Page 29 of Lavender Lake
I always made an excuse so I didn’t have to come home and relive the best and worst times of my life. So I didn’t have to replay the fights I’d had with my father over and over.
I swallowed down bitter thoughts and shadows of times when I’d once been happy. Sometimes I wondered if my mother had lived, would I have learned the art of temperance? Would I have learned to think before acting? Or was I wired to lead with emotions first and always?
Bowman climbed out of the truck, while I sat there in the passenger seat. “You coming?”
“Yes.”
I made no move to get out.
Bowman came around to the passenger side and opened the door and waited. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He already knew.
“Some homecoming,” I murmured before I could stop myself.
“Won’t get easier staying in the truck.”
“I know,” I admitted. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
I inclined my head and handed him the pastry boxes that rested on my lap. He took them, and then I hopped down. I gathered the brown bags Mr. Bixby had given us, and then shut the truck door.
The sound of it echoed in the quiet afternoon.
With heavy footsteps and an even heavier heart, I marched toward the porch. Muddy boots and shoes rested on the mat just to the side of the door.
I set the bags of food onto the porch. “Boots off,” I said, removing my shoes.
Bowman didn’t complain as he set the pastry boxes down, and then took off his boots. He set them next to mine.
It was inadvertent and it meant nothing, but something about them lined up next to each other made it look like they belonged together.
With exasperation, I shook the thought aside.
This place.
It was this place making me think things like our boots looked good together.
Four Border Collie Australian Shepherd mixes dashed up the front porch steps, their nails clacking across the wooden planks.
“You have dogs,” Bowman said with a smile.
“Ranch dogs,” I said. “Herding dogs.”
Their noses nudged the pastry boxes and brown bags in excitement, but their tails went crazy when Bowman bent down to give them some affection.
“What are their names?” Bowman asked.
“Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy,” I said. “After the characters inThe Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.”
Because they were working dogs, they quickly lost interest in us and bounded off the porch in search of more amusing companions.
I reached for the handle and turned the knob without bothering with a key.
“They don’t lock the front door?” Bowman asked in surprise.
“No,” I said. “Not usually.”
There was nothing to steal. Pictures, gingham curtains, cast iron.
