Return to Sweetwater: Sweetwater Sagas, #1

Chapter 1

I promised I’d never come back.

Ever.

Twenty years later, I’m breaking that promise.

I park my car in my mother’s driveway, but I don’t get out.

Not yet.

I don’t have the courage.

Instead, I take the gas station tuna sandwich I bought from the Sunoco just outside Sweetwater and peel it from the crinkly plastic box. The bread edges are dry and stick to the roof of my mouth, but I’m hungry enough to eat it, anyway. Days of nonstop driving make a girl less picky.

A one-eared cat strolls toward me, its rusty marmalade fur a splash of orange against my mother’s perfect green lawn.

I open the door and sprinkle tuna on the ground, watching as the cat daintily noses my offering.

It must be the neighbor’s cat. Mother hates animals, and she especially hates anything not perfect, and a one-eared cat would meet both criteria.

It probably belongs to the Andersons.

Marie Anderson loves strays of any kind, shape, or description. I glance at the Andersons’ home, so different from the one I grew up in. Where my mother’s house is all straight lines and manicured flowerbeds, the Andersons’ is a riot of overgrown plants, color, and lawn art.

Mother hated the Andersons the moment they moved in, and I was never allowed onto their property, although I used to watch Marie host lively barbeques and parties out my bedroom window. Even their son Jake Anderson, science geek extraordinaire, threw parties. Parties where he and his pasty science geek friends would sit around the pool and eat pizza.

I wasn’t allowed to have guests over.

One quiet evenings Jean, the Andersons’ housekeeper, would join them for casual outdoor dinners. I would watch with jealous eyes as they sat chatting and laughing over Jean’s famous potato salad. I never got to taste the delicious smelling steaks Curtis grilled.

I stuff my uneaten crusts into the sandwich box and apply lipstick. I look like someone has pulled me through a fence backwards, but at least mother will know I’ve tried.

Slowly, slowly, I walk toward the door.

Secretly, I hope mother will fling the door open, wrap me in a giant hug, and promise me bygones will be bygones. My realistic brain tells me the best I can hope for is a chance to grovel and maybe, just maybe, she’ll give me the paperwork I so desperately need.

I ring the doorbell, listening to the chimes echo through the house. I know she’s home. There’s a shiny, late-model Mercedes parked in the driveway.

A minute drags by, then another. Then footsteps and the rattle of locks. Three of them, chinking into place before the door swings open.

Our eyes meet, but she shows no emotion. I’m not sure if it’s the plastic surgery that’s stretched her wrinkles into submission or if she doesn’t care that her daughter is home after twenty years.

Hello, Mother, I say.

Robin. I suppose you should come in. Her voice is dry as she stands back for me to walk past, but her eyes skitter across the neighborhood, scanning for anyone who might see the prodigal daughter's return and spread the news.

Shoes, she reminds me.

I stoop to untie my Fendi sandals, the kind with ties that wind up my ankles, and step into a pair of disposable slippers before following her through the foyer. Everything is new, but it’s still beige, still tasteful, still perfect and shiny.

I wonder if my bedroom still exists or if she’s repurposed it.

Mother doesn’t like to be reminded of imperfections, so it’s probably a home office now.

I glance up the wide wooden staircase as we pass into the living room. I sit on the very edge of her dove grey velvet couch, mindful not to disturb anything.

Why are you here? she asks.

The papers, I need the papers.

I remember the last time I saw them, at the clinic in California twenty years ago. Mother whisked them away the second I signed, slid them into a blue plastic folder, and announced she never wanted to hear from me again.

I’ll do anything to reclaim them.

Even talked to the person who ripped my heart from my chest and casually walked away.

I need the papers, I tell her. I planned to grovel, but realize Mother isn’t in the mood.

She tilts her head, considering my statement.

What papers? My heart sinks.

Mother is doing that thing where she pretends not to know what I’m talking about. Not a promising sign. She knows exactly what I want. She has to.

"The documents from the clinic. They’re mine and I want—no, I need them back." I use my most assertive voice. The voice I use to tell clients that dress doesn’t look good on them, even though I know they want it.

I don’t have anything of yours, her voice is calm, collected, leaving no space to argue.

But mother. When I asked you not to come back, I meant it, she tells me, standing.

The conversation is over. I recognize that shuttered expression, but I’m not giving up. I’ve been waiting for twenty years and I’m determined.

I shuffle back through the foyer in the too big slippers and grab my sandals. Clutching them to my chest as Mother watches with cold, hard eyes. Stinging tears blind me as I stumble to my car.

The door closes, but I sense her watching eyes. I sit for a moment, collecting my thoughts. I’m not leaving until I get that folder, so it looks like I’ll be staying in town for a while. Moe’s Motel is probably still open.

I’ll get a room and find my brother. Maybe he’ll help. I don’t have much money. The joint account is drained, so just what little I saved in my personal account and the cash I scrounged from the house before my escape from California. I’m not going back, so I guess I’m stuck here for the foreseeable future.

It’s fine.

Everything will be fine. I tell myself, my trembling hand putting the key into the ignition. Suddenly, there’s a knock on my window. I jump, looking over as my blue eyes meet a pair of melting chocolate brown eyes.

You scared me, I say, wiping my finger under my eyes. Who is this guy? I would have remembered someone who looked like that living in my neighborhood. A relationship is absolutely not on my agenda, but still—my pulse kicks up an annoying notch when our eyes clash.

You don’t remember me, do you? he asks.

Should I? I ask.

I’m Jake. We lived next door to each other for ten years.

Jake, Jake Anderson? The nerdy science kid turned into this?

Hi Jake, I say, acutely aware of my three-day travel hair and wrinkled clothes.

What are you doing in town? he asks. Hmm... this Jake is different. Nerdy high school Jake scampered off like a terrified puppy, then stared at me from a safe distance every time I came within twenty feet.

He’s not shy now.

Six feet of pure confidence, muscle, and hotness are standing next to my beat-up car. You didn’t recognize me, did you? he asks.

Something flashes across his face.

Hurt?

The fleeting expression disappears too fast for me to read it.

Sorry, of course, Jake. It’s been a while, and you have changed. A lot.

Guess so. What are you doing back in Sweetwater? He leans forward, peering into my car and I flush, hoping he doesn’t spot the mountain of wrappers crammed under the passenger seat.

Just... visiting.

At least I hope it’s a visit.

The minute I pry those documents away from mother’s grabby hands, I’m leaving. There are too many feelings lurking here. Feelings I don’t want to feel ever again.

Oh, where are you staying? he asks.

So many questions.

I shrug one shoulder, Moe’s Motel.

His eyes flicker again, this time its concern. Although why Jake Anderson would concern himself with a woman he hasn’t seen in twenty years is beyond my comprehension.

Moe’s is a rat trap.

Again, my eyes sting with unwelcome tears.

Jake’s right. Moe’s is a rat trap, but Moe’s is all I can afford and I doubt my brother will welcome me more warmly than my mother did.

I cut ties with everyone in Sweetwater the second I left and I have nowhere else to go. I shrug again, adopting a nonchalant expression.

I’m not staying long.

You’re not staying at Moe’s, he says.

Yes, I am. I’m not living in my car.

Not yet.

No, you’re not. Come on, you can stay in Jean’s cottage. Jake says.

It sounds like an order and people pleaser that I am. I automatically unbuckle my seat belt.

Then I think again. I’m not letting another man order me around.

The reason I’m broke and can’t show my face in LA is because I let a man push me around.

Nope.

Not happening.

I can’t, I tell him in my firmest voice.

Robin, it’s fine. My mom would love to have you; besides Jean moved to Florida to live with her sister. The cottage is empty.

I don’t take charity, I tell him. He opens my car door, which I’ve unwittingly left unlocked. Because who expects some hunk of heart-stopping muscle is going to open your car door in your mother’s driveway?

I’m in North Carolina, not California.

I can’t impose, I tell him.

Just have a peek. No one’s forcing you.

I stare at Jake and he stares back. He’s not going to back down.

I reluctantly unbuckle my seat belt. I’ll look at the cottage, make excuses, then leave.

Fine, but just looking.

Chapter 2

Embarrassment burns my cheeks, but it’s too late to back out. Jake’s already leading me toward the Anderson house. We skirt the giant fence Marie and Jake erected to keep their rescue dogs out of Mother’s flowerbeds. It’s extra tall because they adopted a German Shepherd that could scale an average fence in two seconds flat.

A super fence.

Mother hated it; and she hated it more when Marie painted her side of the fence pink.

I follow Jake up the porch steps, past Marie’s jungle of plants and duck under a forest of clinking wind chimes as through the front door.

Hi honey, did you forget... oh, hello, Marie pauses when she spots me hovering behind Jake.

Hi Marie, I say.

I can’t help looking around in interest.

Marie’s house always fascinated me and the fact that I wasn’t allowed in only stoked my curiosity. It’s exactly how I imagined. Warm, colorful, cluttered with books and plants.

The one-eared cat has followed us and jumps on the couch, curling up on an open medical book.

Shoo, Bunny, Marie laughs, lifting the cat and setting him on a turquoise velvet cushion. Don’t mind the mess. Sweetwater College asked me to teach a semester, and I didn’t like to disappoint them, so I’m textbook shopping.

Do you still work at the clinic? I ask, relieved she isn’t asking questions about why I’m in Sweetwater.

Work, the perfect topic for conversation.

Safer than Why are you back in Sweetwater, Robin?

Yep, for better or for worse, Marie laughs.

Mom’s the head surgeon now, Jake says.

Marie sighs, True, but I’m regretting it now. I prefer patients to paperwork. Tea?

Sure. I follow Marie and Jake to the big kitchen. Colorful cupboards, windowsills lined with plants and floorboards that have actual patina. My heart unlocks when I spot the refrigerator covered with post-its pictures and cards. This is a home—not the sterile show house of my childhood.

Again, sorry about the mess. Ever since Jean left, I’ve been having trouble keeping up, and Curtis can barely remember to wear socks, Marie laughs indulgently.

Where is Curtis? I ask, looking around.

Star Wars convention, Marie replies briskly. She pours three enormous glasses full of iced tea.

Are you baking? I ask, spotting a mixer half full of what appears to be chocolate chip cookie dough.

Oh, cookies, I almost forgot. Hon, would you grab those out of the oven for me? Jake, get the cheesecake out of the garage fridge.

I put on the handmade oven mitts that are hanging on the stove and put them on before removing two trays of mouth-watering chocolate chip cookies.

Looks like we caught them just in time.

Moments later Marie is pressing a plate of warm, melty in the middle chocolate chip cookies on me.

In LA I don’t eat sugar. Apparently, North Carolina me guzzles sweet tea and can’t resist home baking because I eat three cookies in five minutes.

Mom, Robin was going to stay at Moe’s Motel. You know it’s not safe there. I thought she could use the cottage, Jake says as I shove a third of a cookie in my mouth. He shoots a meaningful glance at his mom, but I can’t protest through my mouthful of gooey goodness.

Goodness dear, you know there was a robbery in that fleabag motel just last month. They should really do something, but Moe is John Sellers cousin and he’s County Commissioner. Of course you can stay in Jean’s old cottage, Marie says.

I chew and swallow the cookie, then open my mouth to talk. That’s such a nice offer, Marie, but really, I’ll be fine. Moe’s isn’t so bad.

Maybe if you're looking for a place to open a cathouse, Jake replies.

Marie shoots Jake a disapproving look, but doesn’t disagree.

I stare at the yellow striped pattern on Marie’s cookie plate. The truth is, I can’t afford something like the Anderson’s cottage, and I don’t feel comfortable taking charity. Especially after Mother was so unpleasant to them.

Marie looks at me, understanding flashing across her face. I find myself swamped now that Joan’s gone. Would you help me out a bit in exchange for accommodation? Now that I’m taking on these classes at Sweetwater, I can’t keep up. It would be a complete lifesaver. Unless you’re too busy, of course.

Well... I hesitate. I’m not busy, but living right next door to Mother? That’s a complication I hadn’t foreseen.

She’ll take it, Jake says.

Marie smiles, Great. Let’s get you settled now. I have an hour before I’m due at the clinic, she glances at the clock, then furrows her brow, Jake, wasn’t your car picking you up?

Jake’s jaw twitches. No.

But your flight?

Cancelled. Jake looks at his mother and some form of communication I don’t understand shoots between them. An entire conversation with only their eyes. I wish my mother and I had that.

Okay, she nods, let’s go.

Sure, I slide off the stool and we all troop outside, past three furry puddles lounging on the back deck, an elderly golden retriever, a half-grown sheepdog, and a stubby French Bulldog.

Down, Pepper, Marie laughs as the French Bulldog jumps up, pawing her legs. She lifts the dog in her arms and the one-eared cat stalks behind us as we walk across the extensive backyard toward the cottage. The cottage is actually an attractive wooden A-frame. I’ve always loved its charming window boxes overflowing with plants and a cozy deck complete with two wicker swing chairs.

Joan left the furniture and kitchen stuff because her sister had everything in the condo, so it’s pretty well kitted out. All you need is sheets and blankets. Marie says opening the front door.

I peek inside, a thrill of excitement running through me. The inside of the A-frame is gorgeous, all warm wooden floors, exposed rafters and a big loft bedroom upstairs.

Jake, you wouldn’t mind grabbing bedding from the linen closet, would you? Queen size is on the middle shelf, Marie says.

Jake leaves Marie and me standing in the cottage’s open-plan kitchen.

Thank you so much. This place is amazing, I tell Marie.

You’re welcome. I couldn’t let you stay at Moe’s with a clean conscience. But...

Marie’s tone drops heavy with meaning, putting all my senses on high alert.

My son was a mess over you in high school, so be careful. It’s our pleasure to help you, but I get the impression you’re not sticking around for long and I don’t want him hurt. Not again.

I would never... I open my mouth, but she raises a finger.

I suspect you’ve been through a lot, honey, and I don’t know what the past twenty years have been like, but goodness knows, they probably weren’t easy. It’s my pleasure to help you, but Jake is my son and my everything. Be careful with his feelings.

I nod, I won’t, Marie. I’m only in Sweetwater to tie up a few loose ends, and I won’t interfere with Jake.

Her face softens. Good, because I like you, Robin. I always did. I hope you find what you need.

I do too, I think, looking at this kind, kind woman who’s volunteered to shelter me in spite of her reservations.

A minute later, Jake appears with an armful of soft cotton sheets and enough blankets to get through a blizzard.

I’ve got to get ready for work, so I’ll leave you to unpack, Marie says. Jake, honey, come to the house a minute. I want to show you something.

Alone in the cottage, I take in my surroundings. Bunny, the one-eared cat, has opted to stay with me and watches from his perch on the windowsill as I make the bed.

Marie’s words are ringing in my head. I barely even remember Jake from high school. He hung out with the smart kids. Kids who dragged around bulky science fair projects, lugged stacks of scary textbooks through the halls and attended AP classes. I kept my GPA high enough to stay on the tennis team and attended every party on Mother’s acceptable people to socialize with list. Anything to get out of the house. I never gave the shy, quiet boy next door a second thought.

Things are certainly different now.

I head outside, taking the path around the side yard to avoid traipsing through the house.

My car is still parked in Mother’s driveway and as I unlock the door, I glance at her upstairs bedroom window. The curtain twitches slightly.

She’s watching.

Staying right next door with the Andersons isn’t the most strategic move, but my life isn’t exactly overflowing with options.

It will be fine, I try to convince myself. Mother will barely even notice I’m here. I back out of the driveway and park in the Anderson driveway. As I’m hauling my suitcases from the car, the curtain twitches again, and in spite