Falling for Home

by Jody Holford

  Mick puckered his lips and pushed his glasses to the top of his head. He fisted his hands on his hips.

  “It’s a good thing you’re in charge, Sheriff. I wouldn’t never have found that.”

  Alex clapped Mick’s shoulder as the phone on his belt rang.

  “Whitman,” he answered. He motioned to Mick to follow him out of the conference room, and they made their way to the front desk.

  “No…Alright…Calm down, Mrs. Bellamy…Yes, I understand that…Okay…I’m going to come over now, and we’ll see if we can sort it out, okay? No…Don’t do that…You wait until I get there…Okay…I mean it.”

  He hung up, hooking his phone back on his belt, and sighed.

  “Now I bet you’re wishing there was a fire or some graffiti somewhere, aren’t ya?” Mick asked, his mouth turning up into a wide, toothy grin. Alex grabbed a bottle of water from the small fridge by Dolores’s desk and grabbed the keys to the squad car as well. Mrs. Bellamy called about once a month complaining about her next door neighbor trying to steal her land, one little piece at a time. Today, Mrs. Bellamy insisted that Mrs. Netter was trying to take her trees, and if someone didn’t come put a stop to it, Mrs. Bellamy said she would chop it down herself.

  “A little,” he admitted, making Mick laugh. Of course, the old man didn’t offer to take the call for him and go check things out. No, instead, Mick sat down at the desk, opened up his paper, and gave Alex a mock salute indicating he’d hold down the fort.

  “Give me another hug,” Lola Okar purred. She didn’t mean to, that’s just how the model-turned-artist-turned-gallery owner spoke. Lucy was happy to oblige and equally happy that the gallery was still closed for a few hours so they could catch up.

  “It’s not right for anyone to look as good as you do,” Lucy said, squeezing her long-time friend. They’d met when Lucy started photographing fashion shows and, in a sense, they’d come up through the ranks together. Lola was down to earth, loved pasta more than any model should, and had a rock solid work ethic. Her dark skin was flawless, and the camera loved her almost as much as Lucy did.

  “Says the one who should have spent her life on the other side of the camera,” Lola said. Her mocha eyes sparkled along with her melodic laugh. Lucy had always thought that if fairies existed, they would sound just like Lola.

  “Not likely. This place is beautiful. Show me around,” Lucy said, stowing her camera bag and her purse on the floor. Lola took her hand and led her through the gallery. Lucy could tell which images were Lola’s. Always. There was sadness in every paint stroke that Lola made. It transferred incredibly to the canvas, and her work was both visceral and poignant. Having lost her mother at a very young age, Lola had created hundreds of pieces that showed variations of a young girl searching for her mother, seeing her in the images around her but never quite finding her. Though Lucy had seen Lola’s work countless times, she felt teary as she looked at one of her latest. The black, grey, and white overlapped each other on the large canvas. A little girl, painted only in shadows, ran her hand along a rectangular stone. The subtle allusion to a gravesite made the emotion catch in Lucy’s throat.

  “This is incredible. One of your best,” Lucy praised. Lola gave her hand a squeeze and then tugged her around a freestanding wall. The lump had loosened in Lucy’s throat but she still couldn’t say anything.

  “Thank you, sweetie. You have no idea how happy it made me to know you were coming for a visit. I was going to send you pictures of the opening, but it is better in person, right?”

  About fifteen of Lucy’s photographs lined two freestanding walls, which created a hallway in the center of the main room in the gallery. Each black-and-white photo was of a different woman. The images were taken from different villages, cities, and countries around the world. Lucy could remember snapping every one of those shots.

  “Lola. You asked if you could show a couple photos. I had no idea you were going to create a whole exhibit,” Lucy whispered. She moved closer to each . Looked at them one at a time. Betra, an elderly woman from Kenya, who had taught her how to make the beads tribal women sold to earn money for their families. Lucia, a child activist in a small war-torn country near Somalia, who had shown Lucy the small school she and her friends had built. Every one of them had touched something inside of Lucy, made her feel like she was capturing something—someone—special on film.

  “That was my plan, but I couldn’t choose,” Lola answered, looking closer as well.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For showing my work in your beautiful new gallery like this. For believing in me enough to display my work in this way,” Lucy said, turning toward her friend and meeting her indigo eyes that Lucy knew were contact lenses.

  “Oh Lucy. None of us have trouble believing in you, my friend. It is always you. You need to see yourself the way you are seen,” Lola told her, giving her a warm, quick hug.

  They moved through the rest of the gallery. Lola put aside a couple of paintings that Lucy hoped would bring in some money at the auction she was planning. While they walked, Lola caught Lucy up on getting the gallery up and ready, the artist she was currently dating, and how she was thinking of taking some courses at NYU. Listening to her friend’s voice and laughter reminded Lucy of the nights they used to stay up in each other’s hotel rooms. The only difference now, other than their ages and the venue, was that a small part of her brain was wondering what Alex was doing.

  Alex sat down at one of the two-top tables and nodded toward Danielle when she waved to him. He didn’t need to pick up the menu before she wandered over.

  “Hey Alex. You’re all by your lonesome,” she commented, taking out her pad of paper and a little pen with miniature cows all over it. She smiled at him and tilted her head.

  “Yeah. That’s okay sometimes,” he said, even though he wished Lucy were with him.

  “You alright?”

  They had been friends in high school—or maybe just friendly, as they had made out on more than one occasion. But mostly, they’d been friends. Alex couldn’t figure out why when talking to her now—her giving him a sweet, concerned smile—he felt a pang of guilt.

  “I’m good. Just tired. Thought I’d grab a bacon burger and a coke before finishing my day,” he replied, pushing aside the worry, reminding himself it had been ten years since high school. They were friends when Lucy had been off on her travels, and he didn’t see Lucy as the type to take issue with him and Danielle being friends now. Still, there had been something between Lucy and her—some type of falling out. Alex didn’t understand—the women had never been close in school—at least not that he’d ever seen.

  Danielle scribbled on her pad before looking back up and speaking. “It’s a good thing Lucy and her sisters are doing for the town. I’ve seen some of her photographs. They’re beautiful. She did some family shots for my cousin, and they turned out gorgeous. Didn’t even want money. My uncle runs the Home Depot in Little Falls, so Lucy took the photos in exchange for a discount on materials.”

  “She’s got great ideas. She’s actually in New York right now picking up some things for an auction she has planned.”

  “Yeah, I read on the Facebook page that there’d be a bunch of great items to bid on,” Danielle said, a genuine smile making her face seem younger. She tucked the notebook in her pocket, along with the pen, then asked, “Do you think she’ll stay?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so. But I really don’t know,” he said quietly, feeling the guilt build up in him again.

  “She’s not who some people think she is,” Danielle finally said after holding Alex’s stare for a few seconds. The bell over the door rang, and a few teenagers shuffled in, laughing and giggling.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Danielle! Order up!” Cal yelled from the kitchen, not at all worried about offending customers. Most of the regulars were used to Cal’s bellow from time to time.

  “She’s just … a really good p
erson. I have to put your order in and grab that one. You look tired, Sheriff. Get some sleep.”

  She walked away quickly, saying hello to the group of boisterous teens, treating them like she would any other customer.

  Franny Mourtzin ran the group home for boys. She had been taking in teens from the ages of thirteen to seventeen for longer than Alex had lived in Angel’s Lake. Rumor had it she had lost her own boy when he was twelve in a drowning accident. Alex had tried to pull the file one time when he’d been a deputy, but he couldn’t find anything more than ten years old. She was a large woman, but sometimes Alex felt like it was more her presence than her body that took up all of the space. When she yanked the door open—Franny never did anything delicately or slowly—she blew the grey curls out of her eyes and smiled warmly at Alex.

  “Well, hey there, Sheriff Whitman,” she greeted in a gravelly, singsong voice.

  “Hi Franny. How are you doing?”

  He could hear some yelling in the background, and the smell of chili wafted through the open door. Someone was calling someone else a cheater in very colorful terms.

  “Knock it off!” Franny hollered, turning her head over her shoulder. She turned back and laughed. “Those boys. It’s like they don’t realize it’s just a game.”

  Alex nodded his head and shuffled his feet a little. Someone had just mowed the grass—he could still smell it in the air with the chili. Franny took good care of her property and her boys. He didn’t think he’d find trouble here, but he had to check.

  “Listen Franny, I was hoping to talk to the boys about some of the trouble in town,” Alex began.

  “You think any of them have something to do with it?”

  “Truthfully? No. You run a tight ship, and most of your boys are pretty good. But maybe they’ve got an idea of who is causing the trouble and why.”

  Franny pursed her lips as if considering. She was a practical woman, one that didn’t jump to conclusions or get all bent out of shape over nothing. Alex really wasn’t surprised that instead of being offended like many would have, Franny just moved aside and let him in.

  Walking into the three-level home was like stepping into the seventies. The Mourtzins had been in Angel’s Lake, or on the outskirts of it, for generations. Frank Mourtzin had built this house. Alex figured most of the decorating was what they’d originally chosen for their home. A small, funky-tiled entryway was separated from the living room by a half-wall that had built-in shelves. From the halfway stop, decorative, wrought iron bars made their way up to the ceiling, like the living room was a fancy jail cell that hadn’t been completed.

  In the living room, sprawled on the shag carpet, kneeling on a green-and-yellow plaid ottoman, and laying on the mustard orange couch were several boys. Alex knew a couple of them. He had dropped off Jimmy about six months ago when the boy had shown up at the station house, beaten. He hadn’t said much even then, but when Alex brought him to Franny, she’d opened the door and pulled the boy straight into her arms.

  “Uh-oh Jimmy. Sheriff knows you been talkin’ too much,” a dark-haired boy jibed. Jimmy smirked, nodded to the sheriff, and tossed a throw pillow at the speaker.

  “Or he knows you’ve been trying to get into Lilly Simon’s pants, Caleb,” another boy, his blond hair tied in a ponytail that ran down his back, piped up.

  “Mind your manners and turn off that racket,” Franny instructed in a voice that Alex almost envied. She put her hands on her considerable hips. Alex wondered if Franny’s dress was made from the same material as the ottoman. The boys straightened, turned off the television, to face him. Four of them all together, Jimmy being the only one he recognized.

  “Hey boys. I’m Sheriff Whitman. I just came out to ask you about some of the trouble—the graffiti and the vandalism—that’s been happening in town. Any of you know anything about it?”

  He watched them, had been from the second he entered the room. Body language often told more than words and, in Alex’s opinion, none of them seemed truly worried that they were in any trouble. Jimmy’s eyes darted back and forth between Franny and Alex before he cast them toward his bright white sneakers.

  “We ain’t done nothing!” the one who looked the youngest said indignantly.

  “Nobody said you did, Tommy, so don’t go giving the sheriff a hard time for doing his job,” Franny objected.

  “I haven’t seen anything, Sheriff,” the one named Caleb said.

  “How about you, Andrew?” Franny asked the dark-haired, dark-skinned boy who was tucked into a corner of the couch, a bag of chips on his lap. Andrew shook his head.

  “No ma’am,” he replied quietly.

  Alex and Franny both looked at Jimmy, who was still staring at the floor. His straight hair was falling in his face, covering his eyes, but Alex got the impression he knew they were waiting on him.

  “You got a voice, boy. Use it. You see anything?” Franny demanded.

  “No.” Jimmy looked up when he said it, and met Franny’s gaze but not Alex’s. Something there. Alex didn’t think Jimmy had done anything, but he might know someone who did.

  “You sure?” Alex pushed.

  Jimmy looked at him. The eyes that had been empty and broken only six months ago were now full of sparks. His voice was steady when he said, “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Never said you did. Can you think of anyone who might be defacing and burning down property, Jimmy?” Alex asked again.

  “Nope. Can’t think of anyone off the top of my head,” he answered, but his eyes shot back to his shoes, and Alex knew the window was closed.

  Lucy’s feet were dragging by the time she made it back to the hotel. As she waited for the elevator, she was thankful that Lola had agreed to ship the paintings so she didn’t have to lug them around. Once she was in her room, she dropped all of her things onto the king-size bed, wished again that Alex had joined her, and then flopped face first beside her purchases and donations. Closing her eyes, she pictured the bath she would take. She would have lain there longer if her phone hadn’t buzzed. She grabbed her cell out of her purse, scooted up the bed, and turned so she was lying on her back, resting on a pillow so comfy she wondered if she could fit it in her suitcase.

  Alex: Decided I don’t miss you

  She frowned, but knew that Alex was joking or leading into something with his text. She typed back, a smile warming her cheeks and a second wind loosening her tired muscles.

  Lucy: Is this reverse psychology?

  Alex: Maybe. I figured I scared u off earlier today.

  Lucy: You didn’t. It’s too bad u don’t miss me. I miss you. Enough to try sexting.

  Alex: Is that the new version of phone sex?

  Lucy: I guess it is. This way you don’t have to get all breathy. You can just use emoticons.

  Alex: I like when your all breathy, but I miss you enough to settle for the sexting

  Lucy: LOL You start.

  Alex: No way. You. Make it good. Hang on a minute. BRB

  She didn’t know what he needed to do, but she used the moment to kick off her shoes, ditch her jacket, and curl back up on the bed. When her phone buzzed again, she felt bubbles of excitement burst through her, making her giggle. She was glad Alex wasn’t actually in the room to see what a fool she was being.

  You okay?

  She smiled. Not as good as she was going to be.

  Oh, I’m good. Tell me how good I am.

  She frowned at the response.

  Very good?

  Finding it both endearing and disappointing that he wasn’t good at this, Lucy texted:

  That’s too vague. Try harder. Say something sexy. Tell me how much u want me or wish I was there beside u, naked.

  Lucy actually squealed out loud at the next text and finally looked at the name on the screen.

  Mom: Sweetheart, there is nothing wrong with enjoying our bodies, but it’s really better to keep this kind of stuff private.

  She squeezed her eyes shut until they hurt, chanting
, “No. No. No. Please tell me I didn’t.” She opened one eye, looked down at the phone. Sure enough.

  Mom: Nothing to be embarrassed about, dear.

  The phone buzzed again, and Alex’s name and screen popped up.

  Alex: Sorry, wanted to get out of work clothes before we got started.

  Lucy texted her mom quickly, asking that they never speak of this again, said she loved her, and then dialed Alex’s number.

  “Are you chickening out?” he asked, his voice thick and warm, making Lucy feel almost like he was there beside her.

  “Uh, I kind of started. Only, with my mom. So I figured that had to be a sign that I’m not cut out for sexting,” Lucy admitted and then waited, not amused by how hard Alex laughed. He apologized between fits of laughter, then immediately started up again.

  “Are you done?” she asked. She was grinning when she said it, though; it was impossible not to when Alex laughed. Or smiled. Or reached for her hand when they were walking beside each other.

  “I’m sorry. Really. I guess it’s better your mom than your dad?”

  “Neither would be the best option here.”

  “I’m not getting phone sex, am I?” he asked. Lucy shook her head at the sound of amusement lacing his voice.

  “No. But I’ll make up for it with the real thing when I get home,” she replied, snuggling into the bed. Her heart fluttered at the word “home” because it was Alex’s home that popped immediately into her mind.

  “Speaking of home, you’ll be happy to know that construction starts tomorrow. Sam was able to get a crew together that will volunteer their time. It’ll be odd hours, as they’ll be doing it around their day jobs, but that means any extra money can go into programs and other parts of the reno,” he told her. She heard the cat in the background and could picture Alex shooing him off of the bed. Horns kept a steady rhythm outside of her own window, but it was easy to focus on the sound of Alex’s voice instead.

  “That’s awesome! I’m guessing Kate knows, but I’ll phone her tomorrow. Your pal Sam is pretty handy.”