Page 5 of Keeping You
“I should check out my old room, settle in, unpack my bag.” Any excuse to not have this conversation right now.
She laughs softly. “I haven’t changed a thing. Even kept those awful band posters on the wall. Why don’t you settle in while I get things prepped and make dessert for dinner tonight?”
I force a smile and head upstairs, taking them two at a time like I used to as a kid. My bedroom door is closed, and for a second, I hesitate. Opening it feels like stepping back in time. Inside, it’s like a museum exhibit of teenage Luke. Faded posters, musicians I haven’t listened to in years. Trophies fromhigh school baseball. Books I never read. And on my desk, a framed photo I’d forgotten about, me and Dad during one of our fishing trips, both of us grinning, his arm around my shoulders as I hold up my catch.
I pick it up, a sprinkling of dust collecting on my fingertips. We appear happy. Normal. Like a father and son who talked about more than just my latest screw-up. A year later, he was sending me off to live with his brother in Chicago.
Setting it down, I sink onto my twin bed, the springs creaking in protest as I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted. Coming back was a mistake. But Mom needs me. Anna needs me. Even Harper, in her own way, needs me. And Dad... Dad would want me to step up. To be the man he always believed I could be, despite evidence to the contrary. If he knew how I failed my partner back in Chicago…
Eager to escape the memories, I push myself up, stuff my few things from my bag into an empty dresser drawer, and then go back downstairs, determined to at least check one thing off my list today. “I’m going to run to the hardware store. There are a few repairs I want to make around here.”
Mom looks up from cutting carrots, a surprised expression on her face. “Oh, you don’t have to do that today, Luke. You just got here.”
“I want to,” I insist. “The gutter over the porch is hanging loose, and that porch step has been creaky for years.”
She doesn’t argue further, knowing that, like Dad, she can’t change my mind. She simply smiles that sad smile that breaks my heart.
The hardware store is at the other end of Main Street, forcing me to walk past all the businesses and townspeople I would prefer to avoid. I keep my head lowered so I don’t make eye contact, but I hear the barely concealed whispers.
“The prodigal son returns.”
“The bad boy all grown up.”
“I don’t know what Mayor Aldridge was thinking. He’ll never fill his father’s shoes.”
Inside the store, I grab a basket and start loading it with supplies: wood screws, a new hammer, and sandpaper. The clerk, who used to coach Little League when I was a kid, gives me a curt nod when I approach the register.
“Luke,” he says, scanning my items without meeting my eyes. “Heard you were back in town.”
“Hello, Mr. Wilson. I guess word travels fast.” Considering I’ve been in town for an hour or two at most, the gossip tree must have been working overtime.
“Always does.” He bags my purchases, still not looking at me directly. “That’ll be forty-seven fifty.”
I hand over my credit card, trying not to let his coldness get to me. What did I expect? A welcome home parade?
As I’m leaving, an older woman stops me outside the store. It takes me a second to place Mrs. Donovan, my third-grade teacher and one of my parents’ oldest friends.
“Luke Caldwell,” she says, her voice warm where Tom’s was frosty. “It’s good to see you. Your mother must be tickled pink that you’re finally home.”
“Mrs. Donovan.” I shift the bag to my other hand, oddly nervous. “Good to see you too.”
She studies me with eyes that haven’t dulled with age. “Your father was proud of you, you know. Always talking about his boy, the big city police officer.”
I swallow hard. “He never said that to me.”
“Men of his generation rarely do.” She pats my arm. “But he told everyone else.”
I can only nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“Your family’s had a rough go of it lately, with your father’s passing, the bakery, and then all that business with your sister and the Cooper girl.”
I stiffen at the mention of Callie. You’d think she was talking about a couple of miscreant children and not two adult women. “Yeah, well, family stuff can be complicated.”
Complicated. That was one word for it. Fifteen years of silence didn’t erase the way my pulse quickened catching her across the street. The rational part of me says leave it alone. And that’s the problem. I don’t want to be rational.
“Indeed, it can.” She gives me a knowing look. “If you’re looking to smooth things over, you might start with Callie. She’s got a lot of sway around here, and from what I hear, she could use a friendly face right about now. She might even be able to convince her staunch supporters to visit the bakery again.”
Before I can respond, she’s walking away, leaving me standing there with my hardware store bag and my brain jumping to the girl I left behind.
