Home at Last

by Shirlee McCoy

  “Are you quitting on us, Rosie?” Sunday asked, because that’s what she thought she was hearing, but she wanted to be sure.

  “That’s not what I’m saying at all, dear,” Rosie replied, her dark eyes focused on the newspaper again. “It’s just that, I see you’re improving every day now, taking over more of the daily chores. Look what you’ve done this morning, packing lunches and getting the children off to school.”

  “I screwed up the lunches, and Twila and Heavenly got the others off to school.”

  “That’s the way you see it, but the way the kids see it, you’re their mother again. Doing all the things a mother should do. And I’m an interloper. Keeping all of you from being the family you once were.”

  “Rosie,” Sunday said, reaching for her hand and squeezing it gently. “Did one of the kids say something to you that made you think you’re not wanted?”

  “I have eyes in my head, and I can see that I’m in the way. No one has to say a word about it.”

  “You’re not in the way,” Sunday assured her, taking Rembrandt’s leash from the hook near the back door. “As a matter of fact, I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t around.”

  “Well, for one, you wouldn’t have an old lady micromanaging you while you’re trying to take care of your children.”

  “You don’t micromanage, and if you did, I wouldn’t remember it.”

  Rosie let out a bark of laughter and shook her head. “That’s a pretty good one. I’ve got to admit it.”

  “Thank you. But I’m serious. Who would watch Oya while I took the dog for a walk, if you weren’t around?” Sunday asked. “She’s too little to walk very far, and strollers aren’t good off paved paths. I’d have to carry her in the pack, but I’m not strong enough for that yet.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. I’d just been thinking you probably weren’t going to need my help anymore what with the kids back in school.”

  “I haven’t been cleared to drive yet, and I’ll need someone to bring me shopping and to appointments and to the school, because I’m sure the boys’ antics will mean a couple of visits there a week.”

  “Clementine is always willing to lend a hand,” Rosie said, but she was starting to look . . . hopeful.

  “She’s getting married in a couple of weeks. She’s busy. Plus, fall harvest and the festival the farm is hosting. She won’t have time for anything else.”

  “You do have a point,” Rosie said with a nod, setting her cup down and straightening her shoulders. “So that settles it. I’ll stay until Christmas, and we’ll discuss things again then.”

  “Great. Wonderful,” Sunday said.

  “And, since I’m staying, don’t mind if I tell you that you’re looking a wee bit pale and a lot too thin. You grab one of those cinnamon rolls I made and go on outside. Get yourself some sun.”

  “But the laundry needs—”

  “What are you paying me for, if not to wash the clothes? Out. Now. Go on. Take the puppy for a walk, but make sure you’re back before ten.” She opened the door, letting bright sunlight and chilly air in.

  “Okay. Fine. I get it. You want me out of the kitchen.” Sunday kissed Oya, tickled her bare feet. “I’ll be back soon, sweetie.”

  She hooked Rembrandt to his leash, grabbed the plate Rosie thrust into her hands, and walked outside.

  * * *

  Sunday was asleep on the tree swing when Flynn walked around the side of the house, lying with her head on one end of the bench, her feet dangling off the other.

  An empty plate sat on the ground nearby, Rembrandt lying beside it, attached to a leash that was wrapped around Sunday’s wrist.

  His tail thumped languidly as Flynn approached, his mouth opening in what could only be a smile.

  “Hey, boy. Having fun?” Flynn crouched near the dog, scratching him behind his ears.

  “He’d be having more fun if I were actually walking him instead of pretending to,” Sunday said sleepily, her eyes still closed.

  She looked beautiful there, sunlight dappling her arms and cheeks, her body long and lean, relaxed in the late-summer warmth. Today was the kids’ first day back at school, and he’d thought about being at the house to see them off, but he hadn’t wanted to be in the way or to make Sunday uncomfortable.

  Doing things right had been a big deal to her, looming in her mind and taking up a lot of their conversations. Her plan to get up two hours early so that she could pack lunch bags and make breakfast and be sure that all the kids made it onto the bus was something she’d plotted out carefully, going through every step out loud, asking him again and again if he thought she could do it.

  And, of course, he’d told her he did.

  That she could.

  He figured she could do just about anything she set her mind to, and he’d told her so. Enough times that he hoped she’d begun to believe it.

  “How’d it go?” he asked, and she sighed, finally opening her eyes and meeting his gaze.

  “It was a total disaster.”

  “Impossible,” he said. “There’s no way you made a disaster of your kids’ first day back at school.”

  “You know that plaque on my wall? The one that says that nothing is impossible, because the very word says I’m possible?”

  “Yes.”

  “It lies.” She closed her eyes again, and he laughed, grabbing her hand and tugging her to her feet.

  “I’m pretty sure the situation wasn’t as dire as you’re making it out to be.”

  “It took me an hour to make their lunches,” she responded. “And I never cooked breakfast. They had to have cold cereal and reheated cinnamon rolls. I’m not even sure Heavenly ate.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a disaster.”

  “Twila gave me instructions before she left the house. I should have been giving her a pep talk or telling her she was going to be awesome, but no. I was standing there with my mouth closed while she reminded me to bring an umbrella when I go out, because it’s going to rain.”

  “Still not disaster,” he said, dropping an arm around her shoulder, because she was there and he was, and they’d become friends.

  But, of course, it felt like more.

  Everything felt like more with Sunday.

  “Rosie tried to quit.”

  That got his attention.

  In a big way.

  Because Rosie ran the kitchen and the kids, and Flynn didn’t worry as much when she was there.

  “That could be a disaster,” he admitted.

  “I explained that to her. Told her how much we needed her and how things are really busy, and how there’s no way I could ever do this on my own.”

  “Yet. Eventually, you’ll be able to.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. We have to be realistic, Flynn. I’m not the person I was, and I’ll never be her again.”

  “Thank God for that.” The words slipped out, and she frowned.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The person you were was married to my brother, and if that were still the case, things would be a heck of a lot more awkward than they are now.”

  There. He’d tossed it out on the table. Left it there for both of them to see, because he was tired of pretending the kiss hadn’t happened or that he didn’t want it to happen again.

  “Things aren’t awkward,” she protested.

  “Good. Then you won’t have a problem coming to town with me today. Doing the ganache tasting for my brother and Clementine. Maybe getting something to eat afterward.”

  “Why would I have a problem with that?”

  “Because people are going to see us together, Sunday,” he replied. “And you’re not going to be in a wheelchair or using a cane. You’re not going to be limping much, and you’re going to have some color in your cheeks.”

  “So what?”

  “We’re talking about Benevolence. We’re talking about an entire town that knows you and that knew my brother, and that is going to wonder why the two of u
s seem so close.”

  “Because we are close. We’re family.”

  “Don’t be obtuse,” he said, using the word Twila had texted him.

  She’d be proud to know he’d used it before he’d had his first cup of coffee.

  Sunday scowled. “Don’t use the word of the day on me this early in the morning. My brain isn’t prepared for it.”

  “Now you’re trying to change the subject.”

  “Would you rather I pretend I’ve forgotten what happened the other night?” she asked.

  “It might be preferable to the song and dance we go through every time I mention it,” he responded.

  “Fine,” she snapped. “Have it your way. As far as the other night is concerned, I have no idea what you’re talking about. It’s gone. Slipped out of my head like water off a window, like mist off a lake, like butter off a hot roll, like sweat off an overheated brow.”

  “Sweat off an overheated brow?”

  “I ran out of similes,” she said.

  He laughed, and she joined him, leaning her head into his shoulder as if it had always been this way—the two of them, walking beside each other, bickering and laughing like a couple who’d been together forever and who knew each other to the deepest part of their souls.

  Maybe that was why he kissed her.

  There in the morning sun, dark clouds rolling in from the south and a chilly wind blowing from the north. Maybe it was why he cradled her face in his hands and then let his finger trail from her jaw to the hollow of her throat, let it rest on the scar there.

  Maybe it was why he shifted his lips from her mouth to her forehead, why he whispered, “I’m glad you’re still around, Sunday,” against her skin.

  Maybe it was why, when he looked into her eyes, he forgot that he had a ranch and a life to return to. Why he forgot everything but her.

  “Yooohooo!” someone called, and Sunday jerked back, her lips still pink from his kiss, her eyes wide with surprise as she turned to face the house.

  Rosie was standing on the porch, Oya in her arms, a broad smile on her wrinkled face.

  She’d seen the kiss.

  There was no doubt about that.

  But she had the good grace not to mention it.

  “I’m sorry, Rosie. I meant to come right back in, but I fell asleep on the swing, and I lost track of time,” Sunday said, the words rushing out in a jumble.

  “Honey, there was no hurry. I just wanted to make certain you two weren’t late for the chocolate tasting. I wouldn’t want anyone to be disappointed. Most especially not Heavenly. She did make a special effort to remind you.”

  “Right. Of course. Let me just run and get changed and brush my hair and make myself presentable.” She was moving as she spoke, jogging to the house, with the disjointed, hitched stride that had been hers since the accident.

  She made it to the door without falling and slipped inside.

  Which left Flynn standing in the yard, Rosie still smiling broadly in his direction.

  “I should probably get ready too,” he said, offering a quick wave.

  “Before you go, I just wanted to mention one thing,” she said, and he braced himself, certain he was about to get lectured on common sense and decency, on etiquette, and the amount of time a man should wait before he kissed a widow.

  “What’s that?”

  “I agree with the girls.”

  “About?”

  “It’s not weird.”

  With that, she turned and sashayed back into the house like she’d won the day.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The ganache was delicious.

  Of course.

  It had been made by Byron Lamont himself. Proprietor of Chocolate Haven, Benevolence, Washington’s one claim to fame, he’d been making the best fudge on this side of the Mississippi for more years than Sunday had been alive.

  She hadn’t remembered the last part.

  She’d read it on a sign that hung near the cash register. It listed awards the shop has received as well as the date Byron had taken over running the place.

  Nearly a decade before she was born.

  “So what do you think?” Byron asked, standing beside the table as she took another forkful of dense yellow cake covered in gooey chocolate.

  “I think it’s delicious,” she said.

  “You?” Byron asked, spearing Flynn with a hard look. “What’s your palate saying?”

  “It’s saying I could eat a gallon of this stuff, but the horse I’ve been riding might not be too pleased if I did.”

  “Humph,” Byron responded, apparently not impressed with Flynn’s attempt at humor.

  That surprised her.

  She’d known Byron her whole life.

  She might have forgotten a lot about him, but she hadn’t forgotten how kind he’d always been.

  Gruff but kind.

  That’s how she’d have described him.

  Now he just seemed grumpy, his green eyes shooting fire in Flynn’s direction.

  “Is something wrong?” Flynn asked, apparently not bothered enough to lose his appetite. He’d finished off an entire piece of yellow cake and was reaching for a slice of chocolate.

  “Wrong? You bet your life there’s something wrong.” Byron pulled up a chair and sat down, elbows on the table, green eyes flashing. “Some damn developer is sniffing around at Emmerson Riley’s property.”

  “It’s for sale, right?” Flynn asked reasonably.

  Which obviously wasn’t the response Byron wanted.

  “What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?” he demanded, and Flynn set down his fork, pushed the slice of cake away.

  “The chocolate is good. The yellow is better. I think Porter and Clementine will be happy with it,” he said, obviously trying to change the subject.

  “This is not the time to talk about cake, son,” Byron replied, lifting the tray of samples and setting it on the next table over. “You want a Walmart going up right next to Sunday’s property?”

  “I don’t,” Sunday replied, the thought of someone buying out the land adjacent to hers and building a shopping center making her feel physically ill.

  She pushed aside her slice of cake.

  “What makes you think the developer is going to build a Walmart?” Flynn asked.

  Byron leaned close, glancing around the empty shop as if he thought a spy might be hiding in their midst.

  “He’s from California,” he whispered. “And don’t you be breathing a word of that to anyone. I got the information from my daughter-in-law. She’s a Realtor, so she’s in the know.”

  “I understand your concern, Byron,” Flynn assured him. “I really do, but progress happens. Small towns grow into bigger ones.”

  “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “I don’t know what else I can say,” Flynn responded. “Emmerson left the land to his son, and his son can sell it to whomever he wants.”

  “Bull,” Byron spat. “That boy hasn’t set foot in this town in ten years. He doesn’t get to decide anything.”

  “The law would probably say something different,” Flynn reminded him, but Byron was on a roll.

  He stood, pacing to a wall nearly covered with old black-and-white photos. “See that?” he asked, jabbing at a picture of an old milk wagon being pulled by horses. “That milk came from Sunday’s farm. Those horses came from Emmerson’s. They delivered it to this shop three times a week. Gallons of sweet cream and farm-fresh milk. That was and is the backbone of this business. Good product sourced locally.”

  “I understand your passion—” Flynn began, but Byron raised his hand.

  “No. You don’t, because you haven’t watched towns like this one die. You haven’t seen them overrun by city folk who don’t care about local business and who worship the damn almighty dollar more than they do the God who gave it to them. You’ve got yourself a nice setup in Texas, I hear.”

  “I do.”

  “So you’re not invested in
your hometown. I get that. But the next time you come home? When you see the clouds of smog sitting heavy in the air because dozens of tractors and bulldozers are tearing up the land and pouring concrete on our heritage? You remember we had this talk.” He stood, met Sunday’s eyes. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to ruin your morning.”

  “You didn’t,” she lied, and he nodded.

  “I did. Forgive an old fool, okay? I love this town a little too much, I guess. I don’t want it to change.” He stepped behind the counter, grabbing a small white box from a shelf and putting two large squares of peanut butter fudge in it.

  He handed it to her, smiling kindly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve sent any of this home for you.”

  “Sent it home?” she repeated, the sick feeling that had settled in the pit of her stomach when he’d mentioned the developer growing.

  “Sure. That husband of yours liked to buy himself a pound of chocolate. Every so often, he’d come in and pick out the fancy stuff, fill an entire box with nougats and caramels and bonbons. Said I shouldn’t tell you because his sugar levels were too high, and he wasn’t supposed to be eating sweets.”

  He paused, and she thought he might be waiting for her to agree, to tell him that Matt had been prediabetic.

  She didn’t, because it wouldn’t have been true.

  “Anyways,” he continued, “he’d buy the chocolate, and I’d always throw in the fudge for free. I know how much you love it.”

  “I do,” she said, surprised that she sounded normal, that her words hadn’t been strangled out by her rage.

  Matt had never been a sweet eater. She knew that. He didn’t like candy and hated fudge. He preferred salty food. But he’d bought pounds of chocolates enough times that Byron remembered.

  He hadn’t given it to Sunday.

  She’d gotten the free fudge that Byron had sent for her.

  The knowledge was a knife to the back after she’d already been stabbed in the heart.

  Her love for Matt had started dying the first time she’d suspected he was cheating.

  This?

  It had killed it completely.

  She stood, the box of fudge in her hand, a smile on her face, her heart pounding crazily, because she was that angry, that disappointed.