Sugarplum Homecoming. Linda Goodnight
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Lana caught her boot on a loose piece of threshold and hit her knee against the suitcase. The rollers spun the bag in front of her, entangled her feet, and down she went.
Dusty carpet came up to kiss her. The musty odor of disuse and grime tickled her nostrils. Inside her childhood home for the first time in thirteen years and here she was sprawled flat on her face. With her underwear spread all over the floor.
Lips twisting wryly, Lana lifted her head and looked around. Crude red graffiti scrawled across the wall directly in front of her. She glanced to the right and then to the left. More graffiti. She shuddered and buried her face in the crook of her arm, breathing deep the lonely, musty smells. The buoyant hope that had propelled her four hundred miles scuttled away with the sound of whatever vermin roamed her childhood home. For the first time since the idea struck, Lana questioned her decision to bring Sydney to this house.
Maybe she should have let Davis have a look around after all.
* * *
Davis slid a pan of lasagna from the oven with a fat maroon oven mitt. The warm oregano scent filled his modern kitchen. He set the casserole dish on an iron trivet, careful to protect the gleaming black granite countertops he’d installed himself. If there was anything Davis enjoyed, it was transforming the looks of a room with tile and granite.
“Come and eat!” he called and was gratified to hear the scramble for the remote as one of the kids shut off the Wii game. “Red velvet cake for dessert.”
Thank the good Lord for a sister who occasionally took pity on him and sent over dessert. He’d learned the basics of cooking but baking was out of his league. Jenny said a trained monkey could learn to follow instructions on the back of a cake box. Which Davis figured disproved the theory of evolution once and for all since he, a human, couldn’t successfully manage the task.
“Did you wash your hands?” he asked when Nathan, forehead sweaty from the active boxing game, plopped into his chair at one side of the polished ash table.
Fingers stretched wide, Nathan held his palms up for inspection. “See? All clean. They smell good, too. Want to sniff?”
Davis scuffed his son’s hair, affection welling in his chest.“ Good enough for me, bud. Who wants to pray?”
“I will,” Paige said, her face suddenly radiant as if transfigured by the idea of talking to God.
That was his daughter. She had an ethereal faith, disconcerting at times when she offered to pray for total strangers. “All right. Go for it.”
They bowed their heads. Davis kept one eye open, trained on Nathan who had a habit of sneaking food into his mouth during prayer. Today, he was as pious as his sister.
“And Jesus, thank you for sending us new neighbors,” Paige was saying. “Bless them and I hope they have plenty to eat, too, just like we do. Do you think they like red velvet cake? Amen.”
Frowning, Davis turned his gaze on his daughter. Her sweet prayers never failed to move and impress him, but today he suspected an ulterior motive. “What was that about?”
“Well.” With studied innocence that he didn’t buy for one second, she took a slice of buttery garlic bread from the offered plate. “The Bible says to love our neighbor. Right?”
Davis looked down at the lasagna dish, suddenly uncomfortable. He suspected where this was headed. “Right.”
“Lana and Sydney are moving in that old haunted house. They might not have any groceries in the fridge yet. They might not even have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!”
“Or Popsicles,” Nathan said. To Nathan, a Popsicle was one of life’s necessities.
“A house without a Popsicle is a sad house indeed,” Davis said, amused. He dolloped ranch dressing onto his salad and forked a bite.
“Anyway, Daddy,” Paige said. “I was thinking. We want to love our neighbors and invite them to church and everything, right?” She jammed a glob of lasagna into her mouth while awaiting his reply.
Davis skirted the issue momentarily. “Nathan, put some salad on your plate.”
Nathan’s square shoulders slumped, a picture of dejection. “Aw, Daddy.”
“Nonnegotiable. No salad, no cake.”
Nathan reached for the salad.
Paige put down her fork. “Daddy, are you listening to me?”
“Sure, princess. What is it?”
“Are we going to take some lasagna and cake over to Lana and Sydney?”
Davis eyed the long casserole. They’d barely made a dent in the cheesy dish.
“I don’t know, Paige. They might be busy getting settled.” Lana had said those very words. They needed time.
“Everybody has to eat.”
“She’s pretty, isn’t she, Daddy?” This from Nathan who was clearly avoiding the three tomatoes lined up like British redcoats on the edge of his plate.
“Who?”
“Lana. I think she’s real pretty. Her hair is pretty, too. I like brown hair.”
Davis swallowed. The forkful of noodles stuck in his throat. He grabbed for his water and swigged.
Yes, Lana was pretty. She and her sassy boots had been prancing around in his head the entire time he was cooking supper. He was curious about her, wondered why she’d left her life in Nashville and what secrets lurked behind her cool blue eyes. He wasn’t sure he wanted answers, but he wondered.
He’d taught his kids to do the right thing, to treat people the way they would want to be treated, and that included greeting new neighbors. He was head of the neighborhood welcome community and co-chair of block parties and summer cookouts. Might as well find out early if Lana Ross and her child were people he wanted his children associating with.
“After dinner, if you kids will help clean the kitchen without grumbling, we’ll take a couple of plates down the block. How does that sound?”
“You are the best daddy ever,” Paige said.
“Yeah,” Nathan added, nodding sagely. “Everything is going exactly like we planned.”
“Nathan!” Paige shot him a paralyzing look and shook her head. Nathan clapped both hands over his mouth.
Davis looked from one child to the other, puzzled.
What was that all about?
Chapter Three
Beware of really handsome men bearing gifts.
These random thoughts ran through Lana’s head as she tried to find a clean place in her filthy, run-down, pathetic kitchen to put two foil-covered plates.
Davis Turner was every bit as nice as she remembered. He’d brought food. Something she had not yet bothered to think about. Her stomach rumbled at the spicy, warm smells coming from the dishes. When was the last time she’d eaten anything healthy, much less homemade lasagna? She’d fed Sydney burgers and breakfast burritos on the road but had been too uptight to eat since yesterday.
“Sorry everything is a mess. The house is worse than I’d expected.” A lot, lot worse. Apparently, Mother had let the place go and the years of sitting empty had taken a worse toll.
“You’ve got your work cut out.”
“Don’t I know it? I didn’t expect it to be this bad.” She grimaced. “Or to have graffiti on the living room walls.”
“Is the living room the only place that bad?”
“Seems to be. I guess vandals haven’t gotten much farther than the front of the house. Hopefully, a good cleaning will make a big difference.”
“What