Home at Last

by Shirlee McCoy

  She limped out of the orchard, walking down the slope that led to the river. It was silvery black this time of day, the water burbling over the rocks in a joyful melody she’d once loved.

  The dock was in this section. The old boathouse that Matt had let fall to ruin.

  That she’d allowed him to let fall to ruin.

  She’d been raising the kids, working in the home, doing as much as she could outside. He’d been puttering around pretending to be a gentleman farmer. She’d known that was what he was doing. Pretending. Playing a part.

  Yes. She’d known, but she hadn’t wanted to nag. She hadn’t wanted to be the discontented wife, the one who drove her husband away with her constant demands. She’d wanted to support his dreams, encourage his happiness, help him find his way in life, because they’d been growing up together, learning how to be adults.

  Only, she’d been the only one learning. He’d just continued to play the part.

  She stepped onto the deck. Someone had fixed it, replacing rotting boards with new ones, fixing the rail that ran on either side. A fishing platform had been added to one side, a tackle box lying forgotten in the shadow of a wooden bench. The boathouse had been reborn, as well, fresh white paint gleaming on newly hung siding.

  Her brothers-in-law had been busy.

  But she’d known that.

  The strange thing was, Matt had been the golden Bradshaw brother, the one admired by the town. She’d read the tributes people had written on the online memorial page one of their high school friends had created. You were the good one, Bradshaw. The best of the bunch. One good egg in a carton of rotten ones.

  For a while, she’d jotted notes in a notebook to remind herself of Matt’s good qualities.

  And maybe to make herself feel better about his bad ones.

  But, of course, the town hadn’t known how bad things were getting. Most of the people who lived there saw Sunday and her family at church or at the kids’ sports functions.

  They hadn’t been to the farm in years, and they had no idea that the land had gone fallow, the crops had died, the bank was threatening to foreclose. They didn’t know how often Matt slipped out of the house in the middle of the night or made up some faux business trip that would give him a reason to be gone for three or four or five days in a row.

  Yeah. Sunday had grown up. She’d learned how to juggle bills until she was dizzy from it, how to scrape the last drop of peanut butter from the bottom of the jar and tell her kids it was a feast. She’d learned to make bread without sugar, to create a meal from a quarter of a box of pasta and a can of tomatoes.

  She’d learned to be hungry so the kids could eat, and to dig through Matt’s things to find credit cards he hid just so she could buy a loaf of bread and a pound of bologna.

  She’d learned to lie to herself and to her children and to her friends, because she’d learned to protect Matt even when he wasn’t protecting her.

  If that was growing up, she’d done more than her fair share.

  And if it was love?

  She wanted no part of it.

  Dear God! She wished she’d tossed her journals.

  Or better yet, never written in them. She’d have no record of what her marriage had been, and only whatever memories had been left after the accident.

  Maybe the tough things would have gone and the good things would have stayed, and she wouldn’t be standing on a dock that her brothers-in-law had fixed, wondering how her life had gone so wrong.

  “Damn you, Matt,” she shouted, surprising herself and a bird that was sitting on the dock railing.

  It fluttered away, but she was still there, shouting at someone who couldn’t hear.

  Had never, she didn’t think, been able to.

  “Damn you!” she yelled again, the words echoing through the silence.

  She didn’t care that she was cursing, or that her kids would be appalled if they heard her, or that the blue-haired ladies would wince and click their tongues and worry that the brain injury had stolen her memories and her salvation.

  She didn’t care that her mother wouldn’t have approved or that her father might have applauded or that Matt might be standing at the pearly gates, listening to the curse ricocheting through the universe.

  And she didn’t care that she was crying, tears sliding down her cheeks and neck, pooling in the hollow of her throat where the dark purple scar told the story of her survival.

  She didn’t care, and she didn’t wipe the tears away.

  “Damn you,” she said one more time, the words a broken whisper that reflected the state of her heart.

  Because she had loved Matt.

  She still loved him, and if he’d lived, she’d have forgiven him.

  Again.

  “So, damn me, too,” she said, digging into her pocket and pulling out the heart-shaped rock that had fallen from her lap after the dream.

  “Because I did deserve better. I did. So you can keep your kisses, Matt. Maybe you’ll find someone in Heaven to give them to.”

  She tossed the rock with all her strength, but she didn’t see it fly. Her eyes were too filled with tears, her head pulsing with the kind of pain she hadn’t felt in months.

  She swung around, ready to go home, to climb into bed before the kids returned. She didn’t want them to know she’d been crying. She didn’t want them to think she was upset.

  She did care about that.

  Her foot caught on a boat tie coiled near the edge of the dock, and she sprawled forward, landing with a thud that shook the platform and made her tears come even faster.

  She couldn’t even do this right, for God’s sake. Throw her fit and scream to the universe and then march home and tuck herself in bed.

  She lay where she was, head cradled in her arms, the river swishing beneath her, the dock shifting subtly. She thought she heard footsteps, but she didn’t lift her head. She was too tired, and she didn’t care enough.

  “Sunday?” Flynn said, because of course it would be him. Every time she failed, he was there to see it. When she forgot names or dates or which kid needed to be where. When she burned bacon and ruined pancake batter and struggled to open canteens.

  Every time. Every failure.

  There he was.

  And she was as tired of that as she was of the rest.

  “Go away,” she responded, not bothering to lift her head.

  “It’s a supermoon tonight,” he responded, and she felt him stretching out beside her.

  Side by side. Arms touching. Legs touching.

  And it shouldn’t have made her feel less alone, but it did.

  “Good for it,” she replied, and he chuckled, his body vibrating with amusement.

  If she hadn’t been so pissed off, so upset, she might have chuckled too.

  “You’d have a better view of it if you rolled over,” he suggested, a note of humor still in his voice.

  “My life situation is not funny,” she replied, but she rolled to her left, away from him, stopping short when his arm clamped around her waist.

  “Other way, Sunday. Unless you want to take a dip in the river.”

  “Probably not tonight,” she managed to say as she rolled toward him, elbows and knees bumping his solid frame.

  She took too long to find her place, to finally lie still, to see what he had—the giant white orb that was just drifting above the mountains.

  “Wow!” she breathed, and felt his fingers curl through hers, his palm pressed warm and calloused against her chilled skin.

  “God knew what He was doing when He made the mountains to frame the moon,” he said. “And the stars to glitter in the dark night sky. Emmerson used to say that when I’d had a rough day, and I didn’t want to go home. We’d sit on his back porch watching the moon rise. He’d never ask me why I didn’t want to leave. He’d just let me be until I was ready to go.”

  “You can ask, if you want,” she said, because her brain might not work as quickly as it once had, but she knew what h
e was telling her. That she could keep her silence and her peace.

  “I’m pretty sure I know,” he said, shifting so that he was lying on his side, propped up on his elbow, staring into her face. “You’re angry at Matt for letting the farm fail. You’re angry at him for failing you and the kids. You’re angry because he cheated, and because you still loved him. You’re angry at yourself for not taking control when you could have, for not telling him the truth and making him own up to his problems and his responsibility. You’re angry at God for leaving you in a mess that a bunch of people you barely knew had to help you out of. And, you’re angry at life, because it’s not the pretty little picture you thought it would be.”

  “That about sums it up,” she admitted, because she wasn’t going to pretend. Not like she had before the accident. She knew where all the pretending led, and it wasn’t a place she wanted to be.

  He nodded and squeezed her hand, his thumb running across the base of her thumb. It was a friendly caress, a reminder that she wasn’t in this alone. That he was there with her, living in the aftermath of his own mistakes.

  “What was your wife’s name?” she asked, and he smiled.

  “Patricia. I’m surprised you remember that I was married.”

  “I wrote it down. It seemed important.”

  “Did it?” There was something warm in those words, something inviting. Something that might have been flirtation or invitation, but she’d never been with anyone but Matt. She’d never had any reason to learn the rules of romantic relationships. She’d grown into love the same way she’d grown into adulthood—slowly and easily.

  And, if flirtation were going on, she had no real idea how to recognize it.

  “You’re a big part of the kids’ lives,” she said, knowing there was more to it than that. Knowing that if she’d lived another life and met him in another place, they’d be doing more than lying on the dock, looking into each other’s eyes.

  “I hope so. I don’t want to be the uncle they barely remember. Not anymore.”

  “You’ll be the uncle who taught them about building fences and making paddocks and riding horses. The one who helped their mother find her way back home.”

  “You’ve always been home.”

  “Not really.” She shook her head, the aching pain behind her eyes still there and still insistent, but the tears were gone, and the anger. “I’ve been living in my house for months, but I haven’t been home.”

  “Then I’m glad I helped you find your way.” His lips brushed her cheek, and her pulse jumped, a million butterflies flittering in her stomach.

  And, God! He must have felt it too.

  He’d stopped talking, stopped moving, his lips just a millimeter away from her skin. Just inches away from her mouth.

  And she knew he hadn’t meant for this to happen, the spark of heat that arched between them, the rapid rise and fall of her chest and his. The way their bodies seemed to want to find each other, to roll closer and fit curves to hollows.

  He hadn’t meant it, but it had happened, and when he pulled her into a sitting position, when his palms cupped her cheeks, when his hand brushed hair from her face, she didn’t tell him he should stop.

  No.

  Of course she didn’t.

  She leaned forward when he probably would have moved away, because she wanted to know what it was like to be in someone else’s arms. She wanted to know how it felt to want someone besides Matt, and to be wanted by someone other than him.

  She kissed Flynn, because he was there, and because every day she’d spent with him had been a day when she’d remembered why she was alive, why she had to try, who she should become rather than who she’d once been. She kissed him, because he’d finished the barn and created a horse pasture and urged her to ride again.

  She kissed him, and she couldn’t say she planned it, but she wouldn’t say she hadn’t. She could say that it was a clumsy attempt, her body off balance, her hands slapping against his chest as she nearly fell into his lap.

  And that should have been it.

  He should have laughed her off like she was a desperate housewife drunk at a party and coming on to him, and she should have apologized a million times and prayed to God that they’d both forget how stupid she’d been.

  But his lips were gentle, his hands warm as he smoothed them up her back, settled them on her shoulders, held her steady beneath the bright moon and shimmering stars.

  And something that should have been nothing seared itself into her soul. She knew, without even remembering, that Matt’s first kiss had been nothing like this. That what they’d had together, what they’d believed would carry them through from childhood to old age, had been a faint reflection of what real love should be.

  When he pulled her closer, when he deepened the kiss, when all the thoughts in her head flew away and there was only Flynn, she wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t worried.

  She was with him.

  And, right now, that felt an awful lot like home.

  * * *

  She tasted like honeysuckle and fresh spring water.

  Like long summer mornings and lazy winter nights.

  And having her in his arms?

  It was the best thing that had happened to him in a very long time.

  But God! She was his brother’s widow. A woman who’d been through hell and had lived to tell about it.

  She didn’t need more heartache, more trouble, or more drama.

  And she sure as heck didn’t need to be kissing Flynn in the moonlight.

  He told himself to let her go, to move back, to walk away.

  But her body was warm and pliant, her lips soft and welcoming, and he couldn’t make himself do anything but pull her closer.

  “Wow, Uncle Flynn, I know I told you Twila and I wouldn’t think it was weird, but I didn’t expect you to move so fast,” Heavenly said, her voice pouring over him like arctic water.

  He jerked back but didn’t release Sunday.

  He was afraid she’d fall backward and land in the river.

  She shifted away, one jerky movement that gave him room to think.

  And what he was thinking wasn’t good, because what he was thinking was that he wanted to pull her into his arms again.

  “Heavenly,” Sunday said, whirling to face her daughter, silky strands of hair slapping his face.

  Maybe he deserved more than that for overstepping his place, for reaching for something that didn’t belong to him.

  But, he wasn’t sorry. Not even a little.

  He’d heard her cursing his brother. He’d seen her toss the pink heart into the river. He knew what Matt had done. And if Matt had been alive, he’d have pounded some sense into him and then gone back to Texas to live his life.

  But Matt was gone, leaving Sunday with more baggage than any woman her age should carry.

  How many times had Matt cheated?

  That’s what he wanted to know, but he wouldn’t ask. He wasn’t even sure she’d remember if he did.

  “It’s okay, Sunday,” Heavenly said. She was standing just a few feet away, Rembrandt on a leash at her side. “You don’t have to explain.”

  “That’s good, because I don’t think I could,” Sunday responded.

  “From what I’ve heard, that’s how these kinds of things work.” Heavenly took her arm, pulling her farther away from Flynn.

  As if he were a villain and a cad, someone who planned to take advantage of a woman who couldn’t protect herself.

  “What things?” Sunday asked. She didn’t look in Flynn’s direction. He hadn’t expected her to.

  The kiss . . .

  Maybe it had been the moonlight or the water or the stars in the navy sky, but it had taken on a life of its own. If Heavenly hadn’t arrived, he didn’t know where it would have led. Or when it would have ended.

  “Lust. Love. Whatever you want to call it.”

  “Sweetheart—”

  “Like I said, you don’t have to explain,” she continued,
ushering her mother away. “My friends all think he’s irresistible too.”

  “What?!” Flynn nearly shouted, and Heavenly met his eyes. “Your friends are kids.”

  “And they’re boy crazy. I find it annoying, but they have pretty good taste. It’s not like you’re hideous.”

  “Thanks,” he said wryly, and she shrugged.

  “I’m just stating the facts. You’re not hideous, but I still don’t want to hear them talk about you all the time. It’s embarrassing.”

  “Now, hold on,” he said, following them off the dock. “What do you mean ‘embarrassing’?”

  “You’re old. They’re stupid.”

  “And I guess I am too?” Sunday offered.

  “You’re not old or stupid. You’re a woman who found a nice guy to kiss beneath the stars. It’s romantic. If you’re into that kind of thing.”

  Obviously, Heavenly was not.

  “Sweetie,” Sunday began again, but Heavenly patted her shoulder.

  “Look, I didn’t mean to interrupt your fun. Clementine was looking for you. She’s trying to pick colors for the wedding, and she says she needs your keen eye. I figured you might be out in the barn, but Rembrandt had other ideas. I guess he’s not as dumb as he was pretending to be when he snatched the ice cream cone Moisey saved for me.”

  “She saved you a cone?” Sunday asked, looking relieved to be able to change the focus of the conversation.

  “With ice cream in it. Clementine and Porter tried to tell her it was going to melt before I got out of practice, but she insisted that she could freeze it with her mind. I think she’s been reading too many sci-fi books.”

  “So it melted? And then the dog ate it?”

  “Pretty much. I thanked Moisey anyway. I figured you’d think it was the right thing to do. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to leave you here with Uncle Flynn, because I’m about ready to starve to death. I’ll tell Clementine you’re on the way, but I’ll leave out the kiss. Unless you’d like me—”

  “No!” he and Sunday shouted in unison, and Heavenly had the nerve to smirk.