, she rummaged to find the phone before it stopped ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, hon.” Graham. Wednesday, 2:45. He’d be working on his sermon for Sunday morning. Jane rarely heard from him at this time of day.

  “Hey. Is everything okay?” Jane clicked on her turn signal and pulled into the school parking lot.

  “Just calling to check in.”

  He’d started checking up on her years ago, and even though she was fine now, he still kept it up. She didn’t mind.

  “I’m fine. Just waiting for Sam to get out of school.”

  “I meant to call earlier, but I got wrapped up in what I was doing. I think I’m on a roll, but I’ll be home for dinner.” She could hear a smile in his voice. He loved coming up with a good sermon—it’s what made him tick.

  “Good. We’ll see you then.” She tossed the phone on the front seat and took her place at the back of the carpool line at the elementary school. Once she picked up Sam, she’d have to run up the street to get the girls at the junior high/high school, but in spite of the rush, she found herself ten minutes early.

  She picked up the mail and thumbed through it. Electric bill. Cable bill. Credit card application. She tore that one up and stuffed it i
n the trash can at her feet. A small envelope fell from the pile. One look at the handwriting and a gasp escaped her lips.

  Suzanne. How long had it been? She did the math in her head. Twenty-some years. Had it really been that long?

  Hmmm. No return address. Just a Chicago postmark. Inside was a small card. Hand-painted watercolor flowers graced the front panel. Jane ran her finger over the card, taking a moment to admire it. It looked like it should be in a frame. Leave it to Suzanne to make her own cards. She’d always been the creative one. She flipped it open and Suzanne’s beautiful handwriting greeted her like a long-lost friend. Simply seeing the familiar script brought back the ache of nostalgia. Suzanne refused to be ordinary in any way—right down to her penmanship. She could make a quickly scribbled check to a pizza place look like a masterpiece. In her youth, Jane had foolishly prayed for good handwriting after seeing Suzanne’s for the first time.

  God had answered her prayer, years later, and now Jane wondered what He would’ve done if she’d prayed for something that actually mattered.

  Like friendships that didn’t fade away as quickly as the changing seasons.

  Jane’s wistful smile faded into regret. They’d been so close—how had she let so much time pass without so much as a Christmas card? Even after everything they’d all been through, she shouldn’t have allowed the distance—or the past—to come between them. She didn’t even know where Suzanne lived anymore. She focused her attention on the words in front of her.

  Dear Janie,

  It’s been too long. I think about you so often and wonder how you are. I walked by your cottage just last week. I could almost hear your laughter inside.

  Jane blinked twice and found it difficult to open her eyes again. Suzanne had been back to Sweethaven?

  Sweethaven.

  Jane’s heart constricted. There was too much history. Too many memories of The Circle. Of Alex.

  Alex.

  The thought brought tears to her eyes, but she held them back. She swallowed the lump in her throat and forced her emotions to stay put. She looked around at the line of cars outside. She needed to keep it together.