A Montana Homecoming. Allison Leigh
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a week ago. The attorney who’d contacted her had informed her that the funeral home would simply wait for instructions from her. The only rush for a funeral and burial would be whatever rush Laurel felt.
And she didn’t really know what she felt.
So she concentrated on the immediate reality.
Her father’s house was a pigsty. And she needed to clean away the mess left by years of neglect before she could begin to figure out what repairs the structure needed. Then maybe she’d consult a real estate agent.
She made her purchases and headed back to her father’s home. On Main Street she passed the busy-looking garage and auto-body shop that undoubtedly was the one Beau had mentioned Stu ran.
The sheriff’s office was a little ways up the road. She didn’t allow herself much more than a glance that told her the brick-fronted building hadn’t changed during her absence.
She passed the Luscious Lucius, which used to serve up the best breakfasts she’d ever had, and which—judging by the cars parked in front of it—was still doing a fine business for lunch.
A little further, beyond the businesses, she passed Tiff’s. The enormous Victorian house looked just as distinctive as it always had, its sharp angles softened by curlicues and lace. The colors hadn’t changed, either, over the years; still an eye-popping combination of pink and green.
It seemed hard to believe that Beau’s wife was gone now. That Evie was running it. Laurel’s memories of Evie were of a light-hearted blond beauty more interested in winning the county science fair than helping with her stepmother’s business.
At her father’s house she parked in the cracked driveway bordered by overgrown weeds, yellow grass and bare dirt. There was no point in trying to enter the small, detached garage that sat next to the square house. It was filled to the rafters with about a million years of old newspapers and other junk. Her father’s rusting pickup truck was parked in the center of it all, and since there was nothing under the hood but cobwebs and yawning space, the pickup wasn’t going anywhere.
She unloaded her trunk, dumping everything on the porch next to the front door and nearly tripped over the cat that appeared out of nowhere. The animal yowled and streaked around the side of the house.
Probably belonged to the owner of the lovely rambling house built high on the hill behind her father’s. The house certainly hadn’t been there when Laurel was growing up, and as far as Laurel could determine, it was the only thing new in this area.
She eyed the worn, tired house where she’d grown up. A person would have to be desperate to buy it in its current state when there was an entirely new and modern development on the other side of Lucius.
A person might have to be desperate to stay in it.
She pushed aside the thought. She wasn’t desperate. She was just…at loose ends.
After unloading the trunk, Laurel went inside the house, stepping over the porch steps. She’d already made the mistake of stepping too firmly on one. It had creaked ominously. The treads would definitely have to be replaced before some unwary soul went right through them.
How had her father lived here this way? As if he’d just given up on having any sort of decent home a long time ago?
She grabbed the box of trash bags she’d purchased and went inside. She’d start upstairs and work her way down.
It was a nice, sensible plan, and just having a plan made her feel better.
She went up the narrow staircase and paused at the first closed door. Her parents’ bedroom. She hadn’t gone in there yet. She started to reach for the iron knob. But her stomach clenched, and she curled her fingers into a fist, lowering her hand.
Later. She could clean out that room later.
She went into the only other bedroom. Her own. The narrow bed still had the afghan her grandmother had given her for her eighth birthday, folded neatly at the foot. The ancient student desk where she’d done her homework still stood beneath the single window that overlooked the front yard.
Nothing had changed since she’d been a girl. Yet everything here—as in the rest of the house—was covered with the thick layer of years of neglect.
She pulled out an enormous trash bag, flipping the plastic open. She dropped into the bag the glass jars that she’d painted one summer and filled with dried wildflowers. She yanked out the slender center drawer of the desk and tipped it into the bag, a childhood of bits raining out. She shoved the drawer back in place and slid out the second, tipping it, too. Magazines. More pieces of nothing. Then several canvas-covered books fell out from the bottom of the drawer.
She caught at them, her haste fleeing as quickly as it had struck.
Her journals. She set them on top of the desk, her fingers lingering on the top one. The canvas was dull, but the delicate lines of the flower printed in the center of the cover was still clear. Sighing a little, she looked from the diary out the window in front of her, then back to the bedroom behind her.
So long ago, she thought, since she’d been in this house. Her childhood bedroom. And she wasn’t certain if she was grateful for the intervening years or not.
She looked at the journals again. Flipped the top one open randomly. The pages were stiff from age, but they parted easily midway through the book. She looked at the handwriting. Her handwriting. All loops and curls.
The handwriting of a girl.
Dear Gram,
Did you ever have one of those times when you were doing something you almost are always doing—like taking out the trash or washing the car on a Saturday morning—and then all of a sudden, time kind of stands still?
That’s what happened to me this morning. I was washing daddy’s truck, on account of he’d left it all muddy and Mom was totally mad about it and they were fighting. (They do that a lot, Gram, but I guess you can see that from up there in heaven.)
So there I was, standing in the truck bed hosing it down when Shane Golightly drove down the street in his dad’s pickup truck. He stopped in front of the house and said something. Gosh, Gram, I don’t even remember what it was he did say. Isn’t that silly? He was wearing a plain white T-shirt and his arm was hanging out the open window and he stopped and said something—maybe it was about Mom’s job at Tiff’s. See? I can’t remember even when I’m trying.
I haven’t seen Shane since he went off to go to college several years ago. And I hadn’t heard he was back, which was interesting, ’cause Jenny Travis usually calls me the very second she hears something major like that.
Anyway, there he was. And, oh Gram. He lifted his hand to wave and the sun was shining on him and everything else sort of disappeared.
Except for him.
The water, the mud, the yelling inside the house behind me, it was all gone.
Shane Golightly, Gram. I’ve known him—and Stu and Evie and Hadley, too, of course—all my life, seems like. He was always nice enough to me, probably because I was a little kid to him. But that moment—and I swear on a stack of Bibles that I’m not exaggerating like Mom’s always saying—that moment was…special, that’s all. Special!!
I just knew, Gram, that I’d remember that very moment, that I’d remember Shane in that very moment. The way he looked and the way the muddy water ran cold on my feet and the sun burned hot on my shoulders, and the grass smelled sweet, like it had just been mown.
I knew it.
I knew that I’d remember that moment all the rest of my life.
Laurel carefully closed the journal on those girlishly written thoughts, but doing so didn’t close her mind to the memories.
She wished she could say the memories at the end of the summer were as clear as those from the beginning, when the sight of Shane Golightly had struck with such singular clarity. If only