Page 4 of Keeping You
The house looks smaller than I remember, the white paint peeling in places, and the flower garden Dad used to maintain is overrun with weeds. I should have come back sooner. It should have helped more.
Should, should, should. The story of my life.
I don’t bother knocking because while I still have my key, I know the door isn’t locked. A safety measure I took to heart in the city, I could never convince Mom to do the same.“Things like that don’t happen here,”she’d tell me every time I tried.
The door creaks open, and the familiar scent of home hits me like a slap in the face—lemon furniture polish and the faint hint of my mom’s favorite perfume. The only thing missing is fresh flowers.
“Mom?” I call out, dropping my bag in the entryway. “It’s me.”
I hear a gasp coming from the kitchen, then she appears in the doorway, thinner than I remember, her face more lined, her movements slower. But her eyes light up when she sees me, and for a moment, I see a glimmer of her old self.
“Luke.” Before I can say another word, she’s in my arms, holding me tight enough to hurt. I hug her back just as fiercely, trying to ignore the guilt gnawing at my insides. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come back sooner,” I murmur into her gray hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay longer after Dad…”
She pulls back, wiping at her eyes. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.” Her gaze searches my face, the concern back in her gaze. “You look exhausted, honey.”
“Long ride,” I say and follow her into the kitchen. It’s spotless, as always, but I notice a large stack of mail on the counter—bills, from the look of it. I frown as I pick them up. “Mom, what are these?”
“Oh, bills for the bakery. It’s been a little slow, so we’re behind.”
I flip through the stack, finding bills from a flour supplier, a dairy vendor, and an insurance premium notice, all stamped with bright red “PAST DUE” warnings. I quickly do the math, and the total makes my throat tighten. “This is more than just a slow month or two, Mom. These go back to before Gram passed. Has Anna been carrying this debt since she took over?”
“Yes, Anna’s been having some trouble. Your grandmother left her with some bills, and then business has been slow, so she hasn’t been able to catch up.”
“Harper said they were having trouble, but I figured it was just growing pains.”
“Usually, your grandmother would take out a small loan to cover expenses until tourism picked up.” She sighs, her fingers tracing the edge of an envelope. “Anna’s too proud to ask for help, but I hear her on the phone with vendors, trying to negotiate payment plans.”
“Mom—”
She waves my concern away. “We’ll make do. Don’t you worry. Where’s your motorcycle?”
“I left it at the bakery. I’ll pick it up later.”
“Are you hungry? I can make you something.”
She’s already moving toward the fridge, but I stop her with a gentle hand on her arm. “I’m fine, Mom. And now that I’m back, I can help. Why don’t you sit down and let me get you some tea?”
“Oh, honey, you just got here.”
“I’ve been sitting on my bike for over two days. My ass is sore. I need to move around. And I mean it; I want to help.” Even years later, I’m as familiar with this kitchen as I am with the apartment I left.
She hesitates, then nods, sinking into a kitchen chair with a sigh as long as my arm. “The girls are coming by for dinnertonight. We can talk about it then. They’ve been so excited about you coming home to take over for your father.”
“I haven’t decided if I’m taking the job yet, Mom.”
“Of course you will, dear.”
I busy myself with the kettle, buying time before I have to respond. The truth is, I’m not sure I want to be the new Sheriff of Cupid’s Creek. It was Dad’s job, not mine. I was a cop in Chicago, sure, but being the law in a town where everyone knows your name, knows all your mistakes, is a different story.
“How are you doing, really?” I ask instead, setting a steaming mug of her favorite chamomile tea in front of her.
Her smile falters. Her lips tremble. And she blinks back tears. “The house is so quiet.”
I nod, my throat tight. “Yeah.”
“But having you home will help,” she continues, reaching for my hand, putting on a brave face. “And the town needs you. Your father always said you’d make a fine sheriff one day.”
Guilt slices through me. Dad might have said that, but he also saw me at my worst when I was drunk, belligerent, in trouble. I was a nightmare teenager, constantly testing boundaries, picking fights, and stealing cars.Screwing my baby sister’s best friend.The sheriff’s delinquent son. The irony wasn’t lost on anyone, least of all me.
