Lessons Learned (4 page)

I had embraced my life in Memphis, dating a little and making new friends. Listening to jazz on Beale Street became my favorite weekend activity. That’s where I’d met Ryan, a music major from Little Rock who loved to play the saxophone. We dated until my demons—both past and present—became too much for him to handle.

Once I arrived back at the house, I quickly unloaded the paint supplies before heading to the living room to begin the miserable process of unpacking. The thick burgundy curtains made the room a little dim, so I reached for a lamp.

A thousand memories flooded me as the room was illuminated in a soft yellow haze.

Running my hands along the faded white walls, I paused briefly when my fingers came into contact with the old framed photographs. My grandmother had loved taking pictures, and I’d always been her favorite subject.

I’d been such a happy child; the girl in the frame was proof. Dangling upside down from a tree with my brown pigtails and cute dimples, it was hard to fathom that this brave kid used to be me.

Once upon a time, I had been fearless.

I suppose youth has a strange way of making you foolishly courageous.

At the end of the row of photographs was my favorite picture of my parents. Mom was in her simple white dress and dad was wearing his best Sunday suit as they smiled into each other’s eyes on their wedding day. I’d spent my childhood gazing at the picture, desperate to grow up and find a love just like theirs—full of mutual respect and complete adoration for one another.

I still believed their marriage was a fairy tale.

With a heavy heart and tears prickling my eyes, I trailed my finger along the glass frame, wiping away the dust.

I missed them.

The rest of the day was spent cleaning and unpacking. I had two weeks until school started, which was good, because it would take me that long to get the house organized. As I carried a box upstairs, I noticed the wooden banister was a little loose. I mentally added it to my repair list before opening the door to my old bedroom.

A new wave of memories washed over me, leaving me breathless.

My room was just as I’d left it.

The walls were faded green and an embarrassing display of everything I’d loved when I was a teenager. Sycamore High School pennants hung above the bed and a few basketball trophies lined the top of the bookshelf. A Kenny Chesney concert photograph was displayed on one wall while a Coldplay poster hung proudly on the other.

Clearly, I’d been a musically confused teenager, as one had absolutely nothing to do with the other.

While exploring the room, I spotted my dad’s old record player. Growing up, I’d collected vinyl records like most girls collected Barbie dolls, and I’d begged Mr. Johnson to keep a supply of record needles on hand, just for me.

I glanced toward my closet and smiled.

Standing on tiptoe, I opened the door and pulled my record collection from the top shelf. Collapsing on the floor, I sighed longingly as I flipped through the album covers. I’d stolen many of the records from my dad’s old collection, and seeing Creedence Clearwater Revival mixed in with Michael Jackson’s
Thriller
proved my musical confusion spanned the decades.

Or maybe I just liked good music, regardless of the labels.

I needed a place to sleep, so I placed MJ on the turntable and spent the rest of the evening cleaning my old room. I stripped the bed, added fresh linens, and dusted every flat surface. When the old grandfather clock echoed from downstairs, I felt a distinct tiredness wash over me. It was almost a conditioned response. For two years of my life, that chime had signaled the end of the day.

It was such a comforting sound.

Later, while lying in bed, I thought about my first day back in my little hometown. The people in Sycamore Falls were just the same—sweet, friendly, and nosy. I’d expected all of those things. What I hadn’t expected was the constant mention of my family and my emotional reaction to it.

Would it get any easier?

I hoped so.

I closed my eyes, and with Michael Jackson serenading me, I fell into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 3

With a weary groan, I glanced at the clock on my nightstand.

    7:00 a.m.

What the hell?

Jumping out of bed, I rushed over to the window to see who was waking me up at such an ungodly hour. It was a beautiful mountain morning, but the scenery paled in comparison to the handsome man with the weed eater, plowing his way through my jungle of shrubs.

Far too eager to say hello, I took the quickest shower in history and threw on a vintage tee and capris before I headed to the kitchen. It wasn’t long before bacon was sizzling on the stove. I had no idea what Lucas liked to drink, and I didn’t own a coffee maker, so I poured two glasses of juice and hoped for the best.

As I stepped onto the porch, my body froze.

“Sarah, you look stunned.”

I
was
stunned. You could actually see my grandmother’s flowers now—all reds and purples and unbelievably pretty.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Lucas said, gauging my reaction as he slipped on his shirt. “Tommy suggested I start with the flowerbeds. His exact words were, ‘You are bound to get snake bit in that yard of hers.’ So, to avoid death by rattlesnake, I decided to do some landscaping.”

I laughed. “Your accent needs a little work.”

“Well, Tommy’s accent is impossible to imitate,” Lucas said, grinning at me as he climbed the porch steps. “Good morning, Sarah.”

“Good morning. I brought you some orange juice.”

He thanked me and quickly guzzled it down.

“I’ve started breakfast. Bacon and eggs okay?”

“Bacon and eggs sound great.”

It was a little awkward, inviting him inside. After all, he was a stranger, but Tommy and Aubrey loved him, so I figured it was safe. I pointed toward the downstairs bathroom, and he went to wash up while I scrambled the eggs and popped bread into the toaster. I was just placing everything on the kitchen table when he returned.

“So you’re not mad?”

The question surprised me. “Why would I be mad?”

Lucas took a seat at the table. “I wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information yesterday. I probably should have told you I was teaching at the high school, too.”

“I’m not mad,” I replied, pouring him another glass of juice before sitting down. “I was just surprised. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Well, that’s because I’d known you for thirty seconds.”

He bowed his head and looked appropriately ashamed. “If I clean out the gutters, will you forgive me?”

“Possibly,” I smirked.

“You’re all heart.” He grinned at me and reached for another biscuit. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Something told me Lucas was a true bachelor and hadn’t had a home cooked meal in ages.

“Shellie and Aubrey told me you’re from New York City.”

He looked confused. “Who’s Shellie?”

“Maybe she goes by Michelle now? We called her Shellie back in school.”

“Oh, the cheerleading coach?” Lucas asked, grimacing slightly when I nodded. “She’s uh . . . been really friendly.”

I could just imagine. Shellie had always been a shameless flirt.

“Yes, I’m from New York City,” he said, eager to change the subject. “I received my bachelor’s degree from NYU, and I’ve been teaching history for the past five years.”

“That’s how long I’ve been teaching, too.”

“So we’re probably pretty close in age,” Lucas hedged shyly.

“Probably so. I’m twenty-seven.”

“Me too.”

Lucas lifted the gallon of juice and poured each of us another glass. If there was a scandal, he certainly didn’t seem eager to share it, which I could appreciate. My situation wasn’t exactly a secret, but I still wasn’t ready to talk about it.

He thanked me for breakfast, and I followed him back outside to find a ladder already propped against the house.

I cast a sideways glance at him.

“You already cleaned out the gutters, didn’t you?”

He chuckled. “Possibly.”

Rolling my eyes, I laughed and headed back inside, ready to clean up the mess we’d made. One thing was for sure—Lucas liked to eat, and I had a feeling I was going to have to make another trip to the grocery store very soon.

I spent the morning unpacking and cleaning the downstairs. It was such a big house, especially when compared to my Memphis apartment, so the thought of keeping it organized was a little overwhelming. Grandma always kept the house neat as a pin, and now that I was an adult and it was my home, I could appreciate how difficult it must have been for her to keep it tidy, especially as she’d grown older.

I decided to start with my books, so I grabbed one of the massive boxes and carried it over to the barren shelf. There were a few things there—mainly family photo albums and some of my high school yearbooks—but it was the old family Bible that caught my attention.

Dropping down onto the floor, I crossed my legs and pulled the Bible from the shelf, placing it gently in my lap. Swallowing nervously, I slowly flipped through the pages until I found our family tree.

I still remember the day my grandma wrote my parents’ names on the page. It had been a Wednesday. The funeral was over and the visitors had finally disappeared, leaving us alone in the house for the first time. I could still recall the stillness in the air and the finality of it all when she wrote their dates of death on the page. I could remember running up the stairs and slamming the door to my bedroom, where I buried my head beneath the pillow and grieved. After two days of tears, I’d finally emerged from my room, and my grandma gently took me by the hand and led me into the kitchen.

She didn’t say a word; she just handed me an apron.

I quickly became a baking pro.

Reverently, I ran my fingers across their names, wondering what they’d think of the woman I’d become. Would they be proud? Would they be disappointed?

I had no idea.

My dad would be disappointed that I hadn’t regularly attended church since my parents’ funerals.  Growing up, attending both services on Sunday had been mandatory, but after their deaths, my faith had been shaken to its core. My father had always said ‘God would never put more on us than we could bear,’ but to a sixteen-year-old orphan, that particular bit of religious wisdom was hard to comprehend. Did God really believe I could survive without my parents? Was this truly God’s plan for me?

And if so, did I want any part of it?

Grandma understood my internal struggle and hadn’t forced me to attend services with her on Sundays. She and I spent many evenings baking in the kitchen or sitting on her front porch while I vented about everything from silly boys to high school Geometry. She never once made me feel like a heathen for asking questions or not attending church. My grandma truly understood my desire for answers and encouraged me to search for them.

In many ways, I was still searching for them.

Placing the Bible back on the shelf, I finished unpacking my books and then rearranged some of the living room furniture. Most of it really needed to be replaced, but it would have to do for now. I added a few picture frames to the end tables, and I had just finished dusting when the grandfather clock struck noon.

“Sarah?” Lucas yelled from the kitchen.

“In here!”

He appeared in the doorway, and I laughed when I saw his overalls were covered in dried paint.

“Did you get into a fight with the paintbrush?”

“We had a slight disagreement, yes.” Lucas smiled, appraising the living room. “You’ve been working hard in here.”

“It’s getting there.” It still needed a few things—some plants, maybe, and a new television—but with the boxes out of the way and the dust cleared, it actually looked cozy.

“It looks great.” He grinned and pointed toward the old upright piano in the corner of the room. “Do you play?”

“I used to. Mom forced me to take lessons when I was a kid.”

Both of us sat down along the bench. Sliding his fingers across the keys, he pushed a note, and the sound was jarring and discordant.

“That can’t be right,” he grumbled sourly.

I laughed. “It just needs tuning. I’m sure it hasn’t been touched in years. Grandma couldn’t play at all, but it’d been in the family forever.”

“And you’d play for her because it made her happy.”

I nodded and ghosted my hands along the keys.

“You miss her,” Lucas whispered.

“Very much.”

I played a few scales, but the piano was horribly out of tune. Cringing, I quickly placed the lid over the keys and offered him a smile.

“I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?”

His sheepish chuckle was his only reply.