1. True St. John
I couldn’t believe I was moving to a place where the air hurt my face in winter.
Truth be told, I’d only thought about it for a millisecond before I packed up my car in King’s Town and started the four-hour drive across the state.
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
I could not endure another second in that house with my parents hovering over me like I would combust at any moment.
How I’d made it a year was anybody’s guess.
Granted, I’d been heavily subdued for the first six months, so lost in a cloud of my own grief that I hadn’t known what day it was for weeks at a time. But I’d climbed my way out of that hole and I needed the people around me to catch up.
I wasn’t fragile. I wasn’t going to break.
They were treating me with kid gloves when all I wanted to do was get back to my normal routine. Such as it was without my other half anyway.
Guilt tried to squeeze the organ in my chest.
My parents had their own grief to deal with and I knew watching over me let them redirect that energy to the only remaining child they had.
Even still, I was fleeing. In search of a pocket of peace that allowed me to come back to myself before I got too far gone and forgot how to retrace my steps.
A quiet flutter of resolve worked through me even as my eyes smarted from the sting of unshed tears.
I could do this.
I had no choice.
Blinking rapidly, I kept the tears at bay. And thank God, because a few minutes later my eyes caught on a rectangular green sign in the distance.
As I got closer, I let off the gas and slowed to an almost crawl to read it.
Welcome to Bliss Peak
Population 4,438
Elevation 2,100 ft
According to the phone mounted on my air vent, I still had twelve minutes left of my trip before I got to my grandma’s house.
With my hands fastened at ten and two, I took in the scenery with a renewed awe. Every time I visited this town, it felt like I was stepping into a dream and living in an alternate world.
The people were too nice and the living was too slow. That’s what I told myself for years anyway, but now that I was in need of refuge it was the place I’d run to. The irony…
“So pretty,” I murmured.
Hickory trees lined the narrow two-lane road, their leaves yellow with the promise of autumn.
A few minutes later, the road opened up and the mountain range came into view.
My mouth dropped open at the sight and silence engulfed my car once I reached over to turn off the radio. I needed a moment of silence to take it all in.
How could a place be this breathtaking?
Bliss Peak, North Carolina.
No Bojangles in a fifty-mile radius, but with views like this, I could forgive it.
Just enough sunlight remained to bathe the treetops and mountain peaks in an ethereal glow that tempted me to pull over and snap a picture. But I resisted the urge and told myself I’d be here for enough sunsets to fill my camera roll.
Before I knew it, I was pulling up in front of my grandparents’ yard. Their small craftsman-style cottage was about twenty yards from the road, set off by a white picket fence on each side that was just for show. It was never closed, but it was cute, I’d give it that much.
A smile I couldn’t help took over my face and I hurriedly snatched my phone from the mount, undid my seatbelt and flung open the driver’s door.
I was almost out of the car before I remembered to thank my old Camry for braving the trip across the state.
Patting the sun-faded dashboard, I whispered sweetly, “Good job, Camryn.”
Then I was rushing to the front door, unable to contain my excitement at seeing my grandparents. Apparently, when you had grandparents like mine, the excitement never dulled, no matter how old you got.
The moment I raised my hand to knock on the door, Pauly St. John pulled it open with a toothy grin, his pipe hanging precariously from the side of his mouth.
His eyes crinkled more than usual around the corners while his gaze scanned me.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere, young lady?”
“Granddad,” I laughed, falling into him easily when he pulled me into his chest for a hug. I soaked up the warmth of his embrace and the softness of his round belly.
My sister and I had spent the first ten years of our life whole-heartedly believing the man in front of me was Santa Claus.
We stayed up on Christmas Eve and waited for him to come down the chimney…
Memories of my sister momentarily dimmed my smile, but my grandmother’s shuffling steps and weathered voice dispelled the sadness in an instant.
“Ladybug!” My grandmother, Ruby Jean St. John, greeted with a flourish and before she could sweep me into her arms, her pit bull, Lady, had other plans.
The dog jumped up, pawing at my torso with enough force to send me stumbling back a few steps on the porch.
“Hi, cutie,” I cooed once I found my footing. Lady kept jumping for a few beats before running in circles around my feet. When she calmed down, I walked right into my grandmother’s arms and sighed.
“Did I know you were coming?” She asked the moment we separated. A thoughtful expression covered her face. She waved a hand and shooed off my response before it could form. “Oh, never mind. You’re here now. Come on in and eat. We were just about to sit down.”
In all my twenty-nine years, it didn’t matter what time I arrived at my grandparents’ house, it was always time to eat.
Relief washed over me at how easily they’d welcomed me. No pitying glances or awkward silences.
I was just True. Their grandbaby, in town for a visit.
The armor I usually pulled on for a simple conversation got left at the door as I followed my grandma to the kitchen to help fix the plates.
Walking behind her through the living room, I noticed how she favored one hip, her feet shuffling more than usual.
According to my father, she’d had a fall last month and was still recovering. Her hips were already arthritic, so the added injury hadn’t helped anything. “Have you been keeping up with your physical therapy, grandma?”
That hand went up again, dismissing my words before they could turn into something more.
“Oh, please. I told your daddy about making a mountain out of a molehill. I’m just fine,” she declared, pulling the oven door open.
Lips pursed to fight a smile, I wanted to point out that wasn’t what I asked her, but then she bent down and pulled a cast-iron skillet of buttermilk biscuits out of the oven and I lost my train of thought.
God is so good , I thought as my mouth watered.
I studied the woman in front of me, noticing how easily she moved through the space and how content she seemed to be.
Hadn’t I just fled a house full of people hovering over me when I told them I was okay? My grandmother didn’t need me doing the same to her. If worse came to worse, I’d team up with my granddad and make sure she took care of herself.
So, I dropped it and went to grab the plates from the cabinet.
“How long you gonna be in town, ladybug?”
“Haven’t decided yet. Long enough to write a book?” I posed it as a question because I truly didn’t know.
Once upon a time, I was a romance author. But I hadn’t written a word in over a year. I didn’t even know if I could write anymore. I guess I would find out soon enough.
“You staying with us?”
“No ma’am, I’m gonna go to the cabin.”
When she’d passed, my great aunt Opal had left her old cabin to me and my sister in her will. Now, I was the sole inheritor. A lump formed in my throat, and I picked up my glass of water, forcing my thoughts back to the cabin.
It was on the other side of the mountain and in the middle of the woods. In other words, it was perfection for a solo writer’s retreat.
Remote. Quiet. No WIFI.
Exactly what I needed to lock in and get some words on the page.
My grandfather hummed lowly, but that response was too subdued for his wife.
“Nonsense. You can’t spend your first night in town alone. You’ll stay here. ’Least a week,” she said, like it was already decided.
“I can’t stay here a week, granny.”
“How come you can’t?”
“Because I won’t get any work done.”
She harrumphed, gathering more green beans on her fork. “You got plenty of time to work. Nothing wrong with taking the load off after your trip.”
“I’ve been taking the load off for a year,” I reminded her, my voice faint.
“You’ve been grieving ,” she pointed out. “Two different things.”
She gave me a smile that spoke volumes before her eyes swelled with excitement. “Ooh, Pauly, it’s a good thing you picked up that case of Cheerwine today. We can make floats for dessert.”
I was already full of the fried pork chops, potatoes, green beans and biscuits we’d had for dinner, but just the mention of my favorite childhood dessert had me trying to figure out how I was going to make room for more.
This woman wasn’t playing fair, and that triumphant wink she slid me told me she had no plans of letting up.