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She gives a long sigh I’ve come to recognize as the patient version. “You were always the stubborn one. Be careful. No one has been up there since before your brother. There’s a long pause and a deep sigh before my mom continues, and I feel the break in her words and the unspoken emotion that went behind it like it were my own. “I don’t like the idea of you all alone is all I’m saying. What if some crazy loon has broken in? You’d be all alone.”
Highly doubtful since everyone knows everyone in the small lakeside community the size of a shoebox, but that doesn’t seem to deter the woman. “I’ve taken care of myself for the last six and a half years and have lived in four different countries, Mom. I think I can handle a little cabin in the woods in Upstate New York. Stop worrying. I’ll call you later and let you know if I find any crazy person growing potatoes for moonshine in our bathtub. Love ya bunches. I have to go now.” If I let her continue, there will never be an end to the “what if’” questions. Ever since my brother died, all she does is worry, which causes me to worry and I already have enough anxiety issues without taking on hers. But I know she does it out of love, so I try to keep it light. “Then again, if our pretend moonshiner has some good stuff…” I let my words trail off as my mom’s soft laughter fills my ear.
“Moonshine or not, just because you’ve traveled to a few countries doesn’t mean something can’t happen; remember that, honey. Now, your dad had the power and water turned back on, but I don’t think he was happy about it.” Which was code for I’d be getting a call from him later to check in on me.
“Give him a big kiss for me and know I love you guys,” I say.
“Okay. We love you too, babe. Talk soon.”
There is an odd note to the way she says “okay” that tells me I haven’t heard the last of this, but I shrug it off as I end the call and toss the phone in the passenger side of my rental car. I hit the button to lower the window and breathe in a lungful of fresh mountain air.
I’ve missed this place more than I realized. Beautiful towering pines and lush oaks decades older than my quarter of a century have my attention. Each twist and bow in the wind welcoming me as I slow my car. I’d forgotten how beautiful this place is in the summertime.
I flick on the signal light and make a left down a long, uneven and neglected dirt path tucked away and completely hidden from the main road.
In the distance I see glittering waters sparkle through the hanging branches in the early afternoon sun. I feel like I’ve rediscovered a forbidden hideaway as I pull to a stop outside the two-story log cabin my family inherited from my great-grandparents around the time my brother was born.
The scent of pine and sweet honeysuckle hits me first, and then I notice a storm hanging out over the distant mountains that will probably greet me around dinnertime.
“Maybe I am off planet,” I mutter to myself as I kill the engine, because even overgrown, this place has a magic about it. Such a stark contrast to the congested hustle of New York City I’m used to.
No other soul is in sight and only the soft calling of a distant owl and the rustle of wind through the leaves can be heard as I step from the car and make my way around to the other side to pluck up my box of provisions. I gather the neatly packed box and prop it under an arm and head for the large porch.
I thought about the last time I ran my hand over this exact spot of the polished railing. The last time I sat around the warm campfire sharing stories with family and friends down by the lake.
Images of Linc, Cain and Grant flow in and out of my mind as they often do, but they seem stronger, more vivid standing here where they spent so much of their time with us.
It’s been far too long. Seven years now. Most of that I spent off at college and then pursuing a career in writing children’s books and illustrations that has kept me busy and content for the most part.
I stayed away because of them and what happened between us that night. Before I could find my way back, my brother was killed in action. That happened over a year and a half ago, and after that, my heart couldn’t take the thought of coming here and not seeing him.
Everyone said to give it time, but I’m tired of hurting and can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever be happy again. The several unfinished manuscripts on my hard drive are a testament to that. I have a steady clientele who keep me from going hungry, but my passion is drier than the Mojave.
The tears have stopped coming every night but standing outside the door looking out over the one place on earth he loved with all his heart, I feel them stinging the back of my eyes. His slice of heaven has become the one place neither my parents nor I can bear visiting and because of that, here I stand.
Balancing the box of goods on one hip, I run the tips of my fingers over the once gleaming polished wood time has faded into a dull brown instead of its once lustrous chestnut.
Unlike the memories I have of my last time here. Those have not faded by any stretch as I cup my hand around my eyes to peek through the side kitchen window.
A new agony pierces my heart even as excitement at being here again fills me. But I’m not here for the men I once thought I loved.
I roll my eyes at my inner thoughts. Of course, my head wants to go there. Although in my defense, it is easier to think about them than my brother.
I take the porch steps two at a time, breathing in the warm air. Summer is in full swing with the occasional dragonfly or grasshopper doing their thing in the vast yard that lies between the cabin and lake.
Guilt at abandoning the once beautiful spot eats away at me and my heart grows heavy, but I’m here now. And with a plan. I just need to step back, clear my head long enough to let my heart find some kind of inner peace. I’m here to give myself a chance at rediscovering what I love most, or I’m going to sink like a boulder. It’s a freaking miracle I haven’t already. Luckily, I have a fabulous agent who’s helped me land good contracts that have earned me a shit ton of money, but it’s not going to be long before that dries up. Plus, I’m on a deadline to deliver a finished manuscript in three weeks.
I almost feel guilty I haven’t started, but what can I say? I’ve hit a brick wall and my heart just isn’t in it anymore.
So I’m going to take a page out of my own book for once, purge my soul and sweat it out the old-fashioned way.
If I can’t, it will cost me everything.
No more writing or painting for young hearts.
No more career.
Not that I have much of one at the moment anyway, but I’d like to salvage something before my agent drops me.
