Home at Last

by Shirlee McCoy

  Or what she’d done.

  She might have packed them away somewhere, put them in a safe spot to be rehung once the rotting joists were replaced.

  Flynn climbed off the ATV, offering a hand so that she could do the same. He removed her helmet, probably because he was afraid she’d get overheated and faint again. Then he removed his.

  His hair was mussed, his eyes glowing deep denim in his tan face. Sunlight dappled his long-sleeved cotton shirt and splashed across the razor-like edge of his cheekbones.

  He led her across the clay and up a small hill to what must once have been a grazing field. She could see remnants of a fence in the distance. Just a few posts poking through the grass.

  “We can fence twenty or thirty acres for the horses out here. Set up another pasture if you want to keep cattle.”

  “I don’t even know if I want to keep horses,” she admitted.

  “You can’t go back on a promise, Sunday.”

  “I didn’t promise,” she reminded him.

  “You may not have said the words, but I’m pretty sure Heavenly heard them. That’s how teenagers work, right? Selective hearing? They hear what they want and don’t hear what they don’t want?”

  “For someone who doesn’t have kids, you seem to know a lot about them,” she said, and he chuckled.

  “I might have left home as soon as I turned eighteen, but I didn’t abandon my brothers. We talked at least once a week. Sometimes more. Depending on how much trouble they were getting into. If I thought things were getting really bad, I’d offer to send them a ticket to come stay with me.”

  “I wasn’t implying that you weren’t a good older brother, Flynn. I hope you know that,” she said hurriedly.

  She hated hurting people.

  She hated upsetting them.

  She liked peace, calm, good relationships.

  “I know, but it’s not something I haven’t thought about over the years. Leaving my brothers behind was one of the toughest things I’ve ever done, but my mother made me promise that I’d leave when I turned eighteen. My father and I didn’t get along. I think she was afraid he’d kill me. Or I’d kill him,” he said wryly. “I had a temper when I was a kid, and my mother’s biggest fear seemed to be that I’d turn out like my dad.”

  “She said that to you?” she asked.

  “No. She told me I was going to be a strong, compassionate father and husband. That I’d accomplish my dreams because I worked hard and I was determined.”

  “That sounds more like the woman everyone has told me about. I met her once, you know,” she said, the memory faded and foggy. “Matt brought me to the house after school one day, and she was there. Making something in the kitchen.” She could see her standing at a floured counter, her hands pressed into dough, blue-black bruises smudging her pale forearms.

  Her face was hidden from Sunday’s memories, her smile, her voice. All of it wiped out by the accident or by time.

  But the bruises remained.

  The pale skin.

  The hands shoved deep into dough.

  “You must have been young.”

  “Six or seven. I have no idea how I managed to leave the school and walk home with my best buddy, but I did. I’m sure my parents panicked and the school panicked and people were out searching for me before I even made it to your place. I can’t remember any of that, but I remember your mother standing in the kitchen, kneading dough.”

  “She did that when she was thinking. Baked bread. She also sketched, painted, and journaled. My brothers and I found some of her stuff after our father passed away. She’d kept a notebook with stories about us. Mostly sweet little things about flowers we’d brought her or games we’d played. She also wrote about my temper and Matt’s propensity to daydream and Sullivan’s overactive imagination and Porter’s aggressive tendencies. She was so worried we’d be like my father. Especially me.”

  “Just because she wrote those things,” she said carefully, because this was his story, and she didn’t want to try to change it. She didn’t want to tell him he was wrong, or that he’d misread or misunderstood his mother’s concern. “Didn’t mean she believed they’d happen. I write lots of things that I worry about, but that I don’t really think are going to come about.”

  “Like?”

  “Heavenly smoking in the courtyard at school. The twins robbing a bank before they turn ten. Moisey staging a coup so that she can become President Princess Supreme of the United States.”

  He laughed. Just like she hoped he would. “Nothing about Oya or Twila?”

  “Oya is too young for me to worry much, and my worries about Twila are more realistic.”

  “Yeah?” He took her arm, urging her toward the chapel.

  “I wrote a lot about her book habit.”

  “Book habit?”

  “The fact that she’d rather read than play outside or talk or go to activities with friends. She’s my quiet one. The child who is least likely to tell me what she thinks or feels. That seems to have been my biggest concern right before the accident.” That and Matt. His long absences from the farm. His trips to Seattle and Portland to sell organic product to vendors.

  Only there’d never been an increase of cashflow, never any large deposits into their bank accounts. Certainly not enough to warrant traveling such far distances.

  She’d reread those journal entries dozens of times. To put their last dinner and the accident into context.

  “Not the farm?” he asked.

  The question surprised her, and she wasn’t sure why.

  By the night of the accident, the farm had been heading toward bankruptcy. Matt had taken out a mortgage on the property without her knowledge, signing forms without her consent. There’d been back property taxes that she hadn’t known about. Bills for farm equipment that she hadn’t seen used.

  God. It had been a mess.

  “I was worried about the farm, too,” she admitted, feeling as if she were somehow betraying a trust, speaking poorly of the dead. Speaking poorly of Matt. Of her husband.

  And she’d never want to do that.

  Not when he was alive, and certainly not now that he was dead.

  “Matt wasn’t a great farm manager,” he said, poking at the sore spot, the secret place, the ugly truth that she’d kept from everyone, because she’d loved her husband. She’d wanted the world to keep seeing him the way she once had.

  “He tried.”

  “Without expending a whole lot of effort, maybe.”

  “Is there a point to this conversation, Flynn? Aside from making me feel like a failure?”

  “Why would you feel like a failure because my brother wasn’t good at the job you entrusted to him?”

  “Because . . .” I chose him was on the tip of her tongue, but that didn’t sound right. It didn’t feel right. She’d loved Matt. Despite his flaws. Despite his betrayals. Despite it all, she’d loved him. “My parents trusted me to take care of the property. It’s been in my family for a long time, and I almost allowed it to be lost.”

  “You wouldn’t have allowed it. Unless I miss my guess, you had something up your sleeve. Some way of saving the place.”

  She didn’t think so.

  If she had, she hadn’t written it in any of her journals. She hadn’t shared it with any of her friends.

  It seemed to her, she’d been so caught up in the drama that enveloped her life, that she’d put the farm on the back burner, ignoring obvious signs of neglect and mismanagement.

  She could forgive herself for a lot of things, but that one was one she struggled with.

  “Maybe.” They’d reached the chapel, and her legs were a little bit wobbly, so she sat, back against façade, face turned up to the sun.

  It felt good and right and more comfortable than anything had in a long time.

  Flynn crouched in front of her, studied her face. “You’re pale again.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, because she didn’t want to go back to the house and the e
asy chair, the cream-colored wall and soft creak of the floor.

  “You’re pale,” he repeated. “I’ll get the ATV. Wait here.”

  She let him go, because she was tired, and because the sun felt good on her skin, the warmth of the chapel perfect against her back.

  She watched as he disappeared from view, then closed her eyes, breathing in late summer and dusty earth, peace and contentment.

  “It’s a good place to be,” she whispered to the blue sky and the rustling grass and to God.

  He was there, in the hot summer breeze and the sigh of air moving through the windows of the chapel.

  Warm breath fanned against her cheek, and a velvety tongue swept over her ear. Startled, she opened her eyes, ready to bolt away from whatever it was that was taste-testing her.

  The puppy was there. Deep red curls dry, tongue lolling, what could only be a smile on his face.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, and he nudged her cheek with his nose, licked her ear again.

  “Moisey would say you found me, because our souls are connected,” she explained, and the puppy’s tail thumped.

  Which made her smile.

  “You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you, Rembrandt?” she asked, and his tail thumped with more vigor.

  “It’s okay. I have six other troublemakers at home. One more won’t make any difference.”

  He huffed happily, plopping onto his belly, his chin on her leg.

  She petted his soft head, closed her eyes, and let the moment seep into her memories. Maybe, this would be one she could hold on to.

  * * *

  Flynn managed to get Sunday and the puppy back to the house in one piece. No falls off the ATV. No fainting spells. Nothing but a wiggly, squirmy critter licking the back of his neck as he tried to drive.

  A beat-up Chevy truck was parked near the garage. Sullivan and his wife, Rumer, arriving for another day of work. They’d been busting their butts for months, working like the land was their legacy, the house their home. Even now, when they were living in town, they worked the farm like it mattered.

  Things would change in the fall when Sullivan returned to his job as an art history professor in Portland. He planned to teach online classes and commute to the college twice a month to meet with students.

  Maybe it would work. Maybe he’d decide that Portland was where he really wanted to be.

  And maybe he already knew it wasn’t.

  Rumer had been offered a job at Benevolence Elementary School, long-term subbing in the fifth-grade class while the regular teacher was out on maternity leave. They were talking about moving out of the mansion Flynn and his brothers had grown up in and moving into their own place. A cute little place in town.

  How many times had he heard Rumer say that?

  And yet, he still couldn’t believe that his brother would be content with what Benevolence had to offer. Small-town shopping. Small-town culture. Small-town gossip. Small-town life.

  He pulled into the garage, turned off the engine, and took the puppy from Sunday’s arms. “We have time to bring him to the shelter, if you don’t want the kids to have a dog.”

  “I hope you’re not serious,” she said, fumbling with the strap of the helmet, but finally managing to pull it off. “Rembrandt found me twice. According to Moisey, we’re soul-connected. I’ll need to go into town to get a few things. I can call my friend Beatrice and ask her to bring me.”

  He almost told her he’d take her.

  Almost.

  Because she looked excited, her eyes glowing, her muscles relaxed. All the tension that had been so much a part of her since the accident seemed to have slipped away, and he wanted to make sure it didn’t come back. He didn’t want people to ask her the wrong questions or demand too much of her. He didn’t want her to get confused about her reason for being at the store. He didn’t want her to come back without the things she needed and then beat herself up over it.

  He didn’t want her to be sorry that she’d tried to do something on her own.

  But she wanted to call a friend. She was an adult. Fully capable of making decisions.

  So he nodded. “You have her number?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have mine just in case—”

  “Don’t,” she said, some of the pleasure leaving her face.

  “What?”

  “This has been the nicest morning I’ve had in a long time. Don’t ruin it by asking me a million questions before I go out with a friend.”

  “Okay,” he said, and her smile returned, warm and sweet and open. It was the kind of smile that invited people in, that begged friends to come close, that spoke affection and inclusion without words.

  She held nothing back from the people she loved.

  She kept no piece of her heart.

  That’s what he’d thought the very first time he’d seen her—dressed for her wedding and hugging both her parents.

  “Thanks, Flynn.” She levered up on her toes, swaying and off balance but somehow managing to plant a kiss on his cheek.

  He’d seen her do the same to other people. Dozens of times over the years, she’d planted a kiss on a cheek, put an arm around a shoulder. She’d offered words of encouragement as she’d patted backs or squeezed hands or offered her love in dozens of different ways.

  And he’d watched. Astounded and a little uncomfortable with the display. Worried because it made her vulnerable. It opened her up to hurt and disappointment. She was his brother’s wife, and he’d wanted her protected from people who might take advantage of her kindness.

  He hadn’t realized his brother was one of the people doing that.

  At least that’s what he’d been telling himself since he’d seen the state of the accounting books, walked out into the fields that he’d never bothered with during his visits every year and seen the fallow, weed-choked land. It was what he’d told himself as he’d signed off on the insurance claim for the expensive car his brother had been driving the night of the accident. As he’d paid off and closed out the credit card accounts that had fed his brother’s trips to Portland and Seattle.

  While Sunday and the kids stayed home, puttering around town in a fifteen-year-old van, his brother had taken business trips and bought expensive toys. A car. A hunting rifle that Flynn knew for sure he’d never used. Nice clothes and shoes. Equipment for the farm that was eventually sold for pennies on the dollar.

  By the time Matt died, all that was left in the barn was old, outdated equipment and rusted tools.

  And in the ten years she’d been married to him, Sunday had never said a bad word to anyone about Matt.

  If she had, Flynn would have heard about it. Not at the funeral, but later. Maybe at the hospital when friends and church family were standing vigil outside the ICU room, praying for her recovery. Or later, when she’d been in rehab, fighting to come to full consciousness, fighting to come back from whatever place the accident had thrust her. There’d been meals brought to the house, prayer meetings at the church, fundraisers and unexpected donations of time and farm equipment. Dozens of helping hands had brought Sunday’s home back to life, but not one of the people who’d helped or visited or prayed had said anything about Sunday and Matt’s struggles.

  If anything, people acted surprised by the farm’s disrepair, by the lack of functional farming equipment, by the financial need the Bradshaws had.

  Flynn suspected they only knew the good side of Matt. The happy, charming person who’d do anything for anyone. Like their mother, he had charisma. Unlike her, he didn’t feel things all that deeply. He had good relationships because it was easy for him. He knew how to be part of a group, how to lend a hand, how to be there for people who needed it, but Flynn didn’t think he knew how to sacrifice.

  Not like their mother had.

  Not like Sunday had.

  Love was a funny and fickle thing.

  It made people blind and deaf and dumb.

  Flynn had loved his brother, and h
e’d allowed himself to see those good qualities and ignore the bad ones. He’d believed the smiling, happy faces that greeted him when he’d arrived on Christmas Eve or late on a summer evening.

  He’d allowed himself to forget the truth of the life he and his brothers had lived. One where a façade of respectability hid a hellhole of abuse.

  Not that he believed Matt was abusive.

  God! He hoped his brother hadn’t been that much of a bastard.

  Sunday had already stepped out of the garage and was moving toward the house, her phone in hand.

  “Sunday?!” he called, planning to ask if she needed help finding her friend’s number. He sure as heck didn’t plan to ask if she’d ever been abused by his brother. If she’d ever been hit or pushed, yelled at or demeaned.

  She stopped, swinging around to face him, her hair flying in silky waves, her narrow frame silhouetted by sunlight. For a split second, he was back in time, watching his mother walk through the backyard, her shoulders bowed from illness and from too many years of abuse. She’d been frail and emaciated, just months away from death.

  He hadn’t known that then, he’d only known that she’d looked beaten down and defeated, and she hadn’t always been that way. There’d been a time when she’d laughed. When she’d danced through the kitchen, giggling with Flynn and his brothers.

  That joy had been stolen from her, and he’d vowed to never let that happen to another human being. Not if he had the power to prevent it.

  “Was Matt good to you?” The question slipped out, hung in the air for a few seconds too long.

  Finally, Sunday answered, her tone careful, her words measured. “Of course he was good to me.”

  “Don’t lie, okay? You’re not good at it.” He sounded angry, and maybe he was. He wanted the truth. Not a pretty lie that would make him feel better.

  “I’m not lying,” she said. “Matt was good to me. He was good to our kids.”

  “Then why did he have the fancy sports car?”

  “That was our car.”

  “Only his name was on the loan.”

  She sighed. “What does it matter, Flynn? He’s gone.”