Home at Last

by Shirlee McCoy

  He settled down beside her. “Who told you that?”

  “My journals.”

  “I didn’t know you had them, or that you’d written about me.”

  She offered a quick smile. “I did, and I wrote about everyone. Thank God. I don’t know what I’d do about the kids if I hadn’t. Speaking of which”—she pushed to her feet, wincing as she straightened her legs—“I need to round them up and get them back inside.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because . . .” She shrugged. “It seems like the motherly thing to do.”

  “Letting kids play outside is also a motherly thing to do.”

  “Look how far they’re going.” She pointed to the twins, who were halfway between the house and the closest cornfield.

  “I went farther when I was their age.”

  “Things were different then.”

  Not really. There’d always been danger in the world. His had just been closer to home. Much closer.

  “I’ll bring them home,” he said, even though he should let her do it. Even though he knew she could. Because that was what he’d come for, right? To get her back to a place of independence, to help her realize what no one else had been able to—that she could do this without a network of willing hands and feet.

  Yet there he was. On his feet, moving across the yard, ready to call the boys back, yell for the girls, go hunt them all down so that Sunday wouldn’t have to worry.

  He was stepping into the same pattern his brothers had. The pattern Sunday’s church had. The pattern Rosie had. Caretaker of Sunday’s kingdom and treasures.

  No matter how much his brain was telling him to stop, he just kept moving.

  “It’s okay, Flynn,” she said, a hint of unease in her voice, maybe a little fear or self-doubt. “If you watch Oya, I’ll get the others.”

  He stopped where he was. One foot on the gravel driveway, the other on the grass, his eyes still fixed on the towheaded boys who were darting toward cornstalks. He was faster than Sunday, for sure. He could run there and be back before she made it halfway across the field.

  It would be easier, quicker, less painful for everyone.

  He turned back anyway, taking Oya from Sunday’s arms and watching as she walked away. Staying where he was, because sometimes the hardest things were the best ones.

  Emmerson had taught him that, too.

  Chapter Four

  She should have let Flynn handle things.

  That’s what Sunday was thinking as she picked her way through brambles in bare feet and sweatpants. The sun rose languidly in the distance, hovering just above the highest mountain peak. Soon, the days would shorten, but now, the sun came up early and went to bed late.

  “Maddox! Milo!” she called as she walked, trying to get the boys’ attention. They moved nonstop when they were awake. They had from the very first day. Always busy. Always in motion. Always looking for something to occupy their minds.

  “Too smart” is what she’d written in her journal. She’d written other things, too, but none of them really captured the essence of the twins. Funny, intelligent, loyal, determined.

  Everything they should be, she decided as she called them again.

  This time, they must have heard. Both darted toward her, white-blond hair gleaming, legs churning.

  “Mom!” they shouted in unison as they approached. “What are you doing?”

  “Coming to get you. You’re going too far.”

  “No, we’re not,” Maddox said, his face scrunched in consternation. “Uncle Sullivan said that we can go all the way to the cornfield. We just can’t go in it.”

  “He did?” she replied, surprised that rules had been set by their uncle. A little more surprised that they were obeying them.

  “Yes. Because we went down to the river once. When you were in the hospital, and we just about got our heads chewed off.” Milo sighed. “It was his idea.” He pointed at Maddox.

  “It was not.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “No, it—”

  “Let’s not argue, boys. It’s much too pretty a day to be cross,” she interrupted.

  They were surprised enough to stop bickering.

  “Cross?” Twila walked out from behind a clump of overgrown azaleas. “That’s a very good word, Mom.”

  “Thank you,” she replied. “Have you seen Moisey?”

  “She’s near the garage. She thinks the puppy went there to find food.”

  “Why would the puppy look for food in the garage?” Milo asked, and Twila shrugged.

  “I don’t know, but Moisey does.”

  “You three go back to the house. I’ll find your sisters. Then we’ll have breakfast.”

  “And then go to buy the puppy some food? That’s an important thing. All living creatures need to eat,” Twila said, as if Sunday needed a reminder.

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Yesterday, you forgot about lunch. Rosie said you’d fade away to nothing if she didn’t remind you to eat.”

  “Honey, I’m not in danger of fading away, and I didn’t eat lunch because I wasn’t hungry. Not because I didn’t remember.”

  That was true.

  She was never hungry.

  She wasn’t sure if that had happened because of the accident, or if she’d been having the problem before it.

  She’d lost weight prior to her tenth anniversary. She knew that. She’d written about needing to buy new clothes in one of her last journal entries.

  “Well, you have to eat, Mom. Because you’re too skinny. Ms. Myers says so,” Milo said, eyeing her critically enough to make her cheeks warm.

  “Ms. Myers?”

  “Our Sunday school teacher?” Maddox prodded, apparently hoping to spark her memory.

  She racked her brain but couldn’t put a face to the name, and she couldn’t recall any journal entries about the woman.

  “I’m sure Ms. Myers understands that I’ve been . . . ill.”

  “You nearly died. Everyone knows it.” Maddox pulled something from the pocket of his shorts and pressed it into her hand. “This is for you. I’ll make pancakes, and you can eat when you get back to the house.”

  He sprinted away, his twin close on his heels.

  “I had better supervise,” Twila said, darting after them.

  And she was alone, watching them go, something clutched in her hand.

  She opened her fist. A small heart-shaped rock lay in her palm. White. Sparkling with minerals. Smooth from eons of water running across its surface.

  It was a child’s offering, and it was perfect enough to bring tears to her eyes.

  She didn’t have pockets, so she held it as she walked around the side of the house and found her way to the garage. Just as the other children had predicted, Moisey was there, on her hands and knees near the trash cans.

  “Moisey, what are you doing?” she said, trying to crouch nearby. Her legs wouldn’t have it, and she fell on her butt instead, the rock falling from her hand and skittering across the packed earth.

  She grabbed for it, but Moisey grabbed it first, lifting it to the sky and eyeing it with appreciation. “A heart! Where did you find it, Mommy?”

  “Maddox gave it to me.”

  “Where did he find it?” she demanded to know, the sunlight dancing across her skin and bestowing golden kisses on her dark curls.

  “He didn’t say.”

  “It’s from Dad. It has to be,” she announced.

  “Does it?”

  “Of course. Dad always signed his cards with hearts, remember?”

  She hadn’t. Not until that moment.

  “Yes, but—”

  “So it has to be from him. He put it right where Maddox could find it and bring it to you. It’s like a kiss from Heaven. Which is good, because the puppy is really gone. I looked everywhere. I was even pretending to be a dog and think like a dog, and he still didn’t show up. Maybe we aren’t his soul people, after all.”

  “There wil
l be other puppies, Moisey,” she said, but Moisey was having none of it.

  She shook her head. “He was special.”

  “Don’t you think every puppy is?”

  “That would be like saying every mom is special. Or every dad. Maybe they are to someone, but not to people who already have a mom or dad. We had Rembrandt, and now he’s gone. There will never be another dog as special as him.”

  “Rembrandt?”

  “That’s his name.”

  “Do you know who Rembrandt was?”

  “Of course I do. Uncle Sullivan talks about art all the time. He’s an artist. And a professor.” Moisey added the last as a side note. It was a pattern with her. Adding bits of information to make things easier on Sunday.

  For some reason, that hurt.

  Maybe because Moisey was only seven, and she shouldn’t have to worry about things being easy on her mother.

  “I remember what Uncle Sullivan does,” Sunday assured her.

  “Okay. I was just making sure.” Moisey handed her the rock. “The kiss from Heaven is nice, but I kind of still want Rembrandt.”

  “We can go to the shelter next week. I’m sure they’ll have a puppy you’ll love.”

  “I want a puppy that finds me. Just like in the story. Plus, you’ll forget about the shelter, and we won’t go.”

  Ouch.

  That hurt worse than Moisey’s careful recital of facts.

  She tried not to let it show, because it wasn’t Moisey’s fault. She was being honest, and honesty was a good thing.

  Even when it hurt

  “Your brother is making pancakes,” she said, sidestepping the issue, because it wasn’t something she could put words to. Or wanted to.

  “Last time he tried that, he almost burned the house down.” Moisey skipped away.

  Sunday didn’t follow. Twila was supervising the boys, and she always took her jobs seriously. If there was trouble, Sunday would know before it got out of hand.

  Of course, she probably should have gone back to the house and made pancakes herself. That would be the motherly thing to do, wouldn’t it? Make a batch of pancakes and serve it with warm maple syrup and pats of room-temperature butter?

  She was certain she’d done that dozens of times. Maybe even hundreds. Sunday morning breakfast? Or Saturday mornings? Lazy days with pancakes and sausage or bacon?

  Or maybe she was remembering her childhood, the weekend breakfasts that her mother had prepared. She’d learned to cook on rainy Saturdays, standing over the old gas stove and stirring pots while her mother supervised.

  Had she done that with her kids?

  She hadn’t written about it in any of the journals, and she couldn’t recall.

  “You’re frowning,” Flynn said, his voice so unexpected, she jumped.

  “I startled you,” he continued, walking across the grassy yard, Oya in his arms. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m jumpy since the accident.” She smoothed her fingers over the heart-shaped stone, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. Because she’d been surprised, and because, for just a second, she’d thought his voice was Matt’s.

  “I think most people would be.”

  “Not Matt. He’d probably already be over it.” She wasn’t sure why she said that. Maybe because he was on her mind—his handsome face and charming smile dancing just at the edges of memory.

  “Not if you weren’t around.”

  “I need to find Heavenly,” she murmured, changing the subject because she didn’t want to talk about the accident, and she didn’t want to talk about Matt. She certainly didn’t want to think about whether he’d have missed her if she were gone.

  “I sent her back to the house. Apparently, the boys are making pancakes.”

  “Twila planned to supervise,” she offered, and he smiled, a slow, easy curve of his lips that drew her attention to his jaw and the dark stubble there.

  He had a rougher look than his brothers. Tougher. The kind of look earned from years of working outside in the cold and the heat, the rain and the sun.

  “She told me that she’d take care of things, but those boys are . . . creative when it comes to cooking. It’s probably best if we’re there, too.”

  “Creative?”

  “You didn’t hear about the French fry incident?”

  “I . . . don’t think so.”

  “It went like this.” He cupped her elbow, and she found herself walking along beside him. No rush. No hurry, their pace like his smile—slow and easy. “You were in the hospital. People were distracted. The boys were tired of casserole, and that was pretty much what the church had been providing. One night, they decided they’d make French fries, but they didn’t think it would be a good idea to do it on the stove.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Yeah. So they dug a firepit in the backyard, started a fire, and tossed a bunch of potatoes in.”

  “Whole potatoes?”

  “According to Milo, they were afraid they might cut their fingers off if they tried slicing the potatoes.”

  “But they weren’t afraid of burning themselves, the yard, the house and, maybe, the entire town down?” she asked, appalled at the thought of the twins striking matches and tossing them into a pile of twigs and leaves and paper. Maybe with an accelerant added for good measure.

  That’s how Matt had started fires. Lighting fluid poured over the wood, a quick strike of a match.

  The image was there, the memory clear and crisp. Their first camping trip in the fall after they were married. It had been cold, and she’d been shivering. Matt had dug a firepit and prepped the fire, insisting that he didn’t need her help.

  Stay in the sleeping bag and keep warm. I’ll take care of this.

  She’d let him. Even though doing it herself would have been quicker and easier. Because she’d known those kinds of things had been important to Matt—being able to make the world work the way he thought it should for the people he loved. He’d never wanted Sunday to be unhappy. He hadn’t wanted the kids to be. That desire had led to lies and cheating and all kinds of deeds done in darkness.

  Sunday would have preferred the painful truth to the hidden betrayal.

  She shivered, and Flynn squeezed her elbow. “Cold?”

  “A goose walked across my grave,” she responded, and he must have understood the old phrase, because he didn’t ask again. Just kept the same careful unhurried pace, silently now, Oya resting her head against his shoulder, her chubby fingers curled in the ends of his hair.

  She looked away, trying not to imagine Matt there, holding their daughter, carrying her back home.

  “What happened?” she finally asked. “With the fire, I mean?”

  “Someone driving by saw smoke and called the fire department. Half the fire brigade showed up, thinking the house was on fire and . . .” He stopped, but she thought she knew.

  “They were afraid I’d lose my kids and my home after already losing my husband?”

  “Maybe the story isn’t as cute as I was remembering,” he said, his hand still on her elbow, his stride still matched with hers.

  “It’s cute. If they aren’t your kids, and it isn’t your house. Or if dozens of years have passed and all the kids have survived their childhood. And really, it is cute. Even though they are my kids, and I still have a long way to go before I stop worrying about them,” she admitted, offering a smile as reassurance, because Flynn meant well. Just like his brothers. Like Clementine. Like Rumer and Rosie and all Sunday’s friends.

  They wanted things to be like they had been.

  They wanted her to move on and be okay.

  They wanted to imagine that life wasn’t changed forever.

  That, eventually, things would go back to being the way they’d been.

  She couldn’t blame them. She didn’t. She wanted to believe all those things too. She wanted to think that one morning, she’d open her eyes, and she’d feel like she’d felt the day she’d married Matt. Certain and h
appy and filled with hope.

  But things wouldn’t be the same.

  Not just because Matt was dead.

  Sure, that was the biggest part of it, but there was the other part. The secrets that she’d keep forever because voicing them would only hurt the people who’d loved and admired Matt.

  It was her last gift to him, the final sacrifice to their relationship and their family.

  * * *

  The pancakes were good.

  That was Flynn’s first surprise of the day. Despite the fact that the twins had found the recipe, mixed the batter, and cooked the pancakes, nothing was burned, no one was hurt, and everyone left the breakfast table with a full belly and a smile.

  Even Heavenly seemed content after the meal, her normal taciturn expression replaced by pleasure.

  That was Flynn’s second surprise of the morning.

  His third surprise?

  Clementine and Porter were taking the kids to the county fair. This year, it was being held three towns over. A long ride for a bunch of kids, and Porter had found a hotel that could accommodate the group. A full day, a night and they’d be back after church tomorrow.

  It sounded good.

  So good even Heavenly seemed keen on going, her enthusiasm as contagious as her siblings’. Clementine bustled from room to room, her long cotton skirts swishing as she supervised overnight bag packing. Porter was washing breakfast dishes, looking a little too domestic for Flynn’s peace of mind.

  He’d never known his brother to care much about home-cooked meals or hand-washing dishes. Up until a few months ago, Porter had been a sought-after security expert who made big bucks protecting high profile clients. He’d had a high-rise apartment in Los Angeles filled with chrome, sleek furniture, and modern art. Now his home base was the old house they’d been left by their father.

  House?

  Mansion.

  Not that Flynn had ever thought of it as either of those things.

  Prison was more the word he’d have used to describe it.

  “You want to come with?” Porter asked, setting the last plate in the drying rack and turning to face him. Like the rest of the Bradshaw men, he was tall and dark-haired. Unlike Flynn, he was polished. Dark jeans. Button-down shirt opened to reveal a blue T-shirt. Expensive watch. Expensive haircut.