Return to Heartland: A Heartland Cove County Romance

by Jacquie Gee

His stunning eyes flash. “Aah!” He finally clues in. “Oh, my gosh. That’s who you are! You must be, Becca!” He lunges forward, sticking out a hand for me to shake. “Oh, excuse me.” He retracts his hand, wipes it off on the front of his grimy apron and sticks it out again, like that was the problem. “I’ve heard so much about you.” He breaks into an eye-squishing grin.

  “Funny?” I cross my arms. “I haven’t heard a thing about you.”

  I let his hand hang out between us like a cold, dead fish, ’cause you know, I don’t like him.

  If I were forced to classify him, say for Tia or something, I’d go with the ‘ruggedly hipster urbanite’, which makes me wonder why he’s here, in the middle of backwoods New Brunswick, posing as a short order cook. He’s sports one of those scruffy beards that looks like he only half bothers to shave, and his curly hair is a mess under that baseball cap worn backward on his head. Gawd, that cap is disgustingly dirty. I’ve never understood why do men go for that look? I mean, sure, they don’t have to shave, but still, women might want to kiss them or run their hands through their hair. Have they ever considered that?

  Not that I want to kiss this one or anything. It’s just an observation.

  “Perhaps I could get you a drink or something?” He clasps his hands together.

  "Perhaps not." I poker-smile back at him. My gaze runs up his muscled frame, along his broad, thick shoulders, and back onto his flawless face. Gosh, didn’t the buff-spirits give this one everything? But it’s all ruined when he opens his mouth. A bit of a smart-arse, isn’t he? "How about you tell me who you are, and why you're here, and what you’ve done with my mother?” I growl, despite how good-looking he is.

  “Your mother hasn’t told you yet?”

  “Does it look like my mother’s told me?” I blink.

  “Aaah…I’m Trent.” He tries to offer me his hand again, but I still don’t shake it. “I bought the place from your mom about a year back.”

  “You what?” Now, I’m really not shaking his hand. I hope my voice didn’t just shriek as loud outside my head as it did inside. A year ago? I know I didn’t make it home for Christmas the past few years, but—

  “Well, technically, only half of it,” he rambles on. No doubt the look on my face has terrified him into some form of explanation. “Your mother lives upstairs.” He points to the ceiling like I don’t know where that is. “In her own apartment.”

  Apartment? The word crashes around in my head, while my mouth forms the most awkward speechless ‘O.' Words will not come out of it. How could this have happened? How could Mom have sold the house and I not even know? My purse slides off my arm to the floor.

  “Upstairs.” He points again. “Your mother lives upstairs.” Like I didn’t comprehend that the first time.

  “In our old bedrooms?” I, at last, croak.

  “No, not in the bedrooms. Now it’s a proper flat.” He smiles. “I made sure of that before letting her move up there.”

  “Letting her?” I say, fuming. “You moved my mother?”

  “Well, yeah… soooomebody had to.” He drags out the word, then swallows it down, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I can take you up to see her, if you like.”

  “No,” I snap. “I’ll take myself, thank you.” I launch past him into the main hallway toward the grand staircase in the back.

  “Aaah…” He chases after me. “It’s not that way anymore.” He catches me on the stairs. “Those don’t lead where you think they lead, I mean…” I swing around. “Those stairs don't go to the bedrooms any longer,” he stammers.

  “They don’t?” I scowl, already standing at the top, peering angrily down at him over the wooden spiral railing, my hand hovering just above what should be the knob on my mother’s bedroom door.

  “No.” His eyes travel to my hand. “That’s not what you think.”

  “Really?” I ignore him and push the door open anyway. A luxurious, modern, club-style techno bathroom greets me. Strobe lights beat above a marble-topped make-up table. Two recessed stone sinks, featuring trough-style faucets, hang suspended in the middle of a faux marble wall. Across from that stands a row of toilet stalls, six in all. Solid wood cubicles closed in on the front by red-lacquered antique doors. The rest of the walls in the room are decorated in bold black-and-white striped wallpaper. A faux brick fireplace graces the farthest wall. Everywhere I look, modern motif has been barfed up amid the remains of what was once a gorgeous Victorian room. He’s left the ornate plaster ceiling medallion intact, as well as the crown molding, but he’s painted the Victorian tin ceilings silver and lacquered the hardwood floor black. I can’t catch up to the beat of my heart. There are televisions playing CNN inside the stalls.

  “You all right?” he says, coming up behind me.

  “I’ve been better.” I close the door. “I shouldn’t have gone in there.” I charge down the stairs.

  “Wait!” he shouts after me. “I built your mother her own entrance. It’s around the back.” He chases after me out of the building. “I closed in the back flight of stairs—” He jerks his head toward them.

  “I know where they are,” I snap.

  “She has her own second-floor garden, too. I saw to that. And a porch view.” He grins at me like he’s some kind of hero, like somehow that makes it all better.

  “How thoughtful of you,” I say, still steaming. I charge up the sidewalk and around the corner of the house, into what’s left of the yard, now a parking lot. “This won’t hold, you know,” I tell him over my shoulder before I’ve cleared the view of the porch, stalking stiff-legged toward the new rear door. “You’re gonna be outta here by five o’clock tonight.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Becca.” He tips his hat, smiling goofily at me from the porch.

  Chapter 8

  Have I been that removed from her life? I rush up the sidewalk, toward the new back door, a flustered, near-blubbering mess. How could I not have known this was going on? Why would my mother sell the house and not tell me about it? What kind of a daughter am I that I don't even know? I backhand a tear from my eye and reach for the handle.

  “I see you found your way back to the old place.” I look up to find Mrs. Williams standing on the sidewalk out front, grinning back at me, pencil tucked behind her ear. She smirks.

  She has a bank bag in her hand as if she’s on her way to make a deposit at her husband’s bank across the side street from Mom’s house. But we both know the bank’s only open until noon on Fridays, and it must almost be that now. She’s likely stepped out of the place because she’s seen me standing here. More important to get the scoop than to complete the newspaper’s financial transactions. “Pity,” she drawls. “What your mama’s gone through.” She tilts her head as if oozing affection, but I know what’s really seeping through. “But then again, when there ain’t no one around to help you through these things—”

  “Do you have something to say, Mrs. Williams?” I snap.

  “Oh, nothing, dear.” She holds her chest. “I just—”

  “What?”

  Her eyes flash. “Well, it’s clear your mama has fallen on hard times. I’m just concerned about her, is all. Here all alone, having to defend herself.”

  “Defend herself from what?”

  “You don’t know?” She traces the top of the bank bag with a slow finger. "Well, things just get tougher as you get older, you know? Guess that's just the way it is for some people."

  “If you have something to say, Mrs. Williams, please say it. Otherwise, I need to go.” Not like she’s ever known struggle, married to a bank manager all her life. Especially the only banker in town. I narrow my gaze, wondering how much she knows about my mother’s situation—that I obviously don’t know—and whether she and her husband Bertram had anything to do with it. “Last I checked, the Bank of Nova closes early, Fridays. You should probably get going; you don’t want to miss your drop.” I gaze at the bank bag in her hand.

  “Oh, it’s all right.” She glances down. �
��I have an in at the bank.”

  “Don’t you, though.” She drops her smirk. I hear a snicker, and realize we’re being watched. I turn to see Grub-Guy’s head yank back behind one of the front porch posts.

  A streak of anger flashes in Vera Williams’ scowling eyes. Her badly rosacea-ed cheeks turn redder. “I’d better be going.” She turns, heels grinding the surface of the sidewalk, then paces away up the walk. “Oh, and Rebecca.” She abruptly turns back. “Now that you’re here, maybe you can keep your mama’s wandering to a minimum.”

  Wandering?

  “She’s had the rest of us right frightful, what with that river being so close and all.” She glances over at the water and back. “And those rapids being so fierce.”

  I glance toward the water and back, my heart pounding like a drum. Wandering? What wandering? Is that what Mrs. Peterson meant by— Is that why she called? Omijeez, what’s been going on with Mom?

  “She wouldn’t be the first citizen we’ve lost to that undertow.” Vera’s gaze traipses over the water and back. “Though I’m sure you know that.” She crinkles up her nose. “At any rate, now that you’re here, I can rest more comfortably.” She pats her chest. “We all can.”

  “I bet,” I say under my breath. The rush of the rapids tumbling hard over the rocks fills the silence between us—and my body with dread.

  “You take care now.” Mrs. Williams turns again. “Tell your mama I said hi!” She trots away.

  “Will do!” I call after her, turning the knob on the door to my mother’s new home. Right after I set you on fire in my mind.

  Chapter 9

  The back stairs don’t creak anymore. I tried several times to make them do it, but they just don't. Feels odd to climb the treads and not hear them groan. I spot the culprit: My eyes zero in on the newly sanded risers, freshly painted to look like the old ones. He’s completely reconstructed the stairs. The treads are the originals, but the risers are new. In fact, the whole enclosure has been revamped. The whole outside remodeled in addition to the inside.

  I look around. Mr. Green Grub’s put a lot of work into this house.

  I click the flashlight app on my phone and examine my surroundings. Smooth drywall instead of cracked plaster. Even the stair rail along the galley top no longer leans. I rattle the handrail. Hmm. Secure. Surprisingly, I’m a little bit sad. I remember the day I yanked it loose, running away from—I stop myself just short of thinking his name. My brain recalls the water fight anyway. We did have some fun times together, didn’t we?

  What am I saying?

  Erase, erase, erase.

  Why is it every time I come back here I think of him? He never enters my mind in New York.

  My sandals clack against the shining, freshly-shellacked cherry treads as I finish the climb to the top. There used to be a back hallway that led to the bedrooms here, for servant’s use only, way back in the day. But now, a very formal entranceway greets me, with a doubled-doored entrance to keep out the cold and a very swanky hanging lantern-style light. The interior door leads to whatever Grub-guy downstairs has created for my mother. I close the door to the stairs and climb the final two steps. The echoey clop-flop of my sandals shudders through me. I don’t know why, but I’m nervous all of a sudden.

  To the right, he’s installed a reclaimed Victorian church window—a circular bubble-glass work of art. It adds light and cheer to the space. I run a light finger over its leading and smile, tracking the angular light that sparkles across the walls, refracted by its glass.

  Nice. Nice. Grub-guy’s really thought of everything, didn’t he? Too bad he has to leave.

  I reach for the handle on the interior door and feel a moment of awkward hesitation. This is the door that used to lead into the now, big bathroom upstairs, the one that used to be the master bedroom. At least he didn’t throw it out. I run a hand down their now smooth, glossed blue finish. Do I just push it open and walk right in like I would if it was the main entrance to my home downstairs? Or should I knock? The fleeting thought jars me. No one knocks on doors in Heartland Cove. No one locks their doors either. But maybe it’s best that Mom lock her door.

  I can’t believe this. I’m gonna knock to get into my own house.

  A twang of sadness weighs heavy in my chest. The handle turns, and I’m somewhat relieved and paranoid at the same time. I stick my head in and look around. “Mom?”

  The room is beautiful. Done to the nines. All freshly painted a lovely shade of gray. He's left the original crown molding and cornice details, just like downstairs, though he's painted them all a fresh white. The best of Mom's precious antique pieces are here, but there's new comfy furniture too. Who bought that?

  Mom sits with her back to me, music blaring from her old radio set on a table in the corner, in what used to be the library, in the middle of four upper bedrooms. Her toe is tapping and her eyes look out the window. She looks perfectly fine to me.

  On the left, are bedrooms just as they were, but the third and fourth bedrooms on the right are gone, replaced by a spacious, open-concept kitchen-dinette, with high ceiling and a very posh granite-counter top. There’s even a breakfast nook with modern barstool chairs. Very modern and tasteful. Who’s done this? Surely not Mom.

  She turns to me, slowly, and lets out a gasp. Her eyes are wide and eerily vacant. “Dora?” She drops the teacup she’s holding and it shatters.

  “Mom?” I race to her, afraid she’ll stand and cut her feet.

  “Get out of here. Get back!” She folds back into her armchair. “Get out of here, I say!”

  Shock snakes through me like runaway mercury from a shattered tube.

  Mom’s face draws up into a painful ball. She looks as though she might cry. Her skin goes taut, her features harden.

  “Mom?” I say again.

  “Who are you?” She looks ten years older than the last time I saw her. I step toward her, and she stares at me like I’m some stranger who’s come to rob her. She clutches her blouse at the throat, alarm in her face. Her eyes dart erratically left to right, like a child who’s lost her mother in a busy mall. “What are you doing here?” She springs to her feet and backs away. “You shouldn’t have come.” She bumps into the furniture, knocking over a chair. “You shouldn’t be here, Dora. Why have you come?” Her face takes on a ghostly expression.

  And then it dawns on me—Dora, her younger sister. She died when my mother was just thirteen, and Dora was eleven. She slipped on some ice on their way home from school and slid under a train. Mom always blamed herself for not being able to save her. “I let go of your hand,” she says.

  “No, Mom, it’s me—”

  “I should have held on tighter.” Her face morphs from worry to grief-stricken fear.

  “Mom.” I reach out. “It’s me, your daughter.”

  “Get back,” she says and jumps away. My heart gets caught in my throat.

  “Mom, it’s me,” I say, touching my chest, and creeping slowly toward her. “Your daughter, Rebecca.”

  Her features harden. She’s not connecting. She’s reaching with her eyes. Her sweetheart-shaped mouth forms a hard line as she studies me, then at last her expression softens. “Oh, yes…yes, of course.” Her furrowed brow releases and her voice floats up as if the cloud that’s been shrouding her memory has passed and she honestly knows who I am. I’m not completely convinced she does, but I’ll take it.

  “Mom,” I move closer.

  “Darling.” She thunders through the broken china and sweeps me up into a hug. “So good to see you, dear.” She pats my back lightly, then breaks away, smiling. But it’s not her usual warm, gushing, palms-patting-my-back-and-rubbing-it-in-circles kind of hug. No lips fervently peppering my neck with kisses. This hug is rigid, stiff, aloof; like I’m a distant acquaintance that she’s not even sure she’s made. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I would have baked a cake. Oh dear.” Her gaze falls to her feet, which are bleeding.

  “Oh, Mom.” I disengage and examine her
wounds. Her large toe is cut and bleeding, but it’s not serious. I run for a paper towel and apply pressure.

  “Goodness.” She looks down, then up again when I return, a perplexed look on her face. “How did that happen?”

  “You dropped your teacup, Mom.”

  “It’s so good to see you.” She hugs me again.

  Something’s wrong. Very wrong. “Mom,” I say. Her cobalt eyes search my features from under hooded lids, desperately trying to sort out her confusion. I grasp her firmly by the arm and lock onto her gaze. “It’s me, Mom. Becca,” I say.

  She studies my face, her eyes darting again. “Of course it is,” she states, her voice steady, the only thing about her that is. The corners of her mouth tremble, then relax into a smile. “Becca,” she whispers as though something’s just clicked. Her eyes release from their bewildered stare. She launches toward me, pulling me close again, squishing me into another back-patting hug. This time she clings for a very long time, her fingernails digging slightly into my skin. Her perfume is cloying. I’ve never known her to wear so much. “Oh, it’s so good to see you, dear. It’s been such a long time.” She coos and mmmms and kisses me in her familiar way, petting my head as she pulls back. “Did you bring me any cupcakes?” She smiles wide, and I know she’s with me. Like, really with me. The pupils of her eyes are at last clear and fixed.

  The cupcakes. My heart sinks into my stomach. Chocolate Salted Caramel Surprise. They’re Mom’s favorite. I forgot them on the countertop of the shop in my hurry. How could I have been so stupid? How could I forget to bring my mom’s favorite thing? What kind of a daughter am I?

  I’m awash with a sticky, icing-like guilt.

  "I'm sorry, Mom, I forgot them," I say, and reach into my pocket for my phone, "but I'll text Tia and get her to courier out some."

  “Oh, don’t be silly.” Mom waves the thought away. “It’s not that important.” She takes away my phone.

  “Yes, it is, Mom.” I take it back. It’s suddenly very important. Cupcakes are our connecting thread—her love of baking, and mine—the one thing we’ve always shared. The symbol of my insatiable dream that she’s always supported, right from the very start. Tears prick at my eyes.