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“Sorry, buddy.”
“Are we close?” he asks.
I nod toward the sign up ahead that reads,Welcome to Balsam Ridge. One thousand two hundred fifty-seven smiling faces and one old grump.
His eyes skim the road sign.
“Is there really an old grump?” he asks.
“Oh, yeah, and you’ll know when you meet him,” I answer, hoping to get a smile or a grin or even a grunt from him.
He just rolls his eyes and looks back down at his monitor.
Needless to say, I’m not winning any Mom of the Year prizes anytime soon. My kid hates me. Not his father. Me.
I don’t blame him. I’m the one who ripped him from his home and everyone he knew and fled to the hills once word got out about Damon and Ivy.
You see, in Naperville, it’s all about who you know and what you have. Girlfriends might have your back at brunch when you complain about your husband, but it’s a different story when shit really and truly hits the fan. And Dr. Damon Lowder is more important to remain friends with than his cheated-on and dumped wife. Shunned. That’s me. Poor, pitiful, shunned Taeli. I had to escape. Damon can have our ex–dream home, our ex-friends, and our ex-life. To hell with them all.
So, here we are, ten miles from my mother’s house. The home where my brother, Gene, and I grew up. The place I couldn’t wait to leave in the rearview mirror the second I graduated high school.
Fuck me.
The sun starts its descent behind the mountain as we turn onto the gravel road that winds up to the old farmhouse.
The road is narrow, the climb is steep, and there’s not a streetlight or guardrail in sight.
I throw the Volvo XC90 into four-wheel drive, and rocks ricochet off the tires and ping against the undercarriage.
Caleb removes his earbuds and tosses his tablet across the seat.
“What’s wrong, buddy?” I ask.
“There’s no reception,” he says as he looks out the window and his eyes go wide.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” I ask as he takes in the view.
“We’re going to fall down the mountain,” he says with a tremor in his voice.
“No, we aren’t. Your momma can drive these mountain roads with her eyes closed. This is my old stomping ground. I learned how to drive a stick on this very gravel.”
“A stick?”
“Yep, a manual stick shift truck with no automatic steering. It was a beast. My daddy made me stop and start every half-mile straight up the mountain. I wore the clutch out on that old truck, but by the time I had to go take my driver’s test, I could drive it as well as he could,” I say with pride.
“Good job,” he says, sarcastically raising his thumbs in the air.
This sweet child of mine.
We finally make it to the top at fifty-two hundred feet and turn into the open gate. I park in front of the house.
It looks the same as it did the day I left. A two-story robin’s-egg-blue Colonial farmhouse with white trim. A wide-columned front porch with a large bay window from the dining room that overlooks the yard. Gone is the shingled roof from my childhood, and in its place is soft gray tin.
I take a deep breath as I turn off the ignition.
I haven’t been back here since my father’s funeral five years ago. I half-expected the place to be a dilapidated ruin, not the postcard picture–worthy scene before me.
“You ready, buddy?” I ask as I glance back at Caleb.
“I guess,” he mumbles as he gathers his things.
We exit the vehicle as my mother, Leona Tilson, appears on the front porch, her face alight.
She is a sight in her long green kaftan. Her silver hair is held back from her face with a headband. I can hear her booming voice before a word leaves her mouth as she stretches out her arms.
Here goes nothing.
