Coming Home

by Shirlee Busbee

  Roxanne frowned. “Yeah, but, Ilka, that was almost fourteen years ago.”

  “I know, but it's not hurting anything is it? I mean Mom and Dad don't mind that I'm still living here.” Earnestly, she added, “We have a lot of fun together. Did you know that we all went on a cruise this spring? We enjoy each other.”

  “Yes, but that's not my point. My point is that you need a life of your own.”

  Ilka seemed to freeze, to shrink inside herself. “I don't want a life of my own,” she said in a small voice. “I had my own life once and look what happened.” She sent Roxanne an anguished glance. “I couldn't bear it, Roxy, to go through that sort of pain again.”

  “What makes you think the same thing would happen? You're older now. Wiser. The odds of you hooking up with someone like Delmer again are astronomical.”

  Ilka frantically shook her head. “No. I couldn't risk it.”

  Roxanne let go of her hand and sat back. Thoughtfully she studied her sister. “Did you love Delmer that much?”

  Ilka frowned. “What do you mean? I loved him, or thought I did, when we married, but in the end …” Her eyes grew icy and hard as steel. “In the end, I hated him more than I've ever hated anyone … or ever will.”

  “Then why are you letting him still rule your life?” Roxanne asked quietly. At Ilka's expression of outrage, she added, “You are, you know. As long as you remain hiding here at home with Mom and Dad, hiding from life, you're letting him win. You're letting what he did to you dictate your whole life.”

  Ilka opened her mouth. Shut it. Stared at her sister. “That's not true,” she finally managed. “Not true at all.”

  “Isn't it?”

  “What do you know about it?” Ilka demanded. “You've never even been married. You never had children …” her voice choked, “or buried them. Just what the hell do you know?”

  Deciding it was time for a retreat, Roxanne rose to her feet. “You're right. I don't know what you experienced. But I'll tell you one thing, little sister: no man would ever keep me chained and imprisoned like Delmer has you. Every day, every hour, you hide out here is an hour, a day, that he's stolen from you.” Ilka's hurt expression almost undid her, but keeping her voice firm, she added, “Are you going to let him steal your whole life?” “You don't understand! It isn't like that!” Ilka said shrilly.

  Roxanne shrugged and walked to the door. Her hand on the knob, she glanced back at her sister. “You can deny it all you want, but if you think about it, re ally think about it, you'll see that I'm right. Mourn your children, Ilka, but for God's sake, get a life of your own. Don't let Delmer take that away from you, too.”

  She shut the door on Ilka's protests and hurried to her own rooms, just down the hall. Slipping inside, she closed the door. Her head resting on the door, she stared blankly into space. Since when had she turned into such a know-it-all? Had she done the right thing? Should she have kept her mouth shut? What if she was wrong? What if she had made things worse instead of better?

  All I was trying to do, she reminded herself unhappily, was be a sister. A wise, understanding sister. Who knew it would be so complicated?

  Chapter

  7

  Despite a few setbacks, construction on Roxanne's house proceeded smoothly. Well, except for the break-ins and vandalism. She frowned. It was hard to figure out why the kids, and she and the sheriff's office were certain it was older teenagers, kept coming back and wreaking such destruction. What puzzled her was that there had been three more break-ins after she had moved back into her parents' home. Walls and flooring had been torn up and even the old cupboards and counter ripped out, but after the first two weeks of construction there had never been any more of those kinds of problems. She'd wondered if the deputy had been wrong about it being kids and that the perpetrators weren't members of the construction crews working on the place—there were several. But if she was honest, and Roxanne usually was, brutally, her suspicions focused on Milo Scott. She'd automatically dismissed Jeb's comments (what did he know, anyway?). Her own memories of Milo, however, and the scowl on her father's face when she mentioned that he was doing the foundation work on her house made her wonder if it had been wise to hire him, and more troubling, if he hadn't been behind the vandalism. The first day of construction, she had expressed her worries to Sam Tindale, keeping quiet about her suspicions on the break-ins, but he had vouched for Scott Construction.

  “I know he has a reputation, but believe me,” Sam had said earnestly, “I've used him on other jobs and he's been dependable and does fine work.”

  She'd decided that if Tindale trusted him, so could she … with cement. Once the work started, she had to admit that Milo and his men had been professional and that they'd done a great job. After watching him supervise his men for a few days it was obvious he knew a lot about cement. Then she thought about the ways he could have become such an expert, such as casting cement boots and burying bodies in cement, and decided that maybe it wasn't such a great thing that he was so good with cement.

  As the days grew shorter and September drifted into October and October became November, Roxanne found herself watching the weather reports with rapt fascination. There had been a few showers, some wet days, no serious storms yet but she knew that sooner or later they'd receive a drenching that could be, and most likely would be, followed by days and days of rain.

  The weather cooperated. By the end of November, the entire shell of the house was up and closed-in and the new dark green metal roof was in place. Even the flagstone terraces in front and at the rear of the house and the mudroom walkway had been laid—mainly to keep from tracking the expected mud into the house.

  The second week of December arrived and with it the first real storm of winter. The forecasters had predicted two or three days of rain, but Roxanne no longer cared. There was still much work to be done, but except for landscaping, and some other outside work, it was the interior of the house that took precedence over everything else these days. Spring would be soon enough to worry about the barn, new well house, and garage.

  Driving up that Tuesday morning, as she pulled into the newly graveled parking area, she turned off the ignition and sat and stared through the gray light and rain at her house. From this vantage point it looked wonderful. The rising foothills to the west made solar panels on the front impractical and she was just as glad—if she squinted, and ignored the southern solar panels, the house had an ageless look. The stonework foundation and the mullioned windows coupled with the steep roof gave the place the impression of an Alpine chalet—just what she'd been aiming for. A charming flagstone walkway edged with gray, pale green, maroon, and white jagged rocks wandered its way to the wide terrace at the front of the house. A couple of irregular-shaped flowerbeds had been put in along either side of the walkway and a few evergreenbushes had been planted so the front didn't look raw and unfinished. That fall she had spent hours poring happily over bulb catalogs and then in early November stuffing the beds full of multicolored daffodils, hyacinths, and tulips. She could hardly wait until spring to see the fruits of her labor.

  From here, the house looked as if it had been there forever and no one would ever guess that inside it was mostly an empty echoing shell with two-by-fours still showing in some of the rooms and the flooring just sheets of plywood. But it was taking shape. The electricians and plumbers would be through any day now; kitchen cabinets were scheduled to be hung at the end of the week, the tile countertops put in soon after that, and appliances would go in once the floor was laid.

  Despite the rain, the thought of actually having a real kitchen within a few weeks had her grinning and skipping up to the front door, a big brown bag in her arms. She was early, it wasn't yet 7:30 A.M., but she couldn't seem to stay away from the place. Unlocking one of the new hefty wooden double doors, she walked inside, the heat from the fireplace insert she' crammed full before leaving last night, still radiating some warmth. It was dark inside the house, but the scent of new lumber and pai
nt wafted to her nose. She took in a deep breath. God, she even loved the smell of the place. Quickly crossing through the large entry hall, she walked to the far end of the great room, guided by the faint light seeping in from the two pairs of French doors at the rear and the arched windows above the doors. She poked around in the new brass and bronze fireplace insert and threw on an armful of wood, watching as the flames licked at the oak logs. The fireplace insert had been located in one corner of the great room and the area behind it, floor to ceiling, as well as the wide hearth upon which the insert sat, was faced with a carefully selected array of river rock. It was a stunning focal point and had turned out just as she had envisioned it.

  Heat taken care of, humming to herself, she walked through her dining room, empty and hollow right now, to the back of the house and into the kitchen. There was a makeshift counter in the kitchen with room for a hotplate, a coffeepot, and nearby the refrigerator. A small generator gave her enough electricity to run a few things in this area and in a second she'd flipped it on and had a pot of coffee brewing. She unloaded the items from the brown bag, putting some in the refrigerator, the rest near the coffeemaker. As the scent of coffee mingled with the other odors, she took in another deep breath. Perfect! The best perfume in the world—fresh perked coffee and new lumber.

  Some minutes later, her outer clothes hung up on hooks on the wall in the mudroom, only needing the flooring, plumbing, and wiring to be completed, mug of hot coffee in hand, she walked through the house, imagining how it would look once it was finished. She'd been amazed at how quickly the shell had gone up, and hadn't really believed her contractor, Theo Draper, when he'd warned her that when they startedon the interior things wouldn't move so swiftly. She made a face. Darn. He'd been right, too. Who knew that it would take so long to put in wiring, plumbing, insulation, and sheet rock? And that didn't count the taping and texturing and painting and paneling and all the finishing touches such as light fixtures and kitchen and bathroom fixtures and last but not least rugs and floor coverings. Some days she thought that the house would never be completed.

  Today wasn't one of those days—although it could turn out that way, if someone or something was delayed. Telling herself not to run down the road to meet trouble, she took her coffee and with a sense of anticipation walked toward the other end of the house.

  Light drifted in feebly from the bank of arched windows and glass sliding doors that formed the wide hallway that led to her bedroom. She stopped to admire the mist-covered mountains across the valley, but the view didn't hold her attention for long. She hurried past the doors that led to the guest suite and halted before the door that opened onto her suite.

  Roxanne pushed open the broad carved oak door and a sigh of pleasure escaped her. The rest of the house might still be under construction, but this part was complete.

  It was a huge room, bedroom and sitting room all in one; the western wall broken by two doors. One door led to a handsome bathroom, the other to an impressive walk-in closet. Even on this gray, rainy day the room was full of light: floor-to-ceiling windows, bro ken only by a pair of French doors, faced the eastern I mountains; luxurious drapes in wine-colored brocade framed the windows. Roxanne smiled. Now those were probably wasteful—she'd probably never pull them shut. A gleaming dark blue enamel wood stove was situated on the wall across from her; the hearth and back finished with large, pebbled rose-tinted tiles. The open-beamed oak ceiling soared overhead and contrasted nicely with the soft white she'd chosen for the walls. The flooring for this room had given her fits and in the end she'd decided to be practical, or as practical as she ever was, and had followed the contractor's suggestion of a new product for her oak parquet floor. It looked like wood, wore like wood, but was actually a type of linoleum. She shook her head as she studied the gleaming floor. Who would ever guess?

  Because she'd wanted these rooms finished as soon as possible, and because she did not have conventional electricity, this area had its own generator and propane water heater. She flipped the switch that started the generator and a moment later the light switch. Brilliant light cascaded down from the track lighting along the walls and the two large brass and etched glass chandeliers overhead. She listened intently for a second, pleased to hear no drone from the generator. It had been enclosed in its own soundproof box so that when it was running, the noise wouldn't intrude. Glancing around at the lights and the sweet sound of silence, she smiled.

  Walking past the stack of cardboard boxes and rolled-up rug in the center of the room, she went into the bathroom and was thrilled when she turned on the hot water faucet and actually got hot water. She flushed the almond-colored toilet and watching the water swirl away she laughed at the pleasure it gave her. Who would have ever guessed she'd be delighted by a working toilet? Ah, the simple joys of living in the country. Spinning one of the crystal handles of the huge pale aqua, almond, and rose tiled walk-in shower she was equally delighted when water sprayed out from a half-dozen heads.

  At the sound of an approaching vehicle she shut down the shower and left off her inspection. After switching off the lights and generator, she shut the door behind her and walked down the hall to the great room.

  The front door opened and she heard the stamping of feet and smiled a second later when Theo Draper, her contractor, walked into the great room. He stopped, surprised to see her there, and then shook his head.

  “I thought for sure, with the nasty weather, that I'd beat you here this morning,” he said in his slow, soft-spoken way. He sniffed the air. “And coffee already done, too.”

  She grinned. She liked Theo. He was cagey about his age, but his thick thatch of white hair and sun-wrinkled face made it apparent that he was no spring chicken. The best estimate anyone came up with was that he was somewhere between sixty-five and eighty.

  He was a small, quiet man, built like a piece of barbed wire, all tough, wiry strength, and indefatigable—as Roxanne knew to her cost. She'd observed him working men half his age into the ground and more than once he'd done the same to her. What she found amazing was that the next day she'd be dragging around, while Theo would be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to do it all over again. So far, she'd never seen him in a hurry; he worked at the same slow steady pace in the morning as he did at the end of the day. She'd been at the site just about every day since construction had begun and over the course of the months, she and Theo had become friends. She had been surprised to find out that Jan, his wife, dead these past five years, had been a valley girl, related to the McGuires, and that Theo was very familiar with Oak Valley. “We'd even planned to retire here,” he'd told her once. His face had grown sad. “But then Jan died and I just didn't have the heart. Still own the property though, so who knows, maybe one day I'll get tired of living in Ukiah and build myself a house and move up here. I feel as at home in the valley as I do there. Jan's relatives are always after me to do just that.”

  Motioning toward the kitchen, she said, “There's a fresh pot waiting for you … and I even baked some cinnamon rolls last night after I left here.”

  His gray eyes gleamed. Heading in the direction of the kitchen, he said, “You know you've about got me spoiled for any other job. After working for you, I'll expect to be served snacks and coffee on a regularbasis.” He pursed his lips, but his eyes were dancing. “And my men will, too, that's the hard part.”

  “Life's tough,” Roxanne said teasingly, following behind him. “You'll just have to endure.”

  Pouring himself a mug of coffee and selecting one of the rolls, he took a bite. Closed his eyes in bliss and chewed. Swallowing, he grinned at her and said, “Yes, ma'am, I think in my next contract, I'll have it written in that refreshment has to be served or I just can't do the job.”

  They could hear the sound of the rest of the crew arriving and a few minutes later the kitchen was filled with half a dozen men. And ten minutes after that, the plate of two dozen cinnamon rolls was empty and a second pot of coffee had been put on and they had a
ll dispersed and Roxanne had disappeared into her bedroom.

  She spent the morning happily unpacking the boxes and unrolling the rug. The boxes contained some clothes, towels, sheets, blankets, and items for the bathroom, and she tackled those things first. Stacking the empty boxes out in the hall, she turned to the rug. It was oriental in pattern, woven in shades of gold, ruby, and emerald against a sapphire-blue background. Flexing her toes in the thick, almost velvety weave, she glanced around the room, visualizing how it would look with furniture. The furniture for the bedroom was scheduled to arrive later in the week, but the mattress and box springs were supposed to be delivered this afternoon. She stared out at the rain and sighed. But that, she reminded herself, was before the storm. She grimaced. Another night at home wouldn't kill her. …

  It wasn't that she didn't adore her parents and that she wasn't grateful for their unstinting hospitality, it was just that it had been a long time since she'd lived with anyone or had had to consider other people in her plans. Her parents didn't pry or intrude … very much … or make terrible demands on her, at least no more than was normal, it was just that sometimes she felt like a teenager again, making certain Mom and Dad knew where she was, who she was with, and when she'd be home. She realized it was only polite to give them some idea of her comings and goings, but after so many years of being answerable only to herself, it grated. She desperately wanted her own space. Having her own space again, being able to arrange her own life in her own way, had become an urgent priority. She adored her parents. She loved her parents. But she could hardly wait to get away from them. And Ilka. She sighed. She and Ilka were getting along—sort of.

  It had been a bit bumpy after their conversation that night, but Helen had been right. After the anniversary of the tragedy, Ilka became less moody and touchy, but it bugged Roxanne that her sister still made no effort to get on with her life. It was beyond her comprehension, no matter how wonderful their parents were, that Ilka could actually be happy living at home. And, of course, she admitted wryly, I just can't seem to keep my big mouth shut about it either. She sighed. Whatbusiness of mine is it anyway if Ilka wants to hide at home and become a crabby old spinster?