Sweet Charity (Sweet Maple Falls #1)

Chapter 1

Liam

Tears in Heaven – Eric Clapton

The letter from the Sweet Maple Falls Business Cooperative had sat unopened on my kitchen counter for three days.

Its crisp white envelope a reminder of the obligations I’d rather forget.

When I’d finally opened it, my frustration and annoyance evident in the ragged tear of the envelope, I knew there was not one possible way to say no.

The business cooperative was a way for all local business owners to network and support each other.

In return we held an annual dinner, which one business sponsored, and we raised a shit ton of money for charity.

Each dinner was delegated a host, who worked alongside our resident event planner, Charity Dawson, to organize it.

Joy, deep fucking joy, this year was supposed to be my turn to host.

A familiar weight pressed against my ribs as I stared at the letterhead.

A request, no, a demand, to fulfill my responsibilities.

It felt insignificant compared to what the day meant to me.

Fourteen years since I’d lost my son. I had no idea why I’d chosen today to open it.

It felt wrong, like I should have just curled into a ball and ignored the world.

Instead, I’d opened the letter, causing self-pity, resentment, and white-hot anger.

All I could do was remember why I was so deep in despair and sadness.

Fourteen Years Ago

When I found out my girlfriend, Mallory, was pregnant, it felt like my world had cracked down the middle, all our dreams vanishing in the breath of a single blue line. I thought it was my darkest moment. Until two weeks ago, when the crack had become a chasm and my whole universe imploded.

Our son was born, and he was beautiful. Tiny fingers and tiny toes.

A wisp of strawberry blond hair, and the palest eyebrows.

I have no idea what color his eyes were because he was born sleeping.

Too early and sleeping. He looked peaceful, a cruel imitation of sleep, while Mallory’s scream tore through the room, the sound of hope disappearing along with the passing of our son.

Desperation for him to open his eyes, but he wouldn't. Not ever.

When I stood at his grave, where the earth still rose in unsettled mounds, my legs had given way as though grief itself had cut the ground from beneath me.

Damp earth seeped into my jeans as I clutched my stomach, trying to unravel the knot of twisted pain.

My eyes burned as if the world had turned to dust, and the words I’d never speak to him had become shards of glass raking my throat.

The faint scent of maple blossoms drifted on the spring breeze, stirring the grass and scattering yellow rose petals like fragrant tears onto the ground.

As if the world dared to be gentle while mine felt wrong, the sound of kids playing in the park across the street carried over to me.

Their laughter rang out, bright as silver bells, cutting through me sharper than any scream.

Proof that the world could still sing while mine stayed silent. My child would never make a sound.

The agony was too much. Too heavy. As I pressed my palm over my heart, I winced. Pain lived in every corner of me, and the newly inked angel wings over my heart burned as though they’d been carved into my skin.

Ezra John Brown, born sleeping April 16th

The simple wooden cross marked where my son lay. The son I'd thought would ruin my life. My son I'd grown to love and couldn't wait to meet. The son I'd never get to see grow.

He was gone, and so was Mallory. So devastated by our loss, she moved away to stay with her aunt in Boulder.

She was going to redo her last year of high school so she could graduate and go to college like she’d planned.

Carrying on with her life, like he didn’t exist. Like we weren’t going to be a family. At least that was how it felt to me.

“We’re seventeen,” she’d said. “We’ll get over it.” Just like that. We’d get over it, as if Ezra was an old pair of socks we’d lost.

“Move on with your life, Liam,” were Mallory’s last words to me as she threw her backpack over her shoulder and left.

Yeah, well, I would never move on because some loves didn’t fade; they carved themselves into your bones.

I was alone with my grief, with no one, not my folks, my brother, my sister, none of them understood how I felt and never would.

No one could understand how grief had torn me into pieces so fine, eternity could never make me whole again.

The letter crackled as I picked it up again, my hands steadier than they should have been for what I was about to do.

I’d dodged my responsibility for two years running, but the rules were clear, and I couldn’t avoid it any longer.

Three refusals and I was out, like a damn showjumping horse, and I couldn’t afford that.

Being a member of the cooperative held benefits that far outweighed the negatives: work, connections, referrals and community support that helped to keep my business alive.

As I contemplated my next move, my phone buzzed with a text from my brother.

Cole

Mom called. Wants to know if you’re okay. I told her I’d check on you.

I stared at the message, then at the letter, then at the empty coffee mug beside it.

All the pieces of a life that I was barely living.

The dinner would be full of people celebrating achievements, making toasts to success and the future—everything that I’d stopped believing in, joy that I no longer felt.

Maybe, though, that was exactly what I needed to do: agree to host the dinner, face a room full of hope and forget that I couldn’t save my son.

Liam

Charity I got the letter about hosting the dinner…

I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t finish typing. Couldn’t send it. I’d keep on hiding for now and hope that maybe Charity would realize that she was better off without my help. She was the professional, after all.