Coming Home Again (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 1)

by Lowe, T. I.

  While I try talking myself into heading out, I end up ordering a fudge brownie, hoping it will give me the boost I need to get back on the road. The decadent treat reminds me of an amusing memory and I sit at that table and laugh loudly with myself over it. That laugh has been the only thing to feel right in these last few days.

  I did get a bit of revenge on ole Jean over the ordeal with Julia. Jean’s only other indulgence besides fine wine is fine gourmet treats. Well, let’s be more honest—her whole life is an indulgence, but gourmet treats are close to the top of the list. Of course, local gourmet isn’t good enough for the brat. She has to have her decadent treats delivered all the way from New York. She had discovered the most scrumptious cookies on one of her many vacations without us and had set up a monthly delivery of the treats. Great, right? For Jean maybe, because no one else was allowed to eat any. These little fudgy jewels are double chocolate chip cookies with tiny chips of toffee and almonds nestled throughout in rich chocolate goodness. They are made from the finest ingredients, and this is evident in the price tag. I thought about ordering my own box over the years, but the allure of them isn’t so great when not being told it’s forbidden. Isn’t it funny how that works? We always want what we can’t have, simply for being forbidden.

  Jean forbade us to touch them. Of course, each one of us had made the mistake of snatching one of the melt-in-your-mouth cookies at some point or another, and we ALWAYS got caught. My mother would make us pay for our wrongdoing. My father didn’t even dare touch her precious cookies. She acted as though she was the only one deserving of the fine treats. Yep. Spoiled rotten—brat.

  Well, one day I was home alone and missing Julia something awful. Jean wouldn’t tell me anything about how my sister was doing. She said it was my punishment for what I did. I was sitting in the living room, folding a basket of laundry when the deliveryman dropped off her monthly cookie order. I dutifully brought the package to its designated cabinet. I hesitated for just one split second and that’s all it took for the evil idea to take root.

  I placed the box on the counter and stared down at it as I decided what to do. My first idea was to eat every single one of them, throw the box out, and deny their delivery. Then I thought some more and a smile crept over my face when the brilliant decision resolved. For me to be deemed a chronic procrastinator, it took me no time to act on this decision. Retrieving the cayenne pepper from the fancy spice rack, pure giddiness washed over me. I worked a knife under the seal without damage so that I could glue it back once my task was complete.

  Then I walked the cayenne pepper and cookies outside to a picnic table to the far edge of the backyard. And just let me tell you, I pulled each cookie out, giving it a good wet lick before sprinkling it heavily with the cayenne pepper. The dark fudgy texture of the cookie seemed to absorb the cayenne instantly. No red speckles were visible. After licking and dousing each one, I took the package back in and super-glued the seal shut and placed the box in its rightful cabinet. I then dashed upstairs to scrub any evidence from my mouth, laughing the entire time. I was finally going to get one up on that witch, and it felt so good. Now, call that evil or callous or whatever you want. I choose to call it creatively one-upping my enemy. She deserved it and you’re not changing my mind about it. You know you’re giggling right along with me.

  That night after supper, Jean dismissed us all as she prepared to enjoy her freshly delivered treats. I watched from the hallway as my mother placed two generously sized jewels on a dessert plate and made herself a cup of tea. As she sat down, John Paul tapped me on my shoulder and just about made me yelp in surprise.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered with a smirk. I guess his instincts warned him I was up to mischief, being that he is an expert on the matter.

  I said nothing, shook my head, and tried to shoo him to go back upstairs, but he wouldn’t budge. I reluctantly let him stand over my shoulder to watch the anticipated show he had no idea he was about to witness.

  Jean sat and took a small sip of her tea before seeming to decide it was still too hot. She then selected a cookie off the plate. She sniffed it, and I thought I was busted right on the spot, but then she took a substantial bite. She chewed for a few seconds as though she was trying to decipher it. Confusion, then panic, ran across her face in a cartoonish manner. It was all I could do to hold it together. She spit the cookie out all over the table and started rubbing her napkin across her tongue. When that didn’t help, she grabbed up her tea and took a good scorching gulp before spitting it out in a spray all over the table. She jumped up, causing her chair to tumble over as she ran to the sink. She drank and drank and drank straight from the faucet, heaving like something possessed.

  I pushed past John Paul and shot upstairs to my room for a good laugh. Later on that night, he eased into my room with an amused expression on his face. I was lying on my makeshift bed on the floor. This was where I had slept for the past eight months. If this seemed strange, John Paul kept it to himself. He just sat beside me and snickered as he playfully nudged me with his foot.

  “What did you put on those cookies, Savannah?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I ended up laughing right along with him. Now that, my friends, is a good memory. I just wish I had more of them kicking around.

  Chapter Six

  I grab a to-go cup of coffee and hit the road once more. A few uneventful hours pass before my phone starts singing. I try to sound upbeat as I answer. “Hello. This is Savannah.”

  “Where are you?” John Paul asks. Before I can answer, he continues his rant. “Why are you dragging your a…” (My brother has a mouth on him. Sorry.)

  I interrupt him before he can spit the curse word out completely. “Oh! It’s so nice to hear your pleasant voice this lovely morning. No need for ugly language. I should be there in about another hour or so.”

  “You should have been here yesterday. This ain’t a casual visit, but here you are just shooting the breeze like our dad didn’t just die.”

  This is the slap of reality I didn’t want, but needed. Yesterday’s call felt like a dream, and in this moment, I realize that it is a permanent situation. I have lost my opportunity to have a relationship with my dad. When I ran from my demons, I ran from him too.

  “I’ll be there soon,” I say through a tight throat before ending the call. I power the phone off and drive silently the rest of the way on autopilot.

  I love my brother, but his own personal demons have scarred him—some immediate and some surfacing over time. The last time I saw him was about five years ago. He was in his mid-twenties then, but already seemed to have lived a rough long life. I guess in some ways he had.

  He spent his days on the beach in a lounge chair sleeping off hangovers or on a surfboard. His nights were spent at the restaurant where he helped my dad run things. John Paul’s idea of helping was wooing all of the attractive female tourists. With his long, sun-bleached hair that touched well past his shoulders and rugged good looks, this was no problem for him. He is as good-looking of a man as Julia is a beautiful woman. They are both very striking, and people tend to stare. I look nothing like them. I’ve already told you that, though.

  And boy did he always have an endless supply of tall-tales to share. One of his favorites was the time he tossed a baby green garden snake at my feet, and I cried like a baby and passed out, which landed me in a big pile of cow manure. He said I walked around smelling like crap for weeks. The true version of that story was he raided my parents’ liquor cabinet and got smashed. His drunk-self found me hanging out with some friends in an old barn near our house. That sucker tossed a copperhead snake at me. The poisonous creature bounced off my shoulder and struck a garden rake beside me. Unfortunately, the only part of the story he had correct was I did cry like a baby. That was the last time I hung out with that crowd due to my embarrassment over his drunken taunting and my crying fit. This is the short simpler version of that tale. Please don’t ask for the longer and mo
re complicated one. I’m just not up for sharing it.

  His buddies couldn’t get enough of his farfetched stories and were always begging J.P. to tell another one. And boy, can he spin a tale right out of thin air. Everyone calls him J.P., but me. Evan was the one to call him that first, so I never had the desire to call him anything but John Paul.

  Yeah, so one night a buddy made a crucial error when he asked my brother to share the story of what happened to our cousin Bradley. Needless to say, that certain buddy ended up in the emergency room and John Paul ended up in jail. That was the last time anyone ever mentioned Bradley’s name in front of John Paul. I’d say that was a hard lessoned learned.

  Just thinking Bradley’s name causes pain to course up and bite me harshly, so I tamp that down as far as I can and focus back on the road.

  The closer I get to Bay Creek, the sicker I feel. I dread beyond dread having to come face to face with my mother again. She had such a big part in me running away in the first place, and now I blame her and myself for robbing me of any time I could have had with my dad. He was a hardworking man, and I know he loved us, even if he didn’t have enough hours in the day to express any of it.

  Jean is a different story. I’ve learned in my short life a valuable lesson—some battles are unwinnable, and the best thing to do is knock the dust off your shoes and move on. Jean is a battle I will never win. All my memories of her are the same. No matter what, at the first sight of her I have always felt a jolt of apprehension as to what was going to be wrong. She is unpleasable. I know. I tried unsuccessfully for years to do nothing more than to please my mother, and I failed miserably.

  After calling my grandparents about Julia, it seemed that Jean just wrote me off completely. I spent my teenage years trying to make up for it too—getting perfect grades, keeping all of the house chores done without complaint, and working part-time between the restaurant and the seafood market. It was all fruitless. She always found me to be imperfect and my attempts beyond flawed.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Just what are you doing to that chicken?” Jean almost shouted as she came up behind me at the stove. I could feel the hate in her voice slap my on the back.

  I was cooking supper and had dazed off into my own little world. I couldn’t help it because I was so darn tired that evening. I had just completed a shift at the market after school. After supper, I would have to do the dishes, a load of towels, and finish a midterm paper. My brain was fuzzy with all the tasks completed and frazzled with the ones that still awaited me. The repeated nightmares had already begun to keep me company most nights, so a good night’s sleep had become something of my past.

  My mother’s shouting only rubbed my exhausted-self wrong. Without thinking better, I blurted out sharply, “I’m making blackened chicken. What does it look like?” I turned to meet her glare with my own to only earn a handprint across my face. She snatched the tongs out of my hand and made herself useful in saving supper, which was fine by me.

  I watched as she quickly scooped the chicken out of the pan and demanded I hand her a clean one. I was none too happy about that because it meant more dishes for me later, but I figured for the safety of my face it was best to keep that complaint to myself. I gave her the pan and stood holding my throbbing cheek until she began barking out other orders to me.

  “Get me the garlic and rosemary,” she commanded. I watched intently as she gently peeled the skin of the chicken back. She made a paste with the garlic, rosemary, and some butter, which she spread over the chicken before smoothing the skin back over it. She placed the chicken in the clean heated pan, and without looking away from the sautéed chicken, she barked for me to slice some shallots. Once done, I nudged the cutting board in her vicinity while maintaining my distance. She threw it in with the chicken.

  “Now hand me my glass of wine.”

  I did as I was told. I figured it was time for a drink after having to put up with me, but to my surprise, Jean doused the chicken with the white wine instead. She did amaze me with her culinary techniques. Even though I earned another slap in my face, the meal had been worth it. I often use that exact same chicken recipe in my own kitchen, minus the animosity.

  ~ ~ ~

  It is late morning as I hit the city limits of Bay Creek. Relief washes over me that I’ve made it as uneasiness seeps through me over the exact same point. A beautiful driftwood sign with lots of brightly colored flowers planted along the base welcomes visitors to this picturesque town. It’s a lovely place too. The country and seashore landscape mingle together and allures people right on in.

  I slowly drive past my childhood home and take a quick glance at it. Besides a fresh coat of white paint and freshly landscaped lawn, the two-story colonial looks exactly the same. Cars line the driveway as well as along a lengthy stretch of the street. The wraparound porch has mourners scattered about it. All the guests either have a plate of food or a cup of drink, as they huddle in groups, deep in conversation. I’m sure the house is packed full of guests tending to Jean’s every need. I can’t bring myself to hit the brakes and before I know it, I am turning off our street. I set a course for the six-minute drive to my dad’s prides and joys. Crossing over the familiar waterway, the clinking and clanking sound of the ancient drawbridge welcomes me back.

  Within mere minutes, I am sitting in my idling car in the parking lot. I eventually turn the car off and climb out to inspect the places. They look exactly as they should with two exceptions. One is the fresh coat of paint. The other is the fact that it is smack-dab in the heart of tourist season and these two prominent establishments sit here abandoned. It’s an eerie feeling to be here alone on this balmy summer day. The quietness allows for the ocean’s tune to lull through the empty parking lot in a way I have never heard. The air is not filled with the usual aroma of succulent seafood being cooked up inside. Only the briny salt air is present, and this scene leaves me feeling hollow.

  After choking back the hurt, I walk up the porch of the restaurant that is lined with lonely rocking chairs swaying mournfully from the breeze. On the door is a wreath with an explanation as to why the tourists will miss the best beach meal they could have found.

  We are sad to announce the untimely passing of proprietor, Mr. John Paul Thorton II. We will keep you posted as to when the businesses will reopen.

  People have left cards and notes tucked throughout the wreath, offering their condolences. In this moment, the impact of it all finally hits me. I’ve lost my dad… Lost him and there’s no changing this bitter fact that I can hardly comprehend.

  Not being able to take it, I run down the block to the beach and stumble to a stop in the sand. He’s gone. Really gone. And I have run out of time to make amends. My chance is lost to know my dad and to let him know me. The hurt is crushing and strikes me with such a blow that I am brought abruptly to my knees. If the beachgoers find my meltdown strange, they don’t act on it. I’m left alone to dance with a few of my demons for a spell.

  I rock back and forth in the sand for a while as I fight off one of my attacks. Breathe, Savannah. Breathe. In… Out… Breathe.

  The sea breeze has whipped my hair across my face, so I don’t see it coming when strong hands slide under my arms and pluck me from the sand in one swift snatch. Before I know it, I am pulled around and encircled in a vice grip embrace. His shaking vibrates through me, and it’s obvious he is close to tears. We say nothing to one another in an understandable silence. Needing some space from the beachgoers, he eventually leads me back to my car. He holds my hand the entire way, and I rein in my anxiety over the physical contact. He’s not gonna hurt you. I’m guessing his worry is that I’ll run off again is why he won’t let go of me. He’s no dumb blond, because that is exactly what I’m thinking about doing. Once we reach the parking lot, he turns to face me, and I get a good long look at him.

  “You’ve cut your hair?” I ask my brother. His long surfer locks are gone. I have not seen my brother with short hair since grade school. John Paul is
sporting a short, yet perfectly messy, style. It looks good, but it’s not him. He is too rough and tough for such a preppy look.

  He weakly smiles as he rubs his hands through it, as though he can’t believe it himself. I stare at his red-rimmed eyes with concern and wait for him to find his voice. I guess he is unable to speak, because he swoops me up in another hug. He’s still trembling, and I begin to hurt for the pain he is going through. I suddenly feel selfish for taking so long in getting here to him. Not once in the past two days have I considered how he feels for losing his dad. A dad that he knew well compared to my own relationship. And he has been here going through it all alone.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper against his shoulder. He nods his head in agreement, but still says nothing. “John Paul?”

  “Your mother made me cut it,” he finally chokes out, making us both laugh at his way of forming the sentence. Neither one of us much claimed her through the years.

  “Great day. I’ve really missed you,” I confess honestly. “How’d you know where I was?”

  “I watched your butt sneak by the house earlier. Only two possibilities as to where I’d find you. Here or at Miss May’s.”

  We walk over to the market’s porch and have a seat. We rock for a bit before I ask, “How is she?”

  “Madder than a wet setting hen at you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You disappeared on us over five years ago, Savannah. Isn’t that enough?” There’s a pucker of hurt between his blond eyebrows and I feel guilty for being the cause.

  “I suppose,” I admit.

  We sit staring over the empty parking lot for a little longer, catching up. I know I’m just putting off the inevitable, so I finally agree to follow John Paul back to the house.