Sweet Haven

by Shirlee McCoy

  “You mean the way you’ve been consumed by real estate?” she asked and regretted it immediately.

  “Someone had to support you girls, Addie. Your father didn’t have life insurance. He didn’t have savings. Everything he had was tied up in this place.” She smoothed her hair, took a deep shaky breath. “But, like I said, I’m not trying to open old wounds. I just worry about you.”

  “You’d be better off worrying about Willow and Brenna. They’re the ones who are out in the great wide world,” Adeline said, hoping that she didn’t sound as snide and petty as she felt. Her sisters had run from Benevolence as soon as they’d had the opportunity, and Janelle had applauded them every step of the way. Adeline had stayed, and her mother just wouldn’t let that go.

  “They’re not like you.”

  “That’s pretty obvious, Mom,” Adeline said, yanking the scissors from the fudge and tossing them onto the counter. “They were smart enough to say no when Grandad asked them to help out around here.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  I know what you’re saying, Adeline almost responded. You’re saying they have fantastic careers and exciting lives and men, and I’ve got a tiny little house in a tiny little town with nothing but a huge puppy to keep me company.

  She pressed her lips together to keep the words from escaping. No sense in stirring that pot.

  “I just want you to be happy,” Janelle continued, the harsh overhead light emphasizing the tiny crow’s feet that fanned out from the corners of her eyes, the shallow commas that bracketed her mouth. Her mascara had smudged a little and it looked like she’d chewed off most of her lipstick. She’d always looked young. She still did, but the years were beginning to show.

  Something about that, about those fine lines and that smudged mascara, made all Adeline’s frustration seep away. “I am happy.”

  Sort of. If she didn’t look at the mess, the discarded fudge, the list hanging next to the back door.

  “I hope so. Lily Jamison at the hair salon said you haven’t been in for a trim since last February. That’s over a year, Adeline.”

  “And?”

  “They say that when women are depressed and have given up on life and love, they stop taking care of themselves.”

  “Who says that?”

  “I read it in Cosmo just the other day, and in Woman’s World the day before that. And don’t get me started on what I saw on the Internet.” She shook her head. “Article after article about depression and—”

  “The Internet is a dangerous place. You really need to be careful what you do on it.” Adeline cut in because her mother could go on and on for hours about a pet subject, and Adeline didn’t have hours to spend listening.

  “Don’t try to change the subject. I’ve been noticing things. Your clothes, for one.”

  “What about them?” Adeline plucked at her favorite T-shirt. Not pretty, but it was sure comfortable to work in.

  “You’ve got no style.”

  “I’ve never had style.”

  “You never wear makeup.”

  “I do when I’m going out.”

  Janelle’s eyes lit at the words.

  Adeline wished she could yank them back. She’d opened the door, and there was no way Janelle wasn’t going to step through it.

  “You don’t go out.” There it was. The biggest bone of contention between them. “When was the last time you went on a date?”

  “Mom . . . Seriously, I have a million things to do. I don’t have time to discuss my dating status.”

  “Just because Adam was a loser,” Janelle continued as if Adeline hadn’t spoken, “doesn’t mean all men are. Look at your father. Sure, he loved this shop, but he loved me too. We had a great life together, and—”

  “Not everyone is going to have what you two did, and some of us don’t even want it.”

  “That’s a ridiculous thing to say, Adeline. Of course you want it. You just need to find the right man. Look at your sisters—”

  She’d rather not. According to Janelle, her other daughters had it all—wonderful careers, wonderful homes, wonderful men. “I hate to cut the conversation short, but I need to finish cleaning the kitchen, and then I’ve got to get home. Tiny has been cooped up all day.”

  “That dog.” Janelle shook her head and stepped outside, buttoning her wool coat as she went. “Not a good idea, Adeline. I told you that before you got him.”

  “You did. Thanks for the advice. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mom. Love you.” She closed the door. Locked it.

  Went back to the sink.

  Clean the shop.

  Get Tiny.

  Go for a jog.

  She ran through the list because she needed to wipe out all the memories that had been stirred up. Memories of her father. Of Adam.

  Adam.

  The guy she’d pinned a million childish dreams on, wasted nine years of her life on. Maybe not wasted. She’d learned some valuable lessons from Adam. Like how a heart could be broken and still keep on beating.

  High school sweethearts. College lovers. Couple most likely to make it forever.

  Only Adam had wanted bigger and better than Benevolence, Washington. Apparently he’d also wanted better than Adeline.

  She glanced at the dress, hanging limply from the hook, the silky fabric bright enough to sear her corneas. She’d been planning a wedding once upon a time. Big, fluffy princess gown. Pretty lilac bridesmaid dresses. She’d had an entire folder filled with all the details of the wedding she and Adam had been discussing for years.

  Only it hadn’t happened.

  She didn’t know what she’d done with the folder. Probably tossed it in the trash when she’d moved out of her mother’s house and into the bungalow.

  Speaking of trash . . .

  She glanced at the overflowing garbage can, the ugly chocolate hearts scattered on top of the burgeoning mess.

  She seriously had to get the shop cleaned.

  She ran steaming water into the fudge pan, hoping to heaven that would loosen the cement-like goo.

  A soft thud sounded from somewhere above, followed by the rhythmic strumming of a guitar.

  Sinclair?

  If so, he knew how to play, the melody light and soothing and familiar. She couldn’t put a name to it, but she hummed along as she ran more water into the pan and kept on cleaning.

  * * *

  Sometimes music soothed the savage beast.

  Sometimes it didn’t.

  This was one of those nights when all the guitar strumming in the world couldn’t chase away the memories of gunfire and blood and explosions, couldn’t make the pain and sorrow and loss disappear. Not even for a minute.

  It was a shame.

  Sinclair had paperwork to catch up on, a proposal bid to write up, but he was on edge, every creak of the old building, every rumble of pipes making his heart jump.

  He set the guitar aside. Two hours, and he still hadn’t quieted the beast. He grabbed a Pepsi from the bag of stuff he’d carried into the apartment and took a sip of the lukewarm soda. For about a half a second he wished it was an ice-cold beer. He’d given those up three years ago. Right around the time he and Kendra had split and he’d realized that he was enjoying his beer a little too much. A few beers a week had become a few beers a night, then a couple of beers an hour. He’d looked in the mirror one night and seen his father looking back at him—bleary eyed, slack jawed, a little puffy from too much alcohol and not enough nourishment.

  No way in hell was he ever going to turn into his dad, so he’d emptied the fridge of beer, dumped it all down the sink. He hadn’t had more than a couple of sips of wine since then.

  He might not like what he felt, but feeling was better than the alternative—numb apathy. His father had perfected that. He hadn’t cared about anything or anyone. Not his kids. Not his wife. Not his jobs—one after another lost because he’d been sleeping off a binge.

  Yeah. There was no way Sinclair planned to become that,
so he sipped more soda, changed into running gear, strapped a brace on his knee.

  When music couldn’t quiet the beasts, running could.

  He tucked the key to the apartment into his vest pocket, zipped his cell phone in with it, and headed outside.

  Main Street was quiet at 10:00 P.M. No cars. No people. Lights glowed outside a few businesses, but there was no sign of life. He’d forgotten this part of small-town life—the way night came and peace with it. Aside from a few dogs barking, it was silent, a breeze whipping a few stray leaves across the pavement.

  He jogged along Main Street until he hit his stride, felt that sweet spot that came when pain and effort became freedom. When he hit it, he turned off the main drag, headed away from the business district and into the residential area. Even after all these years, he knew the place. It helped that nothing had changed. The Daily Grind was still sitting at the corner of Main and Boone, the drive-through coffee shop closed up for the night. The elementary school still stood at the end of Anderson, the dead-end road opening out into a well-lit school yard and an empty playground. He sprinted up the hill behind the school, memories of Iraq and Afghanistan chasing him. He’d lost a lot of friends there but had kept a lot too. Every year, he got a boatload of Christmas cards from people he’d served with—most of them photos of happy families standing in front of Christmas trees or young children sitting in Santa’s lap. The bonds that grew in the worst of times seemed to last the longest. Even now, nearly six years after he left the marines, he got texts and e-mails from people he’d served with.

  That was something to remember on nights when the demons were breathing down his neck.

  He crested the rise of the hill, still sprinting, some of his tension easing away. It was hard to hold on to when the body was working so hard. He’d learned that during the months he’d spent in rehab.

  He ran along Fitzgerald Lane, turned onto Madison. The houses were smaller here, the 1920s bungalows and four-squares much simpler than the Victorian mansions that lined the streets closer to Main. He passed a FOR SALE sign, forced himself not to stop to take a closer look at the neglected property.

  He wasn’t going to buy and restore a house in Benevolence. Not because he didn’t think he could do it and not because he didn’t think it would sell. There were always people charmed by the town, always someone desperate to buy property there.

  He could restore a house there. He could sell it. He could make money off of it. That’s what he’d been doing in Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, and just about every other city and town he’d visited.

  The problem was, restoring a property the right way—finding period materials, reclaiming windows and fireplace mantels, and even old floor boards and tiles—that took a lot of time. Time he wasn’t willing to spend in Benevolence.

  He rounded a curve in the road, slowed his run to a jog. He felt better, calmer. He could go back to the apartment, do a little work and get a little sleep before he had to face Gavin and their grandfather’s house again. He’d feel better for it, and hopefully his mood would be better too. Gavin drove him crazy, but Sinclair loved his brother. The last thing he wanted to do was spend the next couple of weeks arguing with him.

  Up ahead, something darted across the road.

  A deer? Wolf? A young black bear?

  Whatever it was, it was big and it was running hard, dashing across a yard, circling back around, nosing a trash can at the corner of someone’s house.

  “Tiny!” someone yelled, the feminine voice breaking the silence. “Get back here. Right now!”

  Tiny?

  Was she yelling for the giant beast that had its head in the trash can?

  He moved closer to the animal, got a better look at dark scruffy fur and a wagging tail.

  Yep. A dog.

  “Tiny! Seriously! If you’re in the Langfords’ trash can again, I’m going to disown you!”

  The voice was familiar, and Sinclair scanned the area, finally spotted someone jogging around the corner. Small. Curvy. Familiar. Just like the voice.

  Adeline.

  He probably should have been surprised, but he wasn’t. If anyone in Benevolence was going to be chasing after an overgrown mutt at ten in the evening, it would be someone like her. Just a little quirky, a little different. Not nearly as perfect as the rest of the town pretended to be.

  She must have seen him. She slowed, stopped.

  “You’re out late,” he said, and she cocked her head to the side, her face a pale oval in the streetlight.

  “Sinclair?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m not the only one who’s out late.”

  “Guess we both needed some fresh air.”

  “What I need,” she said, moving a little closer, “is to get my puppy before Morris Langford hears him and comes out with his shotgun.”

  “That’s a puppy?” he asked as she dashed toward the dog and the trash can.

  He didn’t think she heard him.

  She was too busy diving toward the dog.

  She missed by a hair, her fingers skimming Tiny’s collar.

  Tiny seemed to think that was an open invitation to play tag. He darted away, dragging a leash with him.

  “Dear God in heaven, why?! Why did I have to pick the biggest, most stubborn puppy in the pound?” Adeline moaned, taking off after the mutt.

  Sinclair followed, because . . .

  Why not?

  Adeline and her oversized mutt were the most interesting thing that had happened all day. They’d covered about a mile when Adeline started panting, her breath gasping out in wheezing heaves that made Sinclair wonder if she needed an inhaler.

  He snagged the back of her shirt. “You know you’re never going to catch him, right?”

  “Thanks, Pollyanna, for that overwhelming vote of confidence,” she gasped.

  He laughed. “Just being honest. He wants to play, and you’re his favorite game.”

  “I suppose you have some suggestion for ending the game?”

  “Just wait.” He released her shirt. “Once he realizes you’re not playing, he’ll come back.”

  “I don’t have time to wait.” She tugged the ends of her shirt down over hips encased in black spandex. Firm round hips. Muscular thighs. That oddly pretty face.

  Yeah. She and her dog were definitely the most interesting thing that had happened that day.

  “You don’t have time to wait, but you do have time to chase the dog all over creation?”

  She offered a half smile. “You have a point, Sinclair.”

  “I usually do.”

  She shook her head, her smile broadening. “Pessimistic and arrogant? Nice.”

  “It’s served me well, and it looks like it’s working for you too.” He gestured to the end of the street. Tiny had stopped. Seconds later, he loped back in their direction. He made it about halfway and stopped to sniff a trash can sitting near the curb.

  “Ti—”

  “You call him, and he’s going to go running again,” Sinclair warned. “Just hang back for a few more minutes, and he’ll come right to you.”

  “For the love of Pete,” Adeline muttered. “I need this like I need a hole drilled through my head.”

  “Bad day?”

  “How’d you guess? Was it the fact that I had to cut myself out of a dress I’m supposed to wear in ten days? The fact that the dress was butt ugly? Or the fact that I’m out chasing my dog when I should be home, eating a nice bowl of beef stew and listening to Bing Crosby croon?”

  “Bing Crosby?”

  “He’s an icon, Sinclair,” she responded, every word dripping with disgust. “One that most people in our generation can’t appreciate.”

  “You being the exception?”

  “I cut my teeth on Bing Crosby records. Literally. I actually gnawed on one when I was teething. My grandmother cried for a week after that. Or so the story goes.”

  “She liked Bing, huh?”

  “Liked him? She loved the
guy. If she’d had a choice between Bing and Granddad, she might have chosen Bing.”

  “She knew him?”

  “Only in her dreams.”

  He laughed, and she smiled in response. “You got the reference.”

  “I did. Wasn’t Bing a little before your grandmother’s time?”

  “Bing,” she huffed, “is timeless. My grandmother’s mother listened to him, my grandmother listened to him, I listen to him.”

  “And your daughter will listen to him one day?”

  “If I had a daughter she would. Look”—she grabbed his wrist and pointed at her giant mutt—“he’s coming.” She whispered the last part as if Tiny might hear her and change his mind about returning.

  The dog was coming, ears flopping, tail wagging, huge paws slapping the ground. One second, he was a couple of yards away, the next, he was leaping up, nearly knocking Adeline off her feet as he licked her face.

  “Down, Tiny!” she commanded.

  Tiny didn’t seem all that keen to listen.

  Sinclair grabbed his collar and pulled him away.

  The dog’s tail thumped rhythmically, his tongue lolled from his mouth, and Sinclair could swear he was smiling.

  “Interesting dog,” he said, taking the end of the leash before the mutt could run off again.

  “That’s putting it mildly.” She took the leash from his hand. “Thanks for the help, Sinclair. If you hadn’t come along, I’d have probably been chasing him all night.”

  “You would have figured things out eventually.” He followed her as she walked across the street, turned right, and headed toward a small bungalow that sat on a mature lot—large oak tree, towering pine, a few shrubs that would probably flower in the spring.

  “Yes, but I don’t have time for eventually. I have a million things left to do today.”

  “And just a couple of hours to get them done. Maybe you should do a few of the million tomorrow,” he suggested, and she scowled.