Choosing Hope: Home is where the heart is sweet romance, #1

1

PRESENT DAY

Miranda’s red Jeep jolted over the last few potholes in the dirt driveway, causing a cloud of dust to roll past the vehicle and up to the front door.

There goes my surprise attack, she whispered, staring at the house. It appeared empty, with its windows dark in the bright sunlight. But she knew he was there. His rust-covered Chevy truck was parked beside the old barn.

She flipped down the rear-view mirror and rubbed away the mascara smears, then flicked her dirty-blonde hair off her shoulders.

She climbed out of the car and started to slam the door, but then the bravado drained away, leaving her legs feeling like noodles. She shut it quietly, and leaned against it for support as she took a deep breath. Then she squared her shoulders and marched to the house and up the porch steps.

The glass panes of the windows reflected images of the trees behind her, making it impossible to see inside. She glanced down the length of the porch.

Outdoor furniture sat haphazardly at odd angles. Her fingers trailed down the back of the rocking chair nearest the door, and a lump formed in her throat. Memories flashed of Uncle Stew sitting in this exact spot, sharing a story, including rapscallion brothers, from his childhood. She closed her eyes against the tears that threatened to erupt.

Don’t you dare. Not now.

Stiffening her spine, she pushed away both the memories and the dread of rejection, and yanked open the screen door.

Uncle Stew left the house to me too. He can't kick me out. She rapped on the door. Silence was her answer.

She banged again, hurting her knuckles this time.

No response.

Placing her hands on her hips, she yelled, Jason! I know you’re in there. Now she was getting irritated. Your truck’s out here. I know you’re home! Her voice echoed back and suddenly she was unsure. What if he was in the shower? Asleep? Out in the barn?

Then she heard heavy footsteps, moving purposefully inside the house. The irritation flared back, along with adrenaline as her heart sped up like a race car.

This was it. It was really happening. No going back now.

The door crashed open, banging against the interior wall, and Jason stood there. Danger rolled off him waves. He popped his neck with a crack and then, crossing his arms, he casually leaned against the frame, blocking the entrance.

It’d been nearly two years since the funeral, when she last saw him. They had once been friends. Back then he’d been scruffy, silent, and in need of a haircut. He looked the same now, his dark hair curling slightly at his collar line.

Long time no see, Miranda, he said, his voice sounding as dry as the desert.

Jason. She nodded and gripped her purse tightly.

So, what brings you this way? he asked. His gaze raked her over, presumably taking in her short summer dress and tan legs. Planning to stay awhile, or are you just passing through?

Miranda cleared her throat. She hadn’t expected to make her case standing out here, like a vacuum salesman on the front porch. Any news about Cassie?

Oh, you’re here for your sister? Jason rolled his eyes. That’s precious. You abandoned us for the last two years, or didn’t you remember? Left her with me when she was fifteen years old. That was some messed-up crap you put me through. Now you’re back to play the caring big sister?

Just tell me what you know about her.

Guess she sure could have used you a few weeks ago. She’s in a coma. The tightening around his eyes indicated pain his voice didn’t convey.

I just found out, Jason.

Yeah, kind of hard to keep track of people when you’re always on the run, huh? One of those weird life difficulties. He snorted.

Listen, you going to let me in or what?

Jason stared at her for another second before taking a step back. With a grandiose sweep of his arm, he gestured. By all means.

Miranda walked in, arms crossed. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light of the room.

Everything looked just about how she remembered. She took a deep sniff, appreciating the familiar scent of laundry soap and Pine-Sol.

There was a new couch dividing the kitchen from the living room. After a second look at it, she rethought the word new. Jason must have picked it up used because the fabric was faded with a tear on one arm. She turned to examine the kitchen. Same worn spots on the counters, same wood cupboards. A bowl of wrinkly oranges on the counter.

Loud barking erupted—the kind that meant the dog was taking no prisoners—along with a frantic scrabble of toenails on the hardwood floor. Miranda quickly stepped behind the kitchen island, her eyes wide.

A large, black dog raced around the corner with his mouth open, red and toothy. She brandished her purse in front of her as a sort of defense and tottered backward on her heels.

Sit, boy! Jason yelled. Lay down!

The dog ignored him as the hair raised on his neck. A growl rumbled from his chest.

Nice dog. Good boy, Miranda faltered, waggling her fingers in what she hoped was a friendly gesture.

The dog was not impressed, and his growls exploded into staccato barks.

Hey! Cool it. Jason walked over to the animal and tousled the fur by his ears. She’s okay. Chill out, buddy. Sit.

The mutt obediently thumped his bottom on the floor, still watching Miranda with a suspicious stare.

Will he bite?

Jason smirked. Miranda, it’s Archer.

Confused, she glanced at him with raised eyebrows.

The puppy I got after Uncle Stew died. You don’t remember him?

Miranda studied the dog again. The last time she’d seen him his eyes were soft and sweet, and his paws were twice the size of the rest of him. He looks a lot different.

Yeah, well that will happen after a few years. Jason’s half- smile fell off his face. He snapped his fingers at the dog. Come on, play nice.

She gingerly walked over to the dog, her ankles feeling weak after her quick scoot behind the counter. Carefully she extended her hand towards him. Hi, Archer.

Archer stretched out his neck to give her fingers a small sniff. Miranda shivered at his wet nose and hot breath, not wanting to see his teeth again. After a moment, the dog pulled away and panted up at Jason.

Good boy. See. I told you it was okay. Jason massaged behind his ears. He’s been acting a little nutso since Cassie’s been in the hospital. Haven’t you, buddy?

He seems like he grew up to be a great dog.

Yeah, he is. Jason walked over to a cupboard and got a glass. One that looked like an old beer stein. Super loyal. Never lets me down.

She swallowed, feeling the barb he’d sent. So, I’m assuming my bedroom is still in the same place?

Jason flipped on the faucet and filled the glass. Yep. Just like you left it, along with everything else.

Miranda sighed, suddenly exhausted. Seeing him had taken a lot more out of her than she expected. She turned toward the staircase and started up.

Her hand trailed along the silky polished banister, bringing back memories of Cassie’s laughter as she slid down, late for the school bus like always.

She almost lost it when she got to the landing. Her sister’s bedroom was the one to the right. She could hardly breathe.

Oh Cassie. What have I done?

She paused in the doorway of her own room. Everything really was the same—the rose-embroidered counterpane, her white dresser in the corner with its one wonky drawer still not quite pushed in, the stuffed monkey she’d won at the fair slung over the headboard.

Slowly, she walked into the room and set the purse on the bed. It didn’t feel like anyone had been in here during her time away. She moved to the dresser, still decorated with an array of cheap perfume bottles and a glass dog. Smiling fondly, she touched the dog, and then shimmied the top drawer open. A pencil rolled to the front, but otherwise it was bare. Miranda remembered the day she’d emptied it, tossing all her clothes into a duffle bag before anyone else returned home. Anger prickled at the memory, and she shoved the drawer closed.

The next drawer, and then the next, were also vacant. Miranda pulled the last drawer out completely and set it on the floor. Climbing to her knees, she peered inside.

Resting in the back was a notebook. She reached to get it, grimacing at the dust on her fingers.

The cover was covered in grime. She walked to the connecting bathroom, all flamingo pink in original 1950s tile. There was still a quarter roll of toilet paper and an ancient, cracked bar of soap at the sink. She unspooled a bit of the paper and wiped the notebook clean.

Turning the book over, she whispered the words she’d inked as a young teen across the cover in large flourishing letters. Finally Home.

Miranda carried it over to the bed, subconsciously skipping the third board that squeaked. She sat on the edge of the mattress and opened the notebook.

Today is June 19th, and I am fifteen. Everything around her faded as she continued to read, the words spinning memories like a movie behind her eyes. I can’t believe I’m finally here.

2

~JUNE, SEVEN YEARS EARLIER~

T oday is June 19th and I am fifteen years old. I can’t believe I’m finally here. Miranda paused in the middle of writing the sentence to scratch at a scab on her knee, left over from jumping on the train last week. The sharp pain made her wince, and she glanced down. The corner was bleeding again.

Outside in the warm sunshine, she could hear her ten-year- old sister Cassie calling to her dog, Poppy. Miranda bit her lip, hating that she was out of her sight.

She’s safe. I’m safe.

She returned the tip of the pencil to the paper.

Dear Diary, When I was a little kid I really thought I knew things. Like when dad called me downstairs for dinner that night I wouldn’t answer him. I was so mad he’d made me watch Cassie again, and I couldn’t go to the movies with my friends. They were going to watch Clueless.

I was so dumb. I thought he'd always be there.

I’m sorry Diary, I can’t start at the beginning. Because the beginning is too sad. I’ll start at the end. I’m here, at Mr. Stewart’s place, or Uncle Stew as he told us to call him. I made it. I actually did. It’s not exactly the place I intended to go, but it turned out to be the best place for us. And, more importantly, I got Cassie here safe, too. Some day I’ll tell you it all, diary.

Anyway, long story short, some bad things happened, and Cassie and I had to run. Some really bad things happened.

There was just dad, Cassie, and Miranda for a long time. Mom had gone to be with the angels, as Grandma explained in a sad, wavering voice to Miranda when she was five.

For a long time she’d not understood what Grandma meant. She’d asked her dad once, Why would Mom want to go play a crummy harp in the sky with some angels when she had me and Cassie?

He’d asked her where she’d heard that, and then he’d shaken his head. Your mother would have never left you guys if she had a choice. He’d held her close, wrapping her in the scent of Old Spice, and whispered, Things sometimes happen where people don’t have a choice, baby girl. Your Mom always said to look up, because that’s where your real hope is.

That confused her, because wasn’t that where the angels were? Still it was rare that he connected with her like that.

Since that day, her dad had seemed like half a person without her mom. He’d laugh and talk with the girls, but his eyes held a far-away cast. Sometimes he’d stare out into the horizon like he was watching for someone. She’d even asked him about it once, What are you’re looking for, Dad?

He’d shaken himself a bit as if to wake up, and then smiled at Miranda, Not sure, Chickee. But it’s out there somewhere.

She’d been surprised he wasn’t looking up.

Then one day he was gone as well, and now Miranda sat on a hard bench in the front row of the church. Cassie reached over and grabbed her hand, her own tiny but sweaty. Her blue eyes appeared too big for her thin face and her blonde hair was harshly parted by white scalp into two, stiff braids.

Miranda frowned at the sight. Who did your hair?

Cassie scooted closer. Sara Beth’s mom, she whispered.

Miranda glanced behind her, where Sara Beth sat with her parents. Sara Beth’s mother was a large woman, dressed in a paisley silk shirt with an enormous bow tied under the last of her chins. Her eyebrows wrinkled into an exaggerated sad face when she caught Miranda’s eye. She reached over and patted Miranda’s shoulder.

Such brave girls.

The touch was unwanted, fake, and Miranda struggled not to wiggle it off. Instead, she managed a stiff smile and turned back around. She studied the front of the church, her gaze avoiding the center pedestal. The focus of the room. The reason they were all there.

She hadn’t looked at it once, and deep inside, she scolded herself.

Be brave. Be loyal. Be a good daughter.

So, in the last sweep back, she allowed her gaze to settle on the wooden box, festooned with flowers, that held her father’s ashes.

A wave of dizziness overwhelmed her and she squeezed her hands. As hard as she could, she pictured her tree.

The tree was her refuge. About a mile from her home, it had been her hope during the times of turmoil inside the little, white-planked house on the hill. It had hidden her when the boys at school teased her and called her ugly. She liked to climb up and sit in its branches and pretend her hair hung in a long silky sheet and there was a handsome man on the ground ready to rescue her. She was too old for such stupid thoughts, but, like her well-cherished teddy bear with his lop-sided eyes, they comforted her anyway.

The lights grew dim, and the projector screen flashed. People sighed at the many pictures of Miranda’s dad that changed with the click of a mouse. Cassie continued to hold tightly to her hand, only sniffling occasionally.

Those girls are so brave. People whispered around them. Their sympathy cut like a knife in Miranda’s soul.

They didn’t know what she knew, what she couldn’t confess even to herself.

She’d ruined her family.

Or, rather, her secret did. Because once her dad knew what his brother had tried to do to her on that dark night, the shadows around his eyes had deepened. She’d regretted the words almost as soon as they’d come out of her mouth, wishing she could reel them back in. Her dad couldn’t deal with life ripping the rug out from under him again.

He’d gone out two nights later, supposedly to talk to Uncle Vince. The police blamed a drunk driver for forcing her dad off the road, but Miranda knew better. Her dad wasn’t alert, even more distracted because of her secret. Her heart ached with a desire to wind back time.

She should have never told.

After the funeral was finally over, there was still the gauntlet of people to get through. They lined the hallway, waiting to pat Miranda’s back sympathetically.

From the kitchen in the rear of the building came the clanking of dishes and the smell of lasagna. Miranda felt bile rise in her throat at the scent of the food. People passed her from person to person, each shaking her hand, hugging her close, and then handing her off to the next.

Uncle Vince went down the line of mourners behind her. His face was stiff in a perfect picture of stoic grief. Miranda shuddered when he caught her eye and thought she might lose the fight against the nausea.

Miranda. The corners of his mouth turned down and he reached out his arms for a hug. She took a step back. Frowning slightly, he stepped forward and forced her into the embrace. You’re doing so well. And then, leaning in, he exhaled into her ear. With those gorgeous blue eyes, you look so much like your mother.

She pushed away, ready to clock him one, even if it made a scene.

It was then that she saw Cassie talking with her friend in the connecting hallway.

Ignoring her uncle further, she hurried over. After a brief smile at Sara Beth, she whispered to her sister, I’ll be right back. Stay with your friend. Sara Beth was a miniature version of her mother. She clung to Cassie’s arm with what appeared to be pink, moist hands, too.

Miranda walked to