Chapter 2 #2
She waves my concern away. “We’ll make do. Don’t you worry. Where’s your motorcycle?”
“I left it at the bakery. I’ll pick it up later.”
“Are you hungry? I can make you something.”
She’s already moving toward the fridge, but I stop her with a gentle hand on her arm. “I’m fine, Mom. And now that I’m back, I can help. Why don’t you sit down and let me get you some tea?”
“Oh, honey, you just got here.”
“I’ve been sitting on my bike for over two days. My ass is sore. I need to move around. And I mean it; I want to help.” Even years later, I’m as familiar with this kitchen as I am with the apartment I left.
She hesitates, then nods, sinking into a kitchen chair with a sigh as long as my arm. “The girls are coming by for dinner tonight. We can talk about it then. They’ve been so excited about you coming home to take over for your father.”
“I haven’t decided if I’m taking the job yet, Mom.”
“Of course you will, dear.”
I busy myself with the kettle, buying time before I have to respond.
The truth is, I’m not sure I want to be the new Sheriff of Cupid’s Creek.
It was Dad’s job, not mine. I was a cop in Chicago, sure, but being the law in a town where everyone knows your name, knows all your mistakes, is a different story.
“How are you doing, really?” I ask instead, setting a steaming mug of her favorite chamomile tea in front of her.
Her smile falters. Her lips tremble. And she blinks back tears. “The house is so quiet.”
I nod, my throat tight. “Yeah.”
“But having you home will help,” she continues, reaching for my hand, putting on a brave face. “And the town needs you. Your father always said you’d make a fine sheriff one day.”
Guilt slices through me. Dad might have said that, but he also saw me at my worst when I was drunk, belligerent, in trouble.
I was a nightmare teenager, constantly testing boundaries, picking fights, and stealing cars.
Screwing my baby sister’s best friend. The sheriff’s delinquent son.
The irony wasn’t lost on anyone, least of all me.
“I should check out my old room, settle in, unpack my bag.” Any excuse to not have this conversation right now.
She laughs softly. “I haven’t changed a thing. Even kept those awful band posters on the wall. Why don’t you settle in while I get things prepped and make dessert for dinner tonight?”
I force a smile and head upstairs, taking them two at a time like I used to as a kid.
My bedroom door is closed, and for a second, I hesitate.
Opening it feels like stepping back in time.
Inside, it’s like a museum exhibit of teenage Luke.
Faded posters, musicians I haven’t listened to in years.
Trophies from high school baseball. Books I never read.
And on my desk, a framed photo I’d forgotten about, me and Dad during one of our fishing trips, both of us grinning, his arm around my shoulders as I hold up my catch.
I pick it up, a sprinkling of dust collecting on my fingertips. We appear happy. Normal. Like a father and son who talked about more than just my latest screw-up. A year later, he was sending me off to live with his brother in Chicago.
Setting it down, I sink onto my twin bed, the springs creaking in protest as I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted.
Coming back was a mistake. But Mom needs me.
Anna needs me. Even Harper, in her own way, needs me.
And Dad... Dad would want me to step up.
To be the man he always believed I could be, despite evidence to the contrary.
If he knew how I failed my partner back in Chicago…
Eager to escape the memories, I push myself up, stuff my few things from my bag into an empty dresser drawer, and then go back downstairs, determined to at least check one thing off my list today. “I’m going to run to the hardware store. There are a few repairs I want to make around here.”
Mom looks up from cutting carrots, a surprised expression on her face. “Oh, you don’t have to do that today, Luke. You just got here.”
“I want to,” I insist. “The gutter over the porch is hanging loose, and that porch step has been creaky for years.”
She doesn’t argue further, knowing that, like Dad, she can’t change my mind. She simply smiles that sad smile that breaks my heart.
The hardware store is at the other end of Main Street, forcing me to walk past all the businesses and townspeople I would prefer to avoid. I keep my head lowered so I don’t make eye contact, but I hear the barely concealed whispers.
“The prodigal son returns.”
“The bad boy all grown up.”
“I don’t know what Mayor Aldridge was thinking. He’ll never fill his father’s shoes.”
Inside the store, I grab a basket and start loading it with supplies: wood screws, a new hammer, and sandpaper. The clerk, who used to coach Little League when I was a kid, gives me a curt nod when I approach the register.
“Luke,” he says, scanning my items without meeting my eyes. “Heard you were back in town.”
“Hello, Mr. Wilson. I guess word travels fast.” Considering I’ve been in town for an hour or two at most, the gossip tree must have been working overtime.
“Always does.” He bags my purchases, still not looking at me directly. “That’ll be forty-seven fifty.”
I hand over my credit card, trying not to let his coldness get to me. What did I expect? A welcome home parade?
As I’m leaving, an older woman stops me outside the store. It takes me a second to place Mrs. Donovan, my third-grade teacher and one of my parents’ oldest friends.
“Luke Caldwell,” she says, her voice warm where Tom’s was frosty. “It’s good to see you. Your mother must be tickled pink that you’re finally home.”
“Mrs. Donovan.” I shift the bag to my other hand, oddly nervous. “Good to see you too.”
She studies me with eyes that haven’t dulled with age. “Your father was proud of you, you know. Always talking about his boy, the big city police officer.”
I swallow hard. “He never said that to me.”
“Men of his generation rarely do.” She pats my arm. “But he told everyone else.”
I can only nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“Your family’s had a rough go of it lately, with your father’s passing, the bakery, and then all that business with your sister and the Cooper girl.”
I stiffen at the mention of Callie. You’d think she was talking about a couple of miscreant children and not two adult women. “Yeah, well, family stuff can be complicated.”
Complicated. That was one word for it. Fifteen years of silence didn’t erase the way my pulse quickened catching her across the street. The rational part of me says leave it alone. And that’s the problem. I don’t want to be rational.
“Indeed, it can.” She gives me a knowing look.
“If you’re looking to smooth things over, you might start with Callie.
She’s got a lot of sway around here, and from what I hear, she could use a friendly face right about now.
She might even be able to convince her staunch supporters to visit the bakery again. ”
Before I can respond, she’s walking away, leaving me standing there with my hardware store bag and my brain jumping to the girl I left behind.
Talk to Callie. Right. The girl I haven’t seen in over a decade.
The girl who still makes my pulse jump simply by existing.
I shake my head and start walking back toward the bakery to get my bike.
On my way, I get stopped by a few more residents, each one welcoming me back while subtly asking if I intend to stick around.
A few make their feelings toward Harper’s dating life known.
I haven’t met Kirk yet, but I’m liking him less and wondering what the hell Harper sees in this man.
One problem at a time. Fix the gutter. Repair the step. Figure out if I’m really staying in Cupid’s Creek.
Then, maybe, I’ll find the courage to cross the street to the library.