Page 4 of Tangled Desires

“Ma chérie, did you make it?” Naomi asks through the speakers of my car. The trip from North Carolina to Florida could have taken me one day. Except I split it up in two days, mainly for the person on the other end of the line. She was worried I would overdo it, get too tired, and after all the loss we’ve suffered, an extra day didn’t bother me too much. Plus, it’s not like I’m on a time crunch or anything. There’s not a job I need to get to, only a house that has been sitting vacant for what Mr. Bennett says has been a year.

“Not yet. I’m at the edge of town. How did things go with your date last night?” I put the emphasis ondate.She’s been on quite a few with Scott.

“It was wonderful, but don’t get your hopes up too much. I’m not.” She sounds a bit leery, as if she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. I mean, I understand given what she has been through, but I also did a thorough search, similar to the one a police officer could probably do, only the free version. Scott Bennett has one divorce on the record, has no children, and is a partner at the law firm he works at. He also only has one social media account, not several, and not across the many platforms available, either.

“Fine, I won’t. I still think you should see where things go before you leave.” I shrug my shoulders, not that Naomi can see. I make a turn onto a street leading toward my new home. The sun glares through the windshield, and I take one hand off the wheel to dig around the center console in order to grab a pair of sunglasses.

“That is what dating is all about, my beautiful girl. Oneshould do similar, don’t you think?” Naomi spins the conversation around on me. I’ve been a bundle of nerves since waking up this morning. When I hit the Florida state line this morning, it only made them worse.

“You’re right. Maybe I’ll meet a man and fall madly in love,” I say with a wistful tone to my voice.

“Didn’t you say your childhood boyfriend lived next door to you? Who knows what could happen. Maybe he still lives there or at least nearby?” she states, except it’s more like a question, and while I’ve done all the looking into Scott Bennett, I absolutely refused to do the same for myself.

“Maybe or maybe not. He could be married with two kids with a white picket fence by now, too.” Which I’m sure is the case. Jagger Steele as a seventeen-year-old on the cusp of manhood was devastatingly handsome to my young fifteen-year-old heart. I’d also made a complete fool of myself, crying, except more like sobbing, begging him to make a promise with me I had no business asking for. My younger self called it love. My older self now realizes that wasn’t fair to him.

“You won’t know until you find out. Isn’t that what you told me only last week?”Oof, Naomi is throwing down the gauntlet today.

“Yes, except we’re talking about someone from long ago. You have a man standing right in front of you, who just so happens to be wooing you.” I turn my blinker on and turn into the subdivision leading to the house that seemed like the only home I’d ever had before.

“It seems I do. Call me later and tell me everything, okay?”

“I will. Love you,” I reply.

“Je t’aime, ma chérie.” With that, we hang up, and I continue on my journey. A few more turns, a curve around the cul-de-sac, and I pull into a home that I haven’t seen in over twenty years. I’m still unsure how Dad was able to keep this from me for all these years, let alone Mom, even in those final hours. Then again, she had a lot on her mind. Dad started forgetting things, and I’m sure this is one of those subjects that was so small on his radar even on his good days, it didn’t trigger a memory.

I pull into the driveway, put my car inPark,and stare at the home in front of me. The mature tree in the front of the yard is still there, bigger than before when I used to climb up the branches as high as I could. It has me opening the door and stepping out. The once white paint could use a new coat; there are spots that are chipping and peeling. The navy shutters and door are in the same shape, and I can see I’m going to need to do a lot of weeding in order to showcase the flagstone pavers I see peeking through the overgrown grass. The bushes in front of the windows could use a good trim as well, but other than that, everything looks okay. The grass is cut, and because of the coverage from the trees, the yard is lush and green. I toss the keys in my hands and take a few hesitant steps, watching where I’m walking in case the ground isn’t level, kicking myself in the ass for wearing flip flops instead of a sturdy pair of sneakers.

I make it up the path, remembering a time when double red knock-out roses were in place of the bushes that are there now. I think I’ll replace them once I get my hands in the dirt. The small front stoop is enough to cover you fromthe elements while you’re rushing into the house to get out of a Florida downpour, the one problem Mom had with the house. That and the detached garage. Dad loved it, something about the car fumes never being able to make it inside the house. Therefore, Mom delegated him to be home when we’d do a big grocery shop to help lug everything inside.

“What in the heck?” I fumble with the lock, placing the key in the deadbolt, hearing it unclick, and I do the same with the doorknob. When it doesn’t open with a slight push, I try again, but it still doesn’t budge. The only option left is to power through it and use my shoulder to finally get the door open. It’s not even like it’s wood. There doesn’t seem to be any swelling, and now I’m wondering if there’s something on the other side that could be keeping it closed on me.

I push at the damn thing one more time, and it finally gives. I’m so busy worrying about getting inside the house that I don’t hear anything at first.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Yoohoo! I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” I look over my shoulder. A woman around what would be my mom’s age appears, shoulder-length honey-golden hair cut into a bob style and eyes the exact same color ofhis.Glacier blue, so vividly clear you could get lost in them and never leave.

“Mrs. Steele?” I question. She’s in a white linen button-down shirt, a pair of blue capri pants, and leather woven-style flats. She looks exactly the same, minus a few wrinkles here and there. I remember everything so vividly it’s like a kaleidoscope of memories hitting me all at once. Her and my mom talking in the yard for hours on end while waiting for the bus to drop me off during my middle school years. Theydid the same on the rare occasion Jagger didn’t have some kind of practice after school. He’d give me a ride home, and we’d find the two of them chatting it up with no end in sight. It gave us time to sneak away into the Steele’s house, where Jagger kissed me senseless. Which inevitably led to a lot more when we weren’t anywhere near our houses or parents.

“Oh, my goodness, as I live and breathe, you are the spitting image of your mother, Lyric.” The inside of the house is empty, and I move closer to a woman who has me ready to cry in her arms. I’ve yet to really let my emotions run free. The few tears I’ve spared here and there are nothing like the cathartic release I know will come once I finally allow myself to sit and think. It’s also why Naomi shoved a pink spiral notebook into my hand and told me to journal; I guess she’s noticed I haven’t been doing that lately like I normally do. When I opened it last night in the hotel room, it even had writing prompts. Some were way too much when you needed sleep, so I slammed the notebook closed and put it back in my bag.

“Yeah,” I say with a lump lodged in the back of my throat. Her arms lift up, and then I’m giving her a hug, but really, she’s the one giving me the embrace. I had no idea what I’d find when I landed back in Whispering Oaks because, you know, that whole refusing to snoop like I’d usually do.

“It’s so good to see you. I’m so sorry about your mom, honey.” Mrs. Steele pulls back. She sent a card in the mail shortly after we’d buried my mom. I remember seeing it and thinking I should give her a call, and then, well, the Ferris wheel kept spinning, and there was no stopping to get off the ride.

“Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t call you after. I promise it was on my list of things to do, but then Dad was diagnosed with early-onset dementia. I didn’t even know they kept this house until the reading of the will when he passed away.” I get the gist of the story out of the way. There’s way more involved, and I’ll probably spill the beans, except I don’t think she needs or wants to know every dang detail. I spin around, trying to give myself a moment to clear the crying jag that’s attempting to take root, and look at the carnage of the inside of my childhood home.

“Oh, dear,” I hear Mrs. Steele say from behind me. There are holes in the drywall, there’s flooring ripped up in random areas, and when I walk through the house, I see so much more. A ceiling fan that’s only being held up by its electrical wires, and the kitchen is a disaster, filthy in a sense that it doesn’t look like anyone has ever cleaned up after themselves, missing cabinet doors, drawers pulled out. And when I walk out of the main living area, heading toward the back of the house, where there are two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and what my parents used as a study, the damage is much the same. Damn it, the house is inhabitable.

“Why don’t we go over to my place? We can talk. You can catch me up on what’s been going on, and I can do the same. We tried to do what we could. I can promise you that, Lyric.” I nod my head, still not turning around to face her. My shoulders slump. I’m going to have to add finding a place to live while the house is gutted to the studs.

“Yeah, okay. We can do that.” I take a deep breath, realizing I’m fortunate in the way that I’m set up financially to fix my house and live somewhere else for the time being. I’llalso need to find a job. Idle hands and all will only make me really lose my mind.

Mrs. Steele’s hand goes to my back when I make my way into the front of the house. Neither of us should have walked in here, not without a hazmat suit and steel-toed boots at least. I’d beat myself up for allowing this to happen, only I had no idea, and with the round-the-clock care my dad needed, it’d have been impossible to work on the home here in Whispering Oaks while residing in North Carolina.

“Do you still enjoy sweet tea? I just brewed a pitcher, and Mr. Steele has yet to discover it,” she teases, helping ease the boulder sitting on my shoulders.

“I do, thank you. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Definitely not a house with more holes than walls,” I say before mentally telling myself I can do this.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have a lot of contacts, if you want them.” I’m going need them in spades, but until then, I’ll put one foot in front of the other, make a list, and go from there.

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