Page 8 of Riding Home

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.“Aurora, honey?”

“Come in,” I called.

Mom entered, apron dusted with flour.“Dinner’s in a couple of hours.Mark called.He’ll be here but can’t stay late—important surgery tomorrow.”

I resisted an eye roll.“He might want to consider skipping it altogether.”

“Get a grip, Aurora.You know Mark’s family does Thanksgiving on the weekend.”She hesitated.“I was surprised to see Clark arrive on a motorcycle.I can’t believe he’s a biker.”

“He’s not just a biker, Mom.He’s a businessman,” I improvised.“He bought his mom the house next door.”

Her expression softened.“Mary did mention she’s proud of him.Didn’t say he rides a Harley, though.”

“Uncle Bruce has a motorcycle,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but it’s a hobby.I always thought you’d end up with someone like Mark.But if Clark makes you happy...”

“Mom, I don’t love Mark anymore.And I’m figuring things out with Clark.”

She patted my hand.“We put so much work into planning that wedding.You left your fiancé and ran off to Nashville, thinking you’d become a star.”

I pulled away gently.“He cheated, Mom.And I’m a classical musician, not a fame-chasing pop singer.Mark and I weren’t right for each other.”

She sighed.“I just want what’s best for you.”

“I know, but I need to make my own choices.”

“Well, at least there’s a man in the picture.I worry about you in that big city.”An uncomfortable hush settled before she stood.“Your aunt and uncle just arrived.The twins are eager to see you.”

“Thanks,” I replied.

Deciding I needed a distraction, I headed downstairs.

The next hour passed in a blur of hugs and small talk.Aunt Lydia and Uncle Bruce shared tales of their RV adventures, while cousins Hannah and Grace showed off their toddlers.The house buzzed with laughter and the aroma of roasting turkey.

As dinner approached, a knot tightened in my stomach.The thought of sitting across from Mark—and pretending that the biker was my boyfriend—was too much without a plan.I needed to talk to Clark.

Slipping away, I crossed the street and knocked on the house next door.A woman with kind eyes opened the door.“Hello?”

“Hi, I’m looking for Clark.I’m Aurora, from across the street.”

Her face lit up.“Oh, Sarah’s daughter!I’m Mary.”She pulled me into a hug.“But Clark?Do you mean Frog?”

“Frog?”I blinked.

She laughed.“That’s what everyone calls him.”

Recalling the patch on his vest—‘Frog’ stitched in bold letters—I said, “Right, I’m looking for Frog.”

“He’s out back with Grandpa.Go on through.”

I navigated a cozy living room into the kitchen, the scent of pumpkin pie lingering.

Stepping onto the porch, I saw Clark wrestling playfully with an elderly man as kids piled on.

“He’s great with them, ain’t he?”a woman’s voice said.

I turned to see a striking woman.“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

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