The Art of Going Home (The Art of Living series Book 1)

by Nicole Sorrell

  The lake was calm; a few fat clouds floated lazily in cerulean blue. Zac had picked up several different cheeses, grapes, sliced apples, two kinds of crusty bread, white wine, and a couple of bars of dark chocolate. He spread an old blanket in the shade of a tree and laid out the food.

  “Wow!” I said, impressed. “This is great. Looks like you’ve done it before.” I popped three huge grapes in my mouth at once.

  “No,” he said. “I guess you inspire me to try new things.”

  After we ate for a while, Zac asked what prompted me to look into Angeline’s death.

  “I was never told much about what happened at the time,” I said. “I think I owe it to her.”

  “This isn’t because of what your father said, is it? How he blamed you for losing her?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I was responsible, though.”

  Chapter 15

  “HOW COULD IT POSSIBLY be your fault?” Zac asked.

  “We were signed up for the summer reading program the school library sponsored. The van, or the bookmobile as we called it, stopped by our house that morning. I was in such a hurry to get new books, I didn’t go find her. If I had, I could’ve saved her.”

  “What did Dad say about that?”

  “He said I’m not supposed to tell anyone what we discussed,” I said, stalling. I wasn’t sure I could endure the overpowering guilt again.

  “Give me a dollar,” he said. I handed him one from my purse with a knowing smile.

  “Have I hired you now?” I asked.

  “Yes, you’ve paid my retainer. We’re exploring legal options that might be available with regard to your sister’s death. Now I’m bound by attorney-client privilege, and I can’t tell anyone. So, what did Dad say about you being to blame?”

  I fixed my attention on a blade of grass and fiddled with it. “That I would’ve been too late or would’ve interrupted the killer and been murdered, too.”

  “See, it wasn’t your fault. Don’t let guilt about something that was out of your control eat you up. If you can’t fix it, move on. No regrets.” He scooted closer and laid a large hand on my back.

  I looked up at him. “That sounds like something Aunt Ceci would say. Did you steal it from her?”

  “Oh no, it’s all my own,” he said. “I was born with a superior intellect, in an extraordinarily good-looking package. You’re probably getting weak about now, overcome by my irresistible magnetism. You can call me Dr. Esquire Zacarias.” He pretended to look around for eavesdroppers. “Don’t tell anyone you got me this cheap. It’ll ruin my unrivaled reputation as the source of all that is sexy and wise.”

  He said it seriously, with such a dignified expression, I started to laugh at his silliness. The more I giggled, the better it felt. Finally, I was laughing so hard I snorted. I stuffed my knuckles between my teeth to stop.

  “Aw, baby, you’re hurting my feelings again,” he teased.

  I hadn’t let go and laughed that much since I’d learned Aunt Ceci had died, and it was cathartic. Somehow it helped me release some of the guilt.

  Smiling, I sighed and leaned against his shoulder. He kissed my hair and asked, “Was there anything else?”

  “Didn’t your dad tell you all this?”

  “No. He said that you were upset and asked me to check on you.”

  “That’s nice. Of both of you.” I stared across the lake a minute. “You know that Father had hired a man to maintain the lawn at the house? His name is Clayton Wittford. He was working that day with his son Bobby. Twenty-three years ago Clayton was charged and tried for a brutally violent rape. He was found not guilty.” I added slowly, “Father was his defense attorney.”

  “Oh my God!” Zac blurted.

  “Wittford couldn’t be charged for Angeline’s murder,” I continued. “There wasn’t enough physical evidence, even though…” I stopped and let out a long breath. “Even though Angeline had been raped.”

  “I know reliving this must be agony for you.” He peered into my eyes as if he were asking me to recognize a deeper truth. When I returned a blank stare, he said, “I wish I could do more.”

  “You’re already doing more than I could ever ask. You understand this situation, probably better than anyone else. You’ve lost a sister, too. I mean, you’ll never get back the chance to grow up with Lauren. You know, share your childhood.”

  “You’re right. When you look at it that way, I guess we’ve both lost a sister.” We sat quietly as he considered my words. After a time, he asked, “What else is going on in that head of yours?”

  “Your dad said something that was odd. He said that Angeline’s death meant she wouldn’t suffer anymore. How could being robbed of her life at ten end her suffering?” I waited for Zac to answer. When he didn’t I shifted to look into his face. “Do you know what he meant?”

  A few moments passed before he said, “No, I don’t.”

  ~~~

  Zac stopped his truck at my hotel door. “Thanks for talking to me about all this,” he said.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because letting others get close enough to see your pain is hard.”

  “It helped, so I should be thanking you,” I said. Surprisingly enough, it had made me feel better. “Besides, talking to you about things like this isn’t difficult.”

  “It sounds like there are things you wouldn’t want to discuss with me.” I couldn’t think of an answer before he went on. “What are you afraid to tell me?”

  I squirmed mentally. Of course, I would never disclose that I might be on the road to stark raving madness. But perhaps I could persuade him to stop all this nonsense about a relationship.

  “If I told you everything about myself, you wouldn’t like what you see,” I warned.

  He smiled. “I could never think less of you. I want you to be comfortable sharing everything.”

  “That’s asking too much. If you knew everything, you’d run away as fast as you can. I certainly would.”

  “You’re not giving me enough credit,” he said. “Or enough to yourself, either. You’re a strong person. You could’ve become embittered because of your sister’s death. You chose not to. Bad decisions are the only thing a person should be ashamed of.”

  “That’s an incredibly perfect world you’re living in. In my ugly reality, nothing is that simple.”

  “The past can’t hurt you if you don’t let it.”

  “That’s naïve,” I said. “It’s not just the past I’m afraid of.” Madisen! You’re saying too much.

  “Are you afraid of being with me?” He seemed to hold his breath, waiting for my answer.

  Thank God he’d focused on his own insecurities instead of mine. “I don’t want you to think that. I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Then put your fears aside, and stop worrying,” he said. “I think our future together will be damn good.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I haven’t made a decision,” I cautioned.

  Outside my room, I pulled away from our goodbye hug before he did. “Will you be able to give me a ride to Aunt Ceci’s house in the morning?” I asked in a too cheerful voice.

  “Sure, I can pick you up before I go to the office.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” I shut the door between us.

  It was early. Zac had to go back to work, and I was glad to have some more down time. I needed it to digest the things I’d learned from Sheriff Rey.

  Suddenly I realized he didn’t mention that the police had questioned Bobby. It seemed the investigation had concentrated entirely on his father.

  You may be onto something, Madisen. Maybe Bobby wasn’t questioned because he was a minor? It’s possible Wittford wouldn’t give consent for his son to be interrogated. Whatever the reason, I wondered if Bobby still lived in the area.

  An Internet search quickly turned up a Robert Wittford in the little town of Winnser, twenty miles away. The person was the right age, thirty-five, so I made a credit card payment of nine ninety-eig
ht and got an address on Houston Street and a phone number. I hoped the information was current.

  If I confronted Bobby, Sheriff Rey would probably be mad enough to skin me alive. His anger was not something I wanted to bring down on myself. After all, he’d been adamant I couldn’t act on anything he told me. However, I figured that since I already knew Bobby was at the house the day Angeline died, talking to him would not be the result of the information Sheriff Rey had shared.

  I’d be at Aunt Ceci’s house in the morning. Or, rather, my house, now. God, you’ll never get used to that. How was I going to get to Winnser to talk to Bobby?

  I called Tabs to see if she could join me for lunch tomorrow and asked to borrow her car for the afternoon to pick up things for the house. She was a department manager at the local discount store chain. She was happy for an excuse to get away from the employee break room, saying she would meet me at one thirty and let me have the car for the rest of the day.

  I felt bad about lying to Tabs. I reasoned it away, thinking I was saving her from having to lie to cover for me if anyone asked where I was. And from Sheriff Rey’s anger, if he ever found out what I was doing.

  When I saw Bobby, I wondered how I could raise the subject of Angeline’s death. If he thought I was accusing him or his dad of killing her, he wouldn’t tell me anything. What if he got angry? Would he threaten me? Actually hurt me? Should I pretend to be someone else? If I did, it would make bringing up a murder that happened eighteen years ago very difficult.

  Your idea might not be all that brilliant after all. I found myself wishing I could talk to Aunt Ceci about it. I’d often turned to her when I needed advice. Now, I’d have to think of something on my own.

  ~~~

  Zac asked three times if I would be okay at Aunt Ceci’s house by myself during the short drive there. I assured him that having time alone was exactly what I needed. Besides, Tabs would be checking on me when she came over for lunch.

  When he didn’t kiss me goodbye, I missed it. During my run earlier that morning, I’d spent a lot of time scolding myself for letting this whole thing with him go on too long, and this was exactly the reason why. I’d never been with anyone who showered me with so much affection. I’d discovered I liked all the intimate hugging and kissing, partly because it wasn’t a prelude to sex. Now, the pain of separation struck deep. It was going to be harder than I’d imagined to resist him. I had to do it, though. I’d also have to find a way to let him down gently when I told him I wouldn’t agree to be in a romantic relationship.

  Chapter 16

  “HELLO!” A FEMALE VOICE called out. As Zac drove away, I saw Mrs. Wells was sitting on her front porch next door.

  “Madisen Chandler!” she cried. “I seen you at Miss Cecilia’s funeral. Come on over, honey. I’m fixin’ to have another cup of coffee, and you’re welcome to help yourself.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Wells,” I answered. “I could always use more coffee. How have you been?” According to Aunt Ceci, Mrs. Wells was almost eighty-six years old. She was a widow and had arthritis that had gotten worse the last couple of years. She prided herself on knowing and sharing all the goings-on in the community. As much as I hated people who gossiped, I couldn’t seem to hold it against her. She was a sweet old lady without a malicious bone in her body. I went to her kitchen to get myself a cup, filled it, and refreshed Mrs. Wells’s cup on the kitchen table as she shuffled in.

  “I’m fine, child,” she said. “How are you holding up? I’m so sorry about Miss Cecilia’s passing. It was hard for all of us who knew her.”

  “Thank you. I’m doing as well as I can, under the circumstances. Did you know she left her house to me?”

  “Isn’t that the nicest thing! No, I hadn’t heard. Now we’ll be neighbors. You moving in today?”

  “No,” I said. “I won’t be living in it. I think I’ll be renting it out.”

  “Oh, you have to be careful with tenants. They can tear a house to pieces. Don’t have any respect for other people’s property.”

  “Yes, that’s always a risk,” I said. “Hopefully I can find people who will take good care of it.”

  Mrs. Wells sat at the kitchen table and brought me up to date on “the doctoring” Ola May Bingleson had gotten for her heart, saying she had to remind a few more people to send her a get well card. And LaNell Schuber’s cataract surgery had gone all right; she’d need to be sure Miss LaNell had found someone to drive her to the follow-up appointment. I filled the sink with hot water and began doing the dishes. Because Mrs. Wells had trouble getting around, it was difficult for her to keep up with the housework. Her children had moved out of town and were too busy to lend a hand.

  She repeatedly thanked me for my help as I dried and put away the dishes, cleaned the sink, wiped the counter tops and table down, and swept the floor. By that time, I couldn’t postpone going to Aunt Ceci’s house any longer. As I walked across her porch, I could hear Mrs. Wells making a phone call, no doubt to spread the news that I now owned the house beside hers.

  I prepared myself for a hard hit of grief as I entered. It didn’t come. Instead, moving slowly from room to room brought a strong sense of nostalgia.

  Everything was almost exactly the same as I remembered. The living area had wood floors dulled by years of bustling activity. The white walls and wood shelves carried books, pictures, and souvenirs of a content and full life. I half expected to see Aunt Ceci sitting in the maroon recliner with her glass of iced tea on the end table by the remote.

  All was neat and tidy. Aunt Marie told me she had, at Aunt Ceci’s instruction, gotten rid of many things I wouldn’t need. I wanted to look through the house and choose some things to take with me to remember her by. Unless I could find someone who wanted to rent a furnished house, I’d probably have to move out everything else. What was I going to do with a home full of furniture and other household items I’d never use?

  I’d spent so much time there through the years. Dismantling it by taking away the familiar tables, chairs, rugs, pictures, and knickknacks seemed irreverent, like it would remove the memory of Aunt Ceci, too. I wanted to leave it exactly as it was and never have to change anything. I wished I could have her back.

  I wandered into the bedroom where I’d always slept and found a sealed envelope on the dresser. My name was printed on it in Aunt Ceci’s familiar script. The envelope contained a letter. I sat on the bed to read it.

  * * *

  My Dearest Maddie,

  I hope you can forgive me for not telling you when my end was close, despite the fact that I knew. Worrying never did anyone any good, and I wanted you to be carefree as long as possible.

  For a while now, I’ve thought you and Zac might have a future together. I’ve known for a long time that he loves you very much. I think you love him, too. You two always sensed when the other was lonely or sad, and made it right again. I remember when he didn’t make the varsity football team his freshman year and didn’t tell anyone. You must have known something was wrong. You asked him to help you with your science projectmaking a scale using magnets. I listened in as you two worked together. You told him he was smart, that you wouldn’t have figured it out on your own, and that it was nice of him to take the time to help you. You restored his confidence, and he was back on top of the world. I saw you two do that for each other time and again. You and Zac have something special.

  In this, you must make your own decision, one from your heart. Whether with Zac or someone else, I want you to find your happiness and hold onto it. To live your life without sorrow or doubt.

  From the first day I laid eyes on you when you were a skinny little baby, something called to me. Never forget, my daughter, that I love you more than I ever believed possible. Had you been my own blood, our bond couldn’t have been stronger.

  Have no regrets, mi’ja. Don’t look back. Never be ashamed. You have more courage and are tougher than anyone I’ve ever known. I know you’ll miss me. Be happy for me. I’m at peace with my Will
iam now.

  Forever yours,

  Aunt Ceci

  * * *

  I sat for a long time staring at the letter, crying with sadness and relief. I remembered how often Aunt Ceci said, “Worrying never did anyone any good. Fix it if you can. Then learn from it and move on.” In college, after Derek dumped me, I’d even taped the saying up on the wall of my dorm room. The guilt I carried for not being with her when she died began to slowly evaporate.

  Needless to say, I’d have to think over what she wrote about me and Zac.

  “Maddie? You in here?” Tabs called from the front door. I stuffed the letter back in the envelope and crammed it in my purse.

  “I’m coming,” I called back, hastily wiping away my tears.

  She’d brought lunch from the deli, a Rueben sandwich and salad for me, and a hoagie and fries for herself. We sat at the kitchen table.

  “How’s it going?” she asked, no doubt seeing that I’d been crying.

  “I’m actually feeling better,” I explained.

  “Oh, honey, I’m glad. You seem to be dealing with your grief well. Anything else you want to talk about?”

  “Why do I get the impression you’re not asking a general question?” I asked.

  “Okay, you’re right,” Tabs admitted. “How’s it going with Zac?”

  I debated briefly whether to tell her. Deciding it was time to give her the whole story, I said, “We had a big fight Saturday night.” She looked hurt. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wanted time to think about it. Zac and I talked Sunday, and I agreed to consider having a relationship with him.”

  “That’s wonderful!” she exclaimed happily before she saw my face. “You look like you think a relationship is a contagious disease. What was the fight about?”