Coming Home Again (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 1) (8 page)

One of her
last gifts to me before I left for college was a life lesson. It was the day I
was to leave and was feeling pretty weighed down. I had earned a full academic
scholarship to USC and purchased my first car earlier that year—a Volkswagen
Beetle, powder blue with a black convertible top. It was old and well broken
in, but I could call it all mine. Tips from waitressing and summer bonuses that
I diligently saved for several years had allowed me it pay it off in full.
 

I knew I
should have been excited. And I was, but I felt all alone in that excitement.
Bradley and Julia were long gone, and John Paul’s presence was scarce.

I had just
finished loading my stuff into my little car at the house when my mother walked
past me to her own car.

“I’m off to
the salon,” she announced. She acted as though she was completely blind to the
fact that I was leaving. I know it shouldn’t have hurt. Really. But it did
anyway. Ever since that nightmare of a summer and then me defying her, Jean had
totally acted as though I did not exist in her world.

“You have
fun with that,” I said perky enough for her to cut me a look as she closed her
car door. I stood grinning at her until she pulled away. I might have muttered
a few choice words, but let’s not repeat that.

I swung by
the restaurant to say my goodbyes to my real family. The staff had been better
to me than any blood relative ever had been. The family businesses were also
the only fond memories I had of my dad. From having quick meals to helping him
do invoices—it was our moments. Moments that I have to cling to now, because I
am realizing how much I have cheated myself out of by running away.

I remember
walking into the quiet restaurant a little before opening time and was shocked
when people jumped out from every nook and cranny to shout surprise! Both the
staff from the seafood market and the restaurant crew, along with my dad,
presented me with a cake and ice cream. We ate and laughed as they celebrated
my departure.

Nearing
opening time, they began saying their goodbyes and presented me with various
presents. First was from my dad. It was an envelope thick with hundred dollar
bills. He hugged me and requested that we kept that between just the two of us.
He disappeared into his office after that. Then I got completely overloaded
with gifts. Most of the staff knew not to attempt a hug, so they presented me
encouragements along with gifts. My arms became overfilled with a USC blanket,
grocery bags of mac and cheese and peanut butter and other easy food choices, a
USC sweatshirt, a USC T-shirt, a messenger bag, several phone cards, some more
cash, and some other stuff I can’t remember. But it was a lot of stuff! My
hands were completely full by the time Miss May walked up to me with a huge
wicker basket full of baked and canned goods in one hand and a gallon of sweet
tea in the other. She knew me well, that’s for sure.

“There’s no
way I can carry that, Miss May.” I laughed. It was just us two in the kitchen
now due to everyone else having to get to work.

“Your load
is pretty heavy, ain’t it child?” she asked. I began to laugh again, but then
realized I was about to receive a lesson. She was subdued looking and had tears
in her eyes. “Come on, child. I’ll help you carry this load for a spell.” She
then headed to the back door of the kitchen. I was parked just off to the side
of the restaurant. We walked silently. I remember sighing in relief when I
freed my hands of everything into the backseat. I turned around to grab her
gifts and noticed that the tears had spilled onto her dark cheeks.

“God’s
blessings are so much easier if yo’ lay all your baggage down first, ain’t it?”
She handed me her gifts to make the point. She didn’t release the handle of the
basket once I claimed it in mine. “God is even willin’ to take our baggage. All’s
we gotta do is be willin’ to hand it over to Him.” She released the handle with
a knowing nod. We just stood there staring at each other somberly. She knew I
had demons I carried around, although she just didn’t know specifically what
they were caused from.

“Have a
good life, my child. Don’t let no baggage rob yo’ of the happiness God gots in
store for you.”

I hugged
her one last time after receiving my Miss May lesson. I drove away that day, to
find my new start, with a peculiar sense worrying in the back of my mind that I
was just missing a crucial point from her. I know now how crucial it had been.

Don’t we
always wish we knew then what we know now?

Chapter Nine

It’s well past dark as I pull into the driveway.
I can see in the glow of the house lights that mourners are still lingering
around. I had really hoped they would have paid enough respects by now, but I
keep forgetting that I’m back in the South.

After I
shuffle through the crowd on the porch to push open the front door, I am
greeted by two elegant flower arrangements in the foyer. They are exquisite
with pale pink peonies gathered with creamy, smaller peonies, cascading sweet
peas, and dainty foliage. The fragrance is a heavenly floral perfume. I
greedily steal several deep breaths of their aroma before I fish the cards out
and find that one is addressed to me and the other is to the Thorton family.
The Monroe family has gifted both. Lucas’s mom, Kathleen, has impeccable taste
and is one of my dearest friends. She knows my flower of choice is a peony. I
detest a bouquet with any rose in it. I’ve always regarded that flower as to
only belonging to my sister, Julia. She is a Rose, not me.

I grab up
my bouquet and stow it on my dresser in my room so that I can enjoy it during
my undetermined sentence. I drop my purse on the floor and send Kathleen a
quick “thank you” text before following my nose to the kitchen. It’s been a
long time since the biscuits and gravy, and my stomach is letting me know all
about it. I stop in my tracks as I take in the transformation of the kitchen
space. Gone are the off-white Formica countertops and old tan appliances. They
have been replaced with sleek granite countertops and stainless steel
appliances. The old oak cabinets have also been replaced with crisp white ones
that are adorned with brushed nickel nobs and pulls. The only thing original is
the wood floors, which have been recently resurfaced. This is not the outdated
country kitchen I grew up in. This is a chef’s kitchen. The walls are a fresh
sky-blue, and are dressed with beautiful black-and-white photographs that beg
me to walk over to study them. One picture has captured the two businesses.
These structures look like antique beach houses in the photo, with deep covered
porches and rocking chairs. The other photo is a landscape shot of the beach I
like to visit. I run my fingers along the frame edge and come to a stop when I
notice the photographer’s signature scrawled along the bottom of the canvas.

“Your brother
is a gifted photographer, don’t you think?”

I turn
around and find a familiar yet aging man looking past me to the photos. “He
is,” I answer a bit confused. I had no idea John Paul had any other talent
besides telling tall-tales and wooing women. I have missed more than I had
expected.

“Sweetheart,
I’m sorry about your daddy. He was a great man to work for,” Mr. Chester says.
He is my dad’s seafood market manager. Or he may still be. Who knows? “Are you
hanging in there?”

“I think
so,” I mumble as I scan the crowd. “Do you know where my mother is?”

“She was
given something earlier to help her rest. She’s already gone to bed. That poor
woman has just about grieved herself to death…” He catches what he has just
said, but we both know it’s too late to take it back. Instead, we ignore it.

I quickly
change the subject. “Wow. Wonder when my parents did all this?” I ask as I
motion around the renovated kitchen.

“Your dad
kept himself quite busy since he retired earlier this year.”

“Retired?
My dad? Are you sure?” I can’t fathom him ever doing that willingly. I rub my
temples in the hopes of making all of this clearer, but it’s not working.

“Yes. He
announced at the Christmas Party that it was time to spend more time with his
lovely bride.” Mr. Chester moves a little closer and says quietly, “Between you
and me, your dad was waiting for you to decide to come home so he could hand it
over to you. He wanted you to sow your oats and didn’t want to rush you, so he
temporarily handed things over to John Paul.”

Well
,
that explains why he is at the funeral home
.
Jean had managed to worry him slap to death in only six short months. I push my
own guilt from Mr. Chester’s words down as far as I can. I’m at a loss as to
why Dad ever thought I would come back home to run his businesses. Nothing
against the restaurant and market, but
no
.

I don’t
want to hear any more, so I set out to look for my brother. I find him at the
door, practically shoving people out.

“Thank you
for all of your help, condolences, and food.” John Paul repeats this repeatedly
as he shows people to the door. I realize it is now after ten, and I still have
not eaten by the time he has closed the door for good for the night. He senses
this, or is hungry himself, because he guides me back to the kitchen. “Let’s
eat.”

I set my
sights on the bounty of food that practically covers every surface of the
kitchen. This is a southern tradition, unlike what I have encountered up north
at wakes, which resemble more of a somber cocktail party. Here in the South,
it’s like a family reunion with endless supplies of food that is always more
than can be consumed. Southern folks love to love on you with food. Feeding you
gives them a purpose in these sad situations. Right now, I’m super glad of this
because I’m starving. I scan the counters and spot more mac and cheese
casseroles than needed, several pots of chicken bog, a spiral-cut glazed ham,
potato salad, butter beans, fried squash, fried chicken, fried shrimp, homemade
biscuits, and any type of dessert you could imagine. It looks like a bakery
shop has been unloaded in here.

I pop a
deviled egg in my mouth before grabbing a paper plate. I dig a fried chicken
leg out of an aluminum pan and set my sights on the desserts. I find my
favorite right away and cut a considerable chunk off. It’s an old-fashioned
chocolate cake made of twenty thin layers, and the smell of the fudgy icing
sets my mouth to watering. I’m unable to resist, so I run my finger along the
edge of the cake plate and scoop a large glob of gooey goodness into my mouth.
Oh boy, this stuff is so good. So good, in fact I cannot resist another glob.
As I suck the stickiness off my finger, I catch John Paul staring at me with a
smirk on his face.

“What?” I
ask around a mouthful of fudgy icing.

He shakes
his head. “Wish I had my camera. You’ve smeared that crap all over your chin.
Looks like you been eating sh—.”

I playfully
pop him in his mouth with my sticky hand before he can spit the rest of the
ugly word out. I’ve never been a fan of that kind of language, and he knows it.

He jumps
away from me, laughing. “Gross, Savannah. Don’t put that nasty hand on me.” He
bats my hand away.

After
grabbing a glass of sweet tea, I leave him in the kitchen and head to the porch
swing. I glide slowly in the night’s soothing silence as I enjoy my greasy
chicken leg and scrumptious cake. John Paul joins me by the time I’ve made a
substantial dent in my chunk of cake.

“Here,” he
says as he sits beside me, trying to hand me a glass of wine. “This will go
better with your dessert than tea.”

I shake my
head, refusing it. “I’m not much of a drinker. All it does is give me
nightmares and bad headaches.”

He shrugs
his shoulders and downs all of the wine in one long gulp. He places the empty
glass on the wood-planked floor and then sets out to nurse the beer.

“Where’s
your food?” I ask.

“Not
hungry,” he says. I try not to worry, but he looks a bit gaunt tonight.

We rock in
silence as I finish the cake. It was almost too much, and I think I overdid it,
but it will be worth the bellyache. As I toss my empty plate Frisbee-style over
to the garbage bin on the porch, the front door opens. Two ladies shuffle out,
surprising John Paul and me.

The short,
pudgy one from earlier says, “We put the food away. We’ll be back in the
morning. Good night, children.” They both wave goodbye.

Once they
drive off, we burst out laughing.

“Where in
the world were them two hiding?” I ask.

“I don’t
know. I thought I kicked everybody out earlier.” John Paul chuckles.

“They must have
been upstairs tending to
your
mother.” We laugh some more before settling into the quietness of the night.

I finally
break the silence after a while. “When was the last time you saw Dad?” I glance
over at my brother and really give him a looking over. The dark circles under
his red, swollen eyes are evidence to his loss, and it causes a deep ache of
anguish for him to resonate in the pit of my stomach.

“Only three
nights ago,” he says. “He popped in the restaurant at closing and helped me
finish up the night duties. We ended up hanging out in one of the booths for a
couple of hours afterwards, just running off at the mouth. He told me how proud
he was of me and encouraged me to keep up my photography business.” He pauses
before muttering in disappointment, “I’ve been debating on giving it up.”

“I didn’t
know you were into that. I think it’s great. Those pictures in the kitchen are
impressive.” I compliment him, but he seems far away. I place my hand on his
arm. He looks over at me with tear-filled eyes. A thought clicks into place.
“You took that picture of Dad on the pier, didn’t you?” John Paul nods
somberly. “I would love a copy of it, please.” He nods again.

We swing
another stretch before John Paul speaks again. “I knew that night something bad
was going to go down. I just didn’t know it was going to be this.” He hangs his
head and quietly weeps. After he regains his composure, he whispers, “He really
listened to me that night when I was telling him about a photo shoot I just
wrapped. Not the normal way with him grunting every now and then through the
conversation and not really listening, you know. The way he normally would. It
was a great final gift the other night.”

I’m
grateful for my brother and jealous at the same time. I have no final gift of time
with my dad. I have blown it and understand there’s no second chance in this
situation. I can’t manage another word, so I leave John Paul on the porch to
mourn alone and head upstairs to do some of my own.

After
changing, I settle on the bed and call Lucas from the neon-pink phone on my
nightstand. This was a phone Julia insisted I have in our youth, but I never
really used it, being the loner in my young days.

“Hello?”
The calmness echoes in his quiet voice as it always does and is an instant
salve to my tender heart.

“It’s me. I
needed to hear your voice…I miss you too much.” I feel the tears prick my eyes
but know they won’t escape. I’m not a crier. I wish I were. Maybe then I could
wash away some of this overwhelming grief.

“I can get
on the road right now. I can be there by midmor—.”

“It’s
okay.” I bet he is already on his feet, heading to his closet to pack. “You’ve
got that business meeting tomorrow.” I hear a door close, and am pretty sure it
was probably the closet door.

“You know I
would cancel it for you.” Lucas lets out a long sigh of resignation.

“I know,
but don’t, okay?”

He gives up
and moves on quickly. He has learned over the years that I’m a bit stubborn.
“Your voice sounds better. I guess you cooled it on the screaming exercise?”

 
I roll my eyes. I can’t get anything past him.

“I told you
it’s my allergies against the south.” I try to laugh it off. Lucas remains
quiet as expected at my lie. “Look. It’s been an exhausting day and I was only
in Jean’s presence for not even five minutes. Tomorrow is gonna be worse. I
best be getting to bed. I love you.”

“Love you
too. Good night, love.”

I hang up
the phone and turn over. I pull the cover up over my head and try to pretend
I’m back at our condo and he is just working late. I miss him and want him
here, but I’m not that selfish. He doesn’t need to be stuck in this mess. I
finally drift off to sleep after tossing and turning for about an hour. At my
last glance of the clock, it’s one in the morning.

~
~ ~

“Come on man! Momma said we could.
Don’t chicken out on me now,” John Paul says. He is trying so hard to convince
Bradley, who’s being quite hesitant about this stunt. “You know everyone is
looking forward to this latest feat. This is our coolest idea by far, dude.”
They stand there—one blond and one auburn, and both of equal height and
weight—near the edge of the overgrown field, contemplating. They are more like
brothers than cousins.

The two teenage boys are known for
performing daredevil stunts for all the kids in the neighborhood—whether it
includes a surfboard, skateboard, or anything with a motor. Consequently,
neither one ever walks away unscathed. They end up with broken bones and
stitches quite often.

I move a bit closer so I can hear their
conversation better. “I don’t know, J.P.” Bradley hesitates. “We don’t know
what’s in that grassy field.” Bradley’s uncertainty on attempting their latest
stunt is loud and clear. He has already chewed every bit of his fingernails off
up to the quick and is now chewing on the skin around what is left of his
thumbnail.