Page 5 of Jordan

"It's about time," his mother looking as if she had just stepped from the cover of "matron elegance" turned her disapproving eyes on his casual outfit as he walked slowly into the room. He had no choice but to sit next to Sally, who turned a beaming smile at him.

Anger kindled inside his bosom and turned to ice as his father stared at him at his position at the head of the table.

"We need to discuss your courtship with Sally—"

"Now wait just a damn minute—"

"We do not tolerate that kind of language at the dinner table."

His mother's pitch was low as usual but carried steel as she looked down her nose at him, eyes frosty. "You know better."

"I do." Shoving back his chair, he stood there looking around the table at the faces with their similar expressions of distress and disapproval and realized he had had enough. "Sally, I'm sorry you were shoved into this – this amazing spectacle and given the impression that I have any interest whatsoever of becoming your husband. Or perhaps you were part of it and in that case, you can all go straight to hell." With that, he wheeled out of the room and left them sitting there stunned into immobility.

******************

Spending the night at the shabby house she had grown up in was creepy to say the least. She had called Caleb as soon as she settled and assured him she would be okay.

"Lock the doors," he ordered.

"Nothing ever happens here," she protested.

"Lock the doors," he repeated firmly. "You're conveniently forgetting that incident where some sick prick came from out of town and bludgeoned poor Jimmy to death with his own pitchfork. Not to mention the numerous break-ins over a period of two years. Lock the damn doors Jules."

So, she had followed his orders and secured not only the doors, but the windows as well. The place smelled musty and abandoned. Her aunt had owned a dog who had died a few years ago. Jules could swear that she could still smell old Rufus in the creaky sofas and rocking chair by the fireplace. Going into the homey kitchen, she put the kettle to boil and rooted around for tea bags. The silence was unnerving and had her checking the windows for any signs of life.

Had she ever been happy here? She found herself wondering as she added honey to the tea. Her mother had tried, but at the end of the day, she had been too worn out to make much of an effort.Too exhausted from working her fingers to the bone for that wretched family.

As Jules sat at the worn kitchen table, her thoughts drifted back to the conversation with Caleb. She couldn't shake the unease that had settled in her mind. The memories of Jimmy's tragic end and the break-ins haunted her, making her feel vulnerable despite the locked doors.

She took a sip of her tea, the warmth calming her nerves somewhat. The house, with its creaks and groans, seemed to come alive with the past, whispering secrets of the times long gone. Jules found herself wandering through the corridors, each step echoing with memories she had tried so hard to forget.

In the dim light of the living room, she noticed the old family photographs hanging crookedly on the walls. Faces stared back at her, some familiar, others forgotten. Her gaze settled on a particular photo of her mother, young and vibrant, holding a smiling Jules in her arms. It was a stark contrast to the worn-out woman she had become, worn down by the relentless demands of life.

Jules felt a pang of guilt. She had never understood the sacrifices her mother had made; the silent battles she had fought to keep the family afloat. This house, now a relic of those struggles, bore witness to their shared history, filled with both love and hardship.

She turned away from the photographs, her heart heavy with regret. The shadows of the past loomed large, but Jules knew she had to confront them to find peace. As she walked back to the kitchen, determined to face her fears, she heard a faint sound outside—a rustle in the bushes, a whisper of the wind. Her breath caught, and she froze, listening intently.

"Maybe Caleb was right," she thought, her pulse quickening. "Maybe I should have taken his warnings more seriously."

Gathering her courage, she reached for the nearest object—a rusty old poker that had once guarded the fireplace—in case she needed to defend herself. She edged toward the window, peering out into the darkness, ready to confront whatever—or whoever—might be lurking outside.

Pressing against the window, she eased the curtain aside and peered out, heart hammering inside her chest. It occurred to her that instead of staying her by herself, she should have used commonsense and book a suite at the hotel in town. Gripping the poker, until the old iron was digging into her skin, she waited with bated breath as she peered out. The relief at seeing the racoon scampering along the creaky floorboards of the front porch.

Sagging against the wall, she closed her eyes and started laughing so hard, her knees buckled. Sliding to the floor, she placed her head on her knees and felt the tension easing for the first time since she returned.

*****

The cabin was in a remote part of town and was sitting on top of a hill. It was not spectacular, just an old log building that had seen years of being pommeled by the harsh weather. But the beauty was centered around the land the cabin sat on. Lush green trees, wildflowers blooming in colorful and dazzling profusion.

It had belonged to his great grandfather and was considered a "fishing cabin." It had passed down until it was now his and Jordan used it as a means of escape whenever his family gets to be too much.

Like now. Shoving open the car door, he stepped into the brisk breeze swaying the trees and cold enough to seep through his jacket. Sitting on the hood of his vehicle, he took out the packet of cigar. Selecting one, he lighted it, dragging in the smoke and relaxing his tensed muscles. He had turned off his phone as soon as he started driving. The good thing about this place was the lack of cell service, which meant he would be left alone.

He had to do something to get them off his back. Arguing, dismissing them was not enough. He had to be drastic about it.

His sisters had followed orders all their lives. They had been told what to do, where to go and had gone ahead with whatever their parents had dictated without an ounce of argument.

He would like to think that he loved them. At one point, he recalled being excited to be a big brother. But somewherebetween puberty and adolescent, he had lost them. Lost that closeness they had while growing up.

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