Two Roads Home

by Raney, Deborah;

  The baby gave her a snaggletoothed grin and wiped her turned-up nose on the shoulder of Audrey’s apple green linen jacket.

  “Simone!” Corinne’s shrug didn’t match the grimace she gave Audrey. “Well, at least it matches.”

  Audrey did not find that amusing.

  Corinne swooped in with a tissue, which made Simone screech like a banshee. Which made Huckleberry come running, barking as if he’d just cornered a squirrel.

  Great. Just great. “Can somebody please take this dog outside? How did he even get in here?” Audrey hated raising her voice to her family, but she knew too well that the playful Lab could undo in two minutes everything they’d spent a week preparing. “I want him outside until the last guest leaves.”

  “Come here, Huck,” Corinne coaxed, stroking the sleek chocolate-colored coat. “You bad boy.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll take him out.” Audrey handed the baby off to Corinne, put Huck outside, and came back to the sink. Grabbing a damp dishcloth from the basin, she scrubbed at her jacket, exchanging the toddler’s snot stain for a dark wet spot. She prayed it would dry before the first guests started arriving.

  The clock in the foyer struck eleven, and a frisson of panic went through her. They had less than two hours and so much still to do. She heard Link’s voice at the front door. Maybe she could enlist him to watch Simone for a few minutes. Like his brother Tim, Link had always had a way with kids.

  “Hey, Mom. Dad said to report in.” Tall and rugged-looking like his father, Link appeared beneath the arch of the kitchen doorway. “Smells good in here.” He gave Audrey a quick hug before snatching a bacon-wrapped canapé from a silver tray. He popped it in his mouth before Audrey could protest.

  She placed herself between her son and the gleaming marble counter full of food. “There are snacks out in the garage for you kids, but I’m not joking; this stuff is off limits until we see how many people show.”

  “Got it, Mom. Off limits.” In one smooth motion, Link gave her a half-salute and reached behind her for a sausage ball.

  “Cut that out! Shoo! Out of my kitchen!”

  “Place looks good, Ma.”

  Grant appeared in the doorway. “Reporting for duty.”

  Link shot his dad a conspiratorial grin but obediently backed into the entryway. Audrey wondered for the thousandth time why some sweet young girl hadn’t snapped up this handsome son of hers. But that was a worry for another day.

  “Hey guys,” Audrey said, “can you bring in some folding chairs from the garage? Maybe just half a dozen or so. I don’t want to set up more than we need.”

  “You’ll need more than six.” Grant sounded so sure the day would be a success. “Bring a dozen, Link.”

  She hoped he was right. But if not . . . Well, there would be no problem getting rid of all the food she’d made. The good ol’ Whitman family reunion they’d planned for the rest of the weekend would take care of that. The thought brought a pang of longing with it. It was wonderful to have most of her family together, but it wouldn’t be the same without Landyn and Chase.

  And Tim. Nothing would ever be the same without Timothy.

  * * *

  Landyn Spencer craned her neck to check the Interstate traffic behind her in the rearview mirror, but all she could see was the U-Haul trailer she was pulling. The extended mirrors on the behemoth were smeared with a dozen hours of rain and dust.

  New York was thirteen hours behind her, and with the sun finally coming up, she realized she was in familiar territory.

  She’d left the city after ten last night, starting out on only four hours of sleep. She’d been watching the lit-up Empire State Building fade into the skyline in her rearview mirror, and not until she’d passed through the Lincoln Tunnel and come out on the New Jersey side had she finally allowed herself tears.

  That was a mistake. She’d been crying ever since. But enough. She had to get hold of herself before she got home. She swiped at damp cheeks, took a deep breath, and steadied her gaze on the road in front of her. If her eyes got any more swollen, she’d have to pull the Honda over. And if she did that, chances were good the stupid thing wouldn’t start again. Then she’d really be up the Hudson without a paddle. Besides, right now, she just wanted to put the past—and Chase Spencer—as far behind her as she could.

  She still couldn’t believe that her husband of six months had gone so far off the deep end. Without even discussing it with her, he’d let their great, albeit small, apartment on the Upper West Side go—sublet their home to a stranger—and rented a fleabag excuse for a studio apartment in Brooklyn. What was he thinking?

  He wasn’t. That was the problem. He’d let his art rep convince him that living in Bedford-Stuyvesant near some stupid gallery that was supposedly the next hot thing would jumpstart his career. The agent had told Chase the studio would pay for itself in a matter of months—and probably herald in world peace too.

  Well, fine. Chase had made his choice. But they were newlyweds. She should have been his choice. Oh, he claimed he wasn’t forcing her hand. But if she did what he wanted and followed him to Brooklyn, it meant an almost two-hour commute for her every day. They saw each other little enough as it was! Had he thought any of this through? No, he had not. And despite what Chase said, leaving Fineman and Justus, and a marketing position she loved, didn’t leave her with many options. Especially not now . . .

  The tears started again and she shook her head. She couldn’t even let herself think about that right now.

  She attempted to distract her maudlin thoughts with the stunning colors October had painted on either side of the Interstate. She thought she’d crossed over into Kentucky, though she didn’t remember seeing a sign. If Chase were here, he’d no doubt be sketching the trees or shooting photos in a vain attempt to capture the vivid colors. Then he’d complain that the pictures didn’t even come close, and she’d have to—

  A horn blared behind her. She checked the mirror and then the speedometer. She was barely going fifty in the left-hand lane. Stupid cruise control had quit working again. Heart pounding, she accelerated and tried to whip back into the right lane only to have the trailer tug her over the line into the passing lane. She finally managed to maneuver to the proper lane, and she glared hard at the driver as he passed her.

  It was a stupid, childish thing to do. She was the one in the wrong. But the guy had almost scared her into having a wreck. It would serve Chase right if she had an accident. She quickly checked the thought. He wasn’t the only one she had to think about. Mom and Dad had already lost one child. Her throat tightened at the thought of her brother. If they had to go through that again, she wasn’t sure they’d ever recover. Besides, Mom and Dad didn’t know she was on her way home. If she had a wreck, no one would know why she was on a road all alone, miles from New York.

  It did make her smile to think about what her parents’ reaction would be when she pulled into the driveway. She hadn’t seen Mom and Dad since her wedding in April, and it would be fun to surprise them. Suddenly she missed them the way she had that first summer she’d gone away to church camp and learned the meaning of “homesick.”

  But how could she tell them she was leaving Chase? After only six months of marriage. She could hear her dad now. “Landyn Rebekah Whitman,” he’d say (somehow forgetting she was now a Spencer), “you get in that car and you drive yourself right back to New York.” He’d be mad at Chase, too, but she’d be the one who’d get the talking-to.

  Well, they didn’t know the details. And they wouldn’t. Chase had fought hard to win her parents over, and she wasn’t going to make him out to be the bad guy now—even though he was. One hundred percent, he was. It still made her furious.

  No . . . worse than that. It broke her heart.

  She was beginning to understand why her parents had been skeptical about Chase in the first place. He was letting this . . . delusion of getting rich and famous selling his art sidetrack him. Not that he wasn’t good. He was. He had a ton of
talent, but that didn’t mean he could make a living at it. And their finances didn’t exactly allow for risky investments right now.

  Chase had landed a job in New York right out of college, working in the art department for a small local magazine. It was a job that used his art skills, and one with room to grow.

  But then this nut job art rep had seen Chase’s work and gotten him all wired with delusions of grandeur. In a way, she understood. Chase hadn’t received much encouragement growing up. His dad left when he was five, and he’d been raised by a single mom who seemed to have a new boyfriend every other week. The minute Chase graduated high school, Mona Spencer had followed some guy out to California. She’d come back for their wedding on the arm of yet another flavor of the week, but Landyn didn’t expect to see her again unless she and Chase took the initiative to make a trip out West someday.

  Still, despite his rough childhood, and a couple of wild years in high school, Chase had defied the odds and turned into a good guy. A really good guy. Their youth pastor from Langhorne Community Fellowship took Chase under his wing, and by the time Landyn was old enough to date, he was toeing a pretty straight line. Well, except for that tattoo. Dad had come completely unglued when he heard Chase had gotten inked. She’d finally calmed him down by explaining that Chase’s Celtic cross—on his collarbone, so it was hidden under most of his shirts—was a symbol of his faith and of the permanence of God’s love for him. Landyn had always loved her husband’s tat—one he’d designed himself. She’d even toyed with the idea of getting one to match. But so far the fear of her father’s reaction and the lack of cash had prevented her—not to mention the disturbing image of herself as a grandma with a shriveled tat on her chest.

  After Chase proposed, Mom and Dad insisted they go to counseling before getting married—more intensive than the required premarital counseling—with Pastor Simmons. And though she’d balked big-time at the suggestion, Chase had been willing. And when their sessions were over, she was certain Chase Spencer was ready to be the husband of her dreams—even if her parents weren’t convinced.

  Maybe she should have listened to them.

  Because now he’d quit his job and all but forced her to quit hers. Forced her to run home to Missouri. Except she didn’t have a home in Missouri anymore either. Her parents had turned their house into a bed-and-breakfast, and her room was now a guest room at the Chicory Inn. Real original, Mom. From what her sisters said—and from the photos Mom had e-mailed her of the finished renovation—Landyn wouldn’t even recognize the place.

  Sometime this week was the big open house for the inn, too. She’d told her parents she and Chase couldn’t get away—which was true at the time. But now she had no choice. She’d stayed with a friend from work for three days, but if she’d stayed there one more day, she’d have had one less friend. So she’d loaded up what little furniture Chase didn’t take with him, and she was headed back to Langhorne.

  At least in Missouri she wouldn’t be shelling out two thousand dollars a month in rent for some roach-infested studio. And she’d be a world away from New York. And him.

  Please enjoy this excerpt from Another Way Home.

  Chapter 1

  Danae Brooks buttoned her shirt and slipped on her shoes, trying desperately not to get her hopes up. The dressing rooms in her doctor’s office were more like something in an upscale spa—heavy fringed drapes curtained private alcoves decorated with framed art prints, and flameless candles flickered on tiny side tables. Soft strains of Mozart wafted through the building. Of course, for the fees her obstetrician charged—or rather, her “reproductive endocrinologist,” as his nameplate declared—the luxuries felt well-deserved.

  She gathered her purse and continued to the window at the nurse’s station.

  Marilyn—she was on a first-name basis with most of the nurses by now—looked up with a practiced smile. “You can go on down. Dr. Gwinn will be with you in just a minute.”

  Danae had quit trying to decipher the nurses’ demeanor. So far, month after month, every smile, every quirk of an eyebrow, every wink, had meant the same thing: she wasn’t pregnant. Again. Still.

  She walked down the hall to the doctor’s sparse office and was surprised to find him already sitting behind his desk. She forced herself not to get her hopes up, but she’d always had to wait for a consult before. Sometimes twenty minutes or more. Could it be . . . ?

  “Come on in, Danae.” He looked past her expectantly.

  “Oh. Um . . . Dallas isn’t with me today. He…couldn’t get off work.” Of course he could have if he’d really wanted to.

  “I understand. No problem. Come on in and have a seat.”

  She took one of the duo of armchairs in front of his desk, feeling a bit adrift without Dallas beside her.

  Dr. Gwinn scribbled something on the sheaf of papers in front of him, then slipped them into a folder before looking up at her. She knew immediately that there was no baby.

  “Well…” He pulled a sheet of paper from the folder he’d just closed and slid it across the desk, pointing with his pen at an all too familiar graph. “Nothing has changed from last time. Your levels are still not quite where we’d like to see them, but we’re getting there. I’m going to adjust the dosage just a bit. Nothing drastic, but you might notice an increase in the side effects you’ve experienced in the past.”

  “It hasn’t been too bad.”

  He steepled his fingers in front of him and frowned. “That’s good, but don’t be surprised if the symptoms are a little more marked with this increase.”

  Dr. Gwinn wrapped up the consultation quickly and suggested she call his office if she experienced any problems on the new dosage.

  For some reason, his warning encouraged her. Maybe this boost in meds would be the thing that finally worked. As quickly as the thought came, she tried to put her hope in check. Almost every week there was something that got her hopes up . . . only to have them dashed again.

  But Dr. Gwinn sounded so hopeful this time. Of course, they’d all been hopeful. For more than three years now, a string of clinics had offered endless hope—and had happily accepted their checks for one fertility treatment after another. But despite test after test, a string of doctors in a string of clinics could not seem to find any reason she and Dallas could not have a baby together. “Unexplained infertility” was the frustrating diagnosis. They’d done just about everything but in vitro. Or adoption. And though Dallas was adamant they would not take that route, Danae was beginning to think it might be the answer. The only answer.

  At the reception desk, Danae slid her debit card across the counter. Another three hundred dollars. She dreaded Dallas seeing the amount in the check register. She wasn’t sure how long they could keep draining their bank account this way before her husband said, “Enough.”

  The woman handed her a receipt. “We’ll see you in two weeks, Mrs. Brooks.”

  “Thank you.” She forced a smile and sent up a prayer that next time she wouldn’t have to endure the shots and medication—because she’d be pregnant. But it was getting harder and harder to be optimistic. And she wasn’t sure how long she could hold up under repeated disappointment.

  She shoved open the door as if shoving away the discouraging thoughts. Or trying to. The late September air finally held a hint of autumn, and she inhaled deeply. As she unlocked the car door, her phone chirped from her purse. Dallas’s ring. She fished it out of the side pocket. “Hey, babe.”

  “Hey yourself. How’d it go?” The caution in his voice made her sad.

  “Same ol’ same ol’. But he upped my dosage a little.”

  An overlong pause. “It’s not going to make you bonkers like the last time they did that, is it?”

  “No.” She hadn’t meant to sound so irritated. She’d kind of forgotten the incident Dallas referred to—like the worst PMS in the history of the world according to her husband. Which was funny given she’d never really experienced PMS, so how would he know? It was probably
an apt description though. “That wasn’t even the same drug I’m on now, Dallas. And even if it was, everything went back to normal as soon as they cut my dosage back again. Remember?”

  “I know . . . I know.” His tone said he was tiptoeing lightly, trying not to start something—and trying too hard to make up for not coming with her to today’s appointment. “So, do you want me to pick up something for supper on my way home?”

  “No, I’m making something.” No sense adding expensive take-out to the financial “discussion” that was likely to happen after he saw the checkbook. “Maybe scalloped potatoes? It actually feels like fall out here today.” She held up a hand, as if he could see her testing the crisp air.

  “I need to go, Danae. We’ll talk tonight, okay? But you did remember I’m going to the gym with Drew after work, right? Can I invite him to eat with us?”

  “Dallas—” She gave a little growl. “It’s Tuesday. You know we’re going to my folks tonight.”

  “Oh, yeah. . . . Sorry, I forgot.”

  “Did you think we were only having scalloped potatoes for supper?”

  “I didn’t think about it. Sorry. Well, I’ll invite Drew another night then. We can—” A familiar click on the line—the office call waiting signal—clipped his words. “Hey, I’ve got to take this. See you tonight.”

  “Sure.” She spoke into the silence, feeling dismissed. Sometimes she thought Dallas preferred his brother’s company to hers.

  She climbed into the car and buckled up, imagining the day when she’d be buckling a precious baby into a car seat first. Please, God. Please. After three years, this shorthand had become the extent of her prayers.

  Pulling out of the parking lot, she was tempted to come up with an excuse to get out of going to the inn tonight. She’d almost come to dread these weekly family dinners for fear of all the questions about their quest to have a baby. But the truth was, her family had grown weary of the subject and had mostly quit asking. Maybe that was just as well.