Long Time Coming Read online

  LONG TIME COMING

  Copyright 2003 by Edie Claire

  Originally published by Warner Books, an AOL Time Warner Company.

  Digital edition for Kindle published in 2011.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Dedication

  For Teresa, Cindy, Danielle, Ellen, Rushelle, Jennifer, and Mindy—all of whom shared my childhood and, thankfully, lived to tell about it. (Just don't, though, okay guys?)

  Chapter 1

  "Not this house!"

  The young real estate agent in the driver’s seat lifted one perfectly plucked eyebrow in my direction as she steered her Geo smoothly into the street gutter. I could not blame her for avoiding the crumbling driveway, whose variously sized pits had been filled to capacity by the morning’s downpour. She glanced over my shoulder at the dilapidated bungalow whose virtues she had been extolling for the last twenty minutes, then fixed me with a polite stare. "Is something wrong?"

  I opened my mouth to reply, but shut it again. The last thing I needed on returning to my humble origins was to acquire a reputation for living in the past. Of all the places I didn’t want to live, the past was at the top of the list.

  This accursed town was second.

  "No," I answered finally, struggling to keep my voice even. "I’m sorry. It’s fine. Better than the others. Let’s take a look." I grabbed the door handle and stepped out onto the curb with one fluid motion, theorizing that if I moved quickly, I might feel less.

  It was a clammy spring morning, and the chill in the soggy ground seemed to seep straight into my bones. I pulled my jacket tighter around my shoulders and set off toward the house in double time.

  "I’m afraid this is the last of what we have listed in your price range," the agent called, her voice wavering as she jogged around the car to catch up with me. I felt a little guilty as she struggled to find a dry route over the fractured walk, taking care not to muss her linen suit and two-inch heels. But I couldn’t make myself walk any slower. If I did, I might notice how much the sugar maple had grown, and wonder if the intertwined J’s were still carved expertly in its trunk, ten feet up. I might see the wide, smooth concrete porch wall, and remember how it was the perfect height for swinging legs and watching the cars go by. I might see the bush that had concealed the secret fort, or the window box where the kittens had been born.

  I couldn’t bear to see any of it.

  "If you want to bump up a bit, we have a nice three-bedroom over by the high school," the woman offered as she reached my side at the porch steps. She was breathing a bit heavy, and tiny beads of sweat had begun to ooze through her top layer of makeup.

  "No," I answered, trying hard to smile. "I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’ll just have to make do." The smile that met mine was equally strained. We both knew that every other house we had seen so far had required an ability to coexist with rodents, a quality which, as a veterinarian, I suppose I should have possessed. And to my credit, I had no issue with furry creatures who lived in cages and spun on wheels. Those that defecated on kitchen counters, however, were not my idea of pets.

  The agent fitted her keys into the lock and began to chatter, her western Kentucky accent intensifying the faster she spoke. The light, distinctive twang and cadence would have charmed my neighbors in Philly, but each extra syllable seemed only to batter my brain. I had sounded just like her. Once.

  "The house is over seventy years old," she advised, flipping on the lights and ushering me inside. "But until very recently it’s been treated with care, and there are some updates. Now, there’s only the one bedroom on the first floor. The second floor is really more of a loft, but it has loads of possibilities—"

  I raised my eyes slowly from the floor, tensing my every muscle with the effort. This is not Jenny’s living room anymore, I told myself firmly. It is just a house.

  I didn’t need the agent to tell me what was where; I could tell her. I knew every nook and cranny, from the mismatched brick on the right side of the hearth to the little round window over the tub. But I didn’t want to remember any of those things. And as I forced my eyes slowly over the tiny living/dining room, I was able to succeed, at least partly. Because eighteen years had taken their toll.

  The walls I remembered as papered with hunters and bleeding pheasants were now a generic beige, and where warm brown carpet had once lain, there remained only naked hardwood. Plywood covered a cracked window. There was no squeaky kitchen table, no black vinyl recliner. The African violets were gone from the windowsills; the Hummel figurines from the mantel. The agent’s voice echoed with a stillness like that in any empty room.

  I let out a slow, relieved breath. I was standing in a shell. A shell of wood and plaster.

  "It can use a loving touch," the young woman admitted. "But structurally, my boss says it’s in much better shape than you might expect. In fact, at this price, it’s really a very good bargain." She walked toward the staircase, which I knew to be hidden on the other side of the kitchen. "Would you like to see the loft?"

  My pulse quickened, but only for a moment. Yes, I would see the loft. If it was as empty and sterile as this living room, perhaps it would do me good. The agent ascended the narrow wooden staircase ahead of me, and it creaked loudly under her negligible weight. "We can have the inspector check out these boards," she chirped a bit nervously. "If there’s a problem, we can always negotiate with the seller."

  I mounted the steps without concern, not remembering a time when they hadn’t protested. The agent walked slowly, and I found to my surprise that I was impatient to move along, anxious to finish this thing. Barely able to restrain myself from pushing her, I sidled around her at the top step and turned toward the back of the house.

  The low archway in front of me had once been framed by yellow curtains dotted with orange butterflies. Now it was bare. I ducked under it and stepped into the tiny alcove. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as I took in the dormer window, the odd angular bookcase, the low, slanted ceilings. Jenny’s furniture was gone, the walls stripped bare. But this place, still, was the same.

  My best friend had slept here for seventeen years.

  She didn’t sleep anywhere anymore.

  "Dr. Hudson?" The agent stood somewhere behind me, her voice uneasy. I realized with a start that she must have been talking to me for a while. "Joy? Are you all right? Can I…get you something?"

  I drew in a long breath, but felt it shudder in my chest. Hot tears burned my cheeks—tears I didn’t remember producing. My voice was gone. My legs were shaking. I closed my eyes to stop it all.

  A thin arm wrapped itself around my shoulders, squeezing them tight. It was a comforting gesture, sweet and empathetic, and it flooded me with an unexpected warmth. Despite myself, I smiled. "Thank you," I said weakly, turning to the young woman.

  From her position on the other side of the archway, the agent blinked questioningly. "What was it you wanted?"

  I stared back at her for a moment, not breathing. She was a full six feet away, and looking a tad impatient.

  I wheeled away from her, my eyes wide.

  "Joy?" the agent repeated.

  I scanned the tiny bedroom again, but knew it was empty.

  "Maybe we should go back downstairs?" the woman suggested eagerly. "It’s a bit chilly up here."

  And yet I felt wonderfully warm. My head was spinning, but
my heart was oddly light. I brushed the wetness from my cheeks with my jacket sleeve and faced my escort. Not being an impulsive person, the words that tumbled from my mouth surprised me. "This house," I said evenly, moving past her towards the staircase. "I’ll take it."

  Chapter 2

  My mother’s lips were fixed into the taut, pained shape they always assumed when she disapproved of my actions, but was making a genuine effort not to say so. They had been like that ever since I had announced my plans last evening. For a woman as opinionated as Abigail Hudson, this marked an impressive feat of endurance.

  "Joy, dear," she began, at last conceding her battle. "Have you thought about why you’re doing this?"

  I didn’t look at her, but continued repacking my overnight bag. Of course I had thought about it. I had thought of little else since signing the sales agreement. The closing wouldn’t be for a few weeks; in the meantime, the seller would allow me to live in the house as if I were renting. The lack of anxiety I felt over the prospect was, frankly, quite baffling. All I could explain to my mother was that buying the Carver’s old home felt right. Why, I wasn’t sure.

  She walked past me to the head of my bed and removed a small picture frame from the wall. "Do you remember when this was taken?" she asked, extending it.

  "When we were eight," I answered tonelessly, not looking at it. I sat down on the edge of the bed and rummaged through my bag for nothing.

  Despite her advanced years, my mother’s mind was sharp as a razor, and she surveyed me with eyes that perceived far more than they should—particularly since she was legally blind. "You used to call it ‘the summer of the kittens,’" she said fondly, sitting beside me. "I can’t remember what you named them, though."

  I zipped up the bag in my lap and exhaled. I loved my mother dearly, but her belief that I had dealt poorly with Jenny’s death—both at the time and ever since—was a bone of contention between us. I didn’t know how other people dealt with loss. I only knew what worked for me. My method was simple. If it hurt, I didn’t do it.

  "Their names were Cinnamon, Sugar, and Spice," I answered, still not looking at the picture. I had no need to. I knew that it showed two little girls sitting in the grass outside the Carver home. Me, a baby-faced chubster with large brown eyes and dimples, and Jenny, all knobby knees and elbows, her bright red hair pulled into braids like Pippi Longstocking's. We were leaning against each other shoulder to shoulder, her with two kittens snuggled beneath her chin, me with only one. We had had a fight about that later.

  "You always did have a wonderful memory," my mother praised. "But you don’t seem to enjoy remembering anymore."

  I took the frame from her hands, gave it a cursory once-over, and rose to replace it on its hook. "No," I said honestly. "I don’t."

  Maybe other people found comfort in memories, but not me. Memories brought pain, as much today as in any of the eighteen years since Jenny had died. We had been inseparable, she and I; as close as sisters since our nursery school days. Her death had torn a huge chunk from my soul—and though I managed just fine as long as I was elsewhere, coming back to Wharton, Kentucky never failed to reopen the rent.

  "You know that I’ve always thought you should come home for a spell," my mother continued, choosing her words with care. "You haven’t been here for more than a weekend since you were in college, and things have changed so much. I thought it would do you good to see that, to see how life has moved on. But I never expected—"

  She faltered a moment, her mouth twitching with thought. "I still don’t understand why you would want to live in Jenny’s old house. Surely you have more memories there than anywhere."

  "I don’t understand it either, Mom," I answered, fidgeting. Even though my old bedroom had been completely redone, it held an uncanny power to make me feel like a child again. "But you don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine. I promise."

  She made a move to rise, and I offered my arm. Getting up and down, I noticed, had recently become an effort for her. "You don’t have to buy a house at all," she continued determinedly as she pulled herself up. "You can stay here with us as long as you want."

  I offered a small smile, grateful that her argument had strayed onto previously covered ground. "You know I can’t do that."

  And I couldn’t. Even though I had just celebrated my thirty-fifth birthday—alone in my apartment with a rental copy of Gone With the Wind and a freezer full of Klondike bars—I could never live at 2103 Ash Drive as an adult. The moment I walked into my parent’s olive-green living room, eleven years of higher education and seven years as a practicing professional melted off my psyche like butter. If I was going to set up shop in Wharton, I was going to have to do it on my own.

  "Then at least let your father and I help you with a down payment," she countered. "Maybe you could afford a nicer place."

  "The Carver house will be perfectly adequate," I responded. "And I won’t be there forever. Just—" The last word dropped off my lips like a stone, and I averted my eyes. We both knew what I was about to say.

  Just till Daddy dies.

  We hadn’t spoken about the arrangement since my arrival; it seemed best not to dwell on it when my father was likely within earshot. Not that he didn’t know he was dying; the second heart attack had left him too weak to walk, along with a host of complicating factors that left little hope of recovery. Three more years would be a miracle; my mother was hoping for five.

  What was I hoping for?

  I shook the thought from my brain as I had done a thousand times in the past weeks, since news of his prognosis had so abruptly rearranged my life. Not that I hadn’t known it was coming; my parents were older than those of most people my age. At forty-one, my mother had had every reason to believe that she and her fifty-year-old husband would never have any children. She had been wrong. And I had been wrong to hope that sheer willpower alone could allow a woman of seventy-six to care for a wheelchair-bound man of eighty five. Especially not when glaucoma had robbed her of the ability to drive.

  They could easily have afforded assisted living, either here or, preferably, near me. I had been lobbying for it for years now. But my father—a family footwear merchant since the days of Franklin D. Roosevelt, was a man of habit. He had been born and bred in Wharton, Kentucky, and he had every intention of dying there. He had his funeral planned, his plot bought. His second greatest wish was to die in his own home. His first was to hold a grandchild.

  It was looking like the second was all I could give him.

  Hence, the deal. I would return to Wharton, allowing my father to live out the rest of his days in the surroundings to which he was accustomed. Afterward, my mother insisted she would be willing to pull up stakes and move with me—wherever I wanted to go.

  So back to Wharton I had come, even though the mere mention of the town’s name still slammed my insides like a wrecking ball. I was needed here. I was back. And I was going to deal with it, dammit. For as long as it took.

  I faced my mother. "The house is just a house," I insisted, trying once more to put the issue to bed. "It’s the right size, it’s priced very reasonably, and I can move in right away. Appliances included, such as they are." I hefted my bag over my shoulder. "I’ll be fine."

  "Of course you will," she said mildly, squaring her stooped shoulders. Interrogating me further would accomplish nothing, and she knew it. But I wasn’t naïve enough to believe she had said her piece on the topic, either. My mother’s reprieves were almost always temporary.

  "And I suppose you’re certain you need to move today." It was a comment rather than a question—she was good at those.

  I responded with a nod. Once I made up my mind about something, I never dithered around. The agreement with the seller was signed, and thanks to the Wharton Help Center’s list of anything-for-minimum-wage handymen, I had a few extra hands already lined up to help unload the rental truck. All I needed now were a few household items—most notably, from the quick look I had had at my future kit
chen and bathroom, a can of cleanser. Then the move could begin.

  "I’m off to Wal-Mart," I announced. "You want to come?"

  My mother shook her head with some reluctance. "I’d like to, but your father’s medication is due in half an hour." She glanced at her watch, but seemed to be looking right through it. "You know how to get there?"

  I allowed myself a grin. Once one had navigated Philadelphia, it would be hard to get lost in a town with only one highway. And even though my rare visits to Wharton had included as few excursions as possible, it had not escaped my attention that the original, centrally located Wal-Mart, like so many of its ilk, had been replaced by a newer, bigger Wal-Mart on the outskirts of town.

  "No problem, Mom." I gave her a reassuring smile, left the bedroom, and headed for the front door. "You need anything while I’m there?" I asked, my hand on the knob.

  She followed part way, looking at me with the same restrained expression she had once reserved for seeing me off on car dates with boys, and shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "Just be careful."

  I slipped outside and trudged through the wet grass toward my Honda, which had been relegated to the curb by the rental truck that still clogged my parents’ driveway. A glance over my shoulder revealed my mother watching me from the front window, and I let out a guilty sigh. She had been practically ecstatic when I had arrived the day before yesterday; already she had backtracked clear to angst. All because I was buying Jenny’s house.

  But it wasn’t her house anymore, I told myself firmly. The only person living there would be me. The embrace I had imagined upstairs was nothing but a fluke—brought on by weeks of stress and not enough breakfast. Some stray neurons had misfired, and my brain had mistaken the signals. That was all.

  Whatever had happened, the fact was this: unlike virtually everything else in Wharton, Jenny’s house did not make me sad. Upstairs in that bedroom, I had finally felt warm again. Optimistic. Even happy. After the last few weeks, the feeling was like a drug.