Chapter one
Mac
Growing up on a small island has its perks. And its downfalls. And then there are the things that are a mixture of the two.
Tawny Michaels is just that. She is the best and the worst memory I have from growing up on Westmount Island.
My childhood best friend, my secret high school girlfriend, and the reason I’ve stayed far away from the small island in the Pacific Northwest that I used to call home.
I’ve kept my distance over the years, only returning to visit my family briefly on holidays. There’s always a reason not to linger and that’s helped me avoid the awkward pain that flares when I think of Tawny. Seeing her might destroy me.
Which makes my temporary return to the island a truly bad idea. I know this, but here I am, sitting in my truck on the vehicle deck of the ferry that is carrying me toward the place I used to call home, but now is nothing more than a place filled with heartbreaking memories. Coming back to Westmount Island was the right choice. I know this, but I’m still worried. I’ll be here for at least a month, the longest I’ve ever been back since I left for college eleven years ago. Avoiding Tawny for that long will be impossible, which means I have to figure out a way to handle seeing the woman I once thought was my soul mate. A ring from my back pocket startles me from my ruminating. Caller ID says it’s my dad and my heart jumps into my throat.
“Dad, hey. Is everything okay? I’m on the ferry.” I can’t hide the panic in my voice. It’s been there ever since the day the call came through that my mother was ill.
“Everything’s fine, son. As fine as it could be, I suppose.”
He sounds calm, much calmer than I sound, I’m sure. And it’s a relief because that’s normal — Dad has always been the steady one of my parents. When he called me from the hospital two weeks ago to tell me that Mom had a stroke, the worry and fear I could hear radiating from him terrified me more than the news itself. If it scared him that much, I knew it had to be bad. And that’s why I’m coming home.
“I just wanted to ask if you could stop at Pete’s and pick up some more wood for the railings. He’s got it set aside for us, but I don’t want to leave your mother.”
I exhale. An errand. Something I can handle. Somehow, I’ve got to get control of my anxiety, I can’t keep running on stress like this. Hopefully once I lay eyes on Mom and see for myself that she’s okay, I’ll be able to breathe normally again.
“Yeah, of course I can, Dad.”
“Thanks, Son. See you soon.”
Conversations with my father are always short and to the point. Mom is the one who always liked to chat for hours and when the realization hits me that I might never get to do that with her again, I feel angry at myself for all the times I cut her off or screened her call. I guess it’s true, you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. I’ll never cut my conversations with my mother short again.
The sun is getting low in the autumn sky when I pull into my parents’ driveway. The quick stop at the hardware store didn’t lead to any Tawny sightings, so it looks like I’ll get through today without my heart being ripped apart. Thank fuck for that.
I unload the lumber and supplies into the garage, which my dad left open for me. Just as I’m carrying in the last load, the door opens and my father steps out. I know he won’t want me to mention the relief I can see etched on his face, so I just flash him a quick smile as I head back to my truck to grab my bags.
“Hey Dad,” I say casually. He stays in the doorway, his hands in his pockets as he nods back at me. Not one for showing emotion, my dad is steady, strong, and unruffled.
“Son. Glad you’re here.”
And that’ll be all he’ll say about it, you can bet on that.
We head inside and the first thing I notice is that it doesn’t smell like home anymore. My mom is, or was, always baking. Bread, muffins, cookies, pies — you name it, she baked it. Most of it she gave away to neighbors or to the church to distribute with food baskets, but the kitchen always had delicious aromas wafting from it. Not today. The air feels heavy, almost stale.
“Where’s Mom?” my voice echoes down the empty hallway. It’s not just the lack of baking that makes this place feel like a shell of what it should be. There’s no noise, no life. No TV on in the background with a sports game, no footsteps, no sound of my mother humming under her breath.
“Upstairs. Resting. I was going to figure out some dinner soon, I just want to build that railing out front first. Your mother, she needs it.”
We’re stopped in the kitchen and I take a close look at my father for the first time. The lines on his face seem deeper and his entire body sags with fatigue or stress. Probably both.
“Dad. I’m here now, let me help,” I say quietly. This is why I put my business on hold for a month and came home. Because even though he’s a man of few words, I could read between the lines. He’s running on fumes and struggling to keep it all together now that Mom is out of the hospital.
He nods and sits down on one of the stools at the kitchen island.
“Thank you, Shawn.”
My parents and my business partners are the only ones who still call me Shawn. I’m named after my father, so a nickname felt like a necessity when I was younger. My company might be called ‘Shawn Macdonald Contracting’, but to everyone I’m Mac.
As I turn my attention to the fridge to see what I can make for a quick dinner, there’s a knock at the door. My dad goes to stand up, but I stop him with a hand on his shoulder, and slide a bottle of beer in front of him instead.
“Let me get it.”
