Page 106 of Beautiful Broken Love

I couldn’t stay in my house a minute longer, with everything I had on my mind. Octavia insisted I come home and take a breather, and she was right. I was going to Maple Cove to see her, Mama, and my little brother, Abe.

Maple Cove was a small town that was only a fifteen-minute drive from Asheville. It was so small, in fact, that many people liked to lump Maple Cove in with Asheville, but the true natives never did. Maple was much more secluded.

I drove on a four-block road lined with cars, passing Mrs. Rina’s coffee shop, which I’d spent many days studying in; the bed-and-breakfast Mrs. Buttle owned, where tourists loved sleeping in; and then the barbershop where Daddy used to get his haircuts.

Octavia and I would sit on the curb waiting for Daddy to get his shape-up. His barber, Bradley, would hand us Dum Dum lollipops and wink for behaving afterward.

There was the familiar hair salon, but the name had changed to Clara’s, and two stores away was a brand-new candy shop, with taffy rolling in the window.

Then there was Mama’s candle shop, Aromantic, with its gold sign and black drapes in the window.

When I drove through town, it only took about a minute more before I was making a right turn and taking a familiar dirt path that led to a two-bedroom house.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the hovering trees and beamed on the newly built roof. The tan exterior had been refreshed with another coat of paint.

Bold emerald box hedges hugged the lower half of the house, and the porch (which you had to get to with a four-step stoop) had plants hanging from the ceiling in baskets that swayed with the breeze. Two wicker chairs with waterproof cushions were nestled in the corners, and as I walked up the stoop, I noticed more plants and flowers had been added.

It was like a mini jungle on the porch, and I loved it. Sure, I had my place in Charlotte, but this was my real home.

I dug into my purse until I found my key, then gave the lock a twist and turned the doorknob to get inside. Dishes clanked from a distance, and I could smell something savory cooking.

I took a quick sweep of the front room. Dark hardwood floors and shelves built into the walls, topped with books and plants. A love seat and a recliner, neither of which matched, were set near the walls, and a TV was mounted to face them both.

A bohemian red rug was placed beneath a round wooden coffee table, and on one of the side tables was an essential oil diffuser steadily blowing out mist and whatever scent Mama had picked for the day. Today it smelled citrusy, like lemon and a hint of clove. This house I grew up in wasn’t much, but it was cozy.

“Mama?” I called from the door. The clanking of dishes stopped, and as I set my purse down, I saw her head pop around a corner.

“Davina Bobina!” she sang, rushing out of the kitchen, wearing an apron with cartoonish avocados on it. She threw her arms around my neck and hugged me tight, and I huffed a laugh as I held her back.

My mom may have worked my nerves a lot, but if there was one thing about her, she could deliver an amazing hug.

“I’m so happy to see you, baby,” she said over my shoulder. She leaned back and held on to my shoulders as she looked me all over. “You look good.”

“Compared to what?” I asked, half-teasing.

“Oh, stop it. You always look good.”

“You do, too, Mama.” For a woman who’d be turning sixty in two months, she was flawless, really.

Her face had hardly a wrinkle in sight, other than the laugh lines around her mouth and the faint crow’s-feet around her light-brown eyes. Her hair had flourished, and what were once simple natural curls a decade ago had been transformed into unruly locs. She reminded me of Lisa Bonet, and I recalled a lot of men in town loving that about her.

“Thank you, honey. Come on, you’re just in time to have lunch with me.”

“Where’s Abe?” I asked, following her into the kitchen.

“He’s at therapy right now but should be done within forty-five minutes or so.” Mama sauntered barefoot through the kitchen to open one of the opaque glass cabinets. “Made us some chicken and chickpea soup.”

“That sounds good.” I went to the drawer where the utensils were while she ladled soup into porcelain bowls. After she grabbed a pitcher of lemonade, we sat at the four-top table and dug in.

“Octavia told me y’all went to Miami,” she said after chewing. “What was that like?”

I met her eager eyes and shrugged. “It was for business, so I didn’t really get to see much.”

“Oh. Well, your sister said y’all went to some fancy party in a penthouse too.”

“It wasn’tthatfancy.” I laughed.

I looked up, and Mama was studying my face.

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