Chapter 1 #2
Dad’s expression shifts slightly, and he runs a hand through his graying hair.
“Well, it’s been... challenging lately. Sarah and Mike both left for college this month, and we’re down to just us and Mrs. Fuller part-time.
” He sighs. “There’s more work than we can handle, especially with the fall rush and the Harvest Festival coming up. ”
Mom shoots him a meaningful look, then turns to me with studied casualness.
“You know, if you’re going to be here for a month anyway.
.. and only if you want to, of course...
we could use an extra pair of hands. Nothing too strenuous.
Just helping with the morning rush, maybe organizing our inventory system. ”
I can see right through her transparent attempt at nonchalance, but something about the idea appeals to me. After years of corporate meetings and endless spreadsheets, the thought of making coffee and talking to neighbors sounds almost therapeutic.
“Linda,” Dad says, frowning. “She just got back, and she’s here to relax, not for us to put her to—”
“I’d like that,” I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it.
“Hazel, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I smile at him. “I’ve been gone for so long, and I’m just not one to sit idle. It’s been eight years, Dad. I want to connect to my roots, to spend time with you. I know how busy the fall season can be for the coffee shop. I don’t want to take you away from your work. Let me help out.”
Dad’s relief is palpable. “Only if you’re sure, sweetheart. We don’t want you to overburden yourself.”
“I’m sure.” I take another bite of the pumpkin pie, savoring the perfect blend of spices. “Besides, I practically grew up in Brennen’s Brew. How can it be called work?”
Mom beams before coming to wrap her arms around my neck from behind and pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “We’ve missed having you around. I’m so glad you decided to come home.”
The tenderness in her voice makes my throat tight. It’s been so long since I felt needed for something other than my technical skills or my ability to fix problems. Here, I’m just their daughter who’s come home.
“Sam is going to be so excited to see you,” she continues, checking on something in the oven.
Sam Brennen, my older brother. We just have a year’s age gap, and I spent my entire childhood following him around.
I know my sudden disappearance and my refusal to maintain regular contact had hurt him deeply.
I doubt he will be pleased to see me. Not when I often wouldn’t pick up his calls, not when he would keep asking me why I left, why I didn’t think of his best friend, the man with whom I had been planning a future.
“How’s his auto shop?”
“Business is booming,” Dad says, pride evident in his voice as he gets another plate for himself. “Half the county brings their cars to him now. Can barely keep up with demand. He’s got magic fingers, they say.”
“That’s wonderful,” I respond, and I mean it.
Sam always had a gift with cars. He could make any car purr like a contented cat.
He used to say that they speak to him. Of course, I told him he needed psychiatric help if he was having full on conversations with cars which ended up with him beating me with one of Mom’s favorite cushions.
We both got grounded, me for calling him crazy and delusional, him for hitting me.
The memory makes me chuckle slightly. Our parent’s idea of grounded was not being locked in our rooms. No, we had to do chores, clean bathrooms, deep clean the garage and the attic. Whatever Dad wanted cleaned, we had to do it.
“Why’re you laughing?” Dad asks curiously.
“I was just remembering how you wanted your car washed once and you egged me into eating Sam’s share of the chicken pot pie Mom cooked. We ended up fighting, and you got your car washed.”
“Tom!” Mom gives him a horrified look. “You didn’t.”
Dad takes a bite of his pie, feigning innocence. “Did I? It was such a long time ago. And you know with old age, my memory is not what it used to be.”
“Your memory’s just fine,” Mom scolds him. “Honestly, I can’t believe you took advantage of your children to get free labor.”
My father has the sense to look guilty, but my mother knows him too well, and she shakes her head exasperated. “I can’t believe you.”
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I say with a laugh now. It’s funny now that I’m so far removed from it. “Sam and I caught on really quick, and we made sure not to fall for it.”
“He’ll be so excited to see you,” Mom says, her face lighting up again. “He’s missed you, honey.”
My smile softens, filled with a grief that I’ve tried to push away for years. “I’ve missed him too.”
I see the questions in my parents’ eyes, questions they’ve held off on asking for a long time.
Why did I leave so suddenly?
Why did I suddenly reduce contact with all of them?
Why didn’t I come home for eight years?
Mom stands and moves to the refrigerator, pulling out ingredients. “You must be starving after that long drive. Let me make you a proper sandwich.”
“Mom, the pie is plenty—”
“Nonsense.” She’s already laying out bread, turkey, and what looks like homemade cranberry sauce. “You’re too thin.”
As she works, layering the sandwich, she pauses. “I should go get fresh linens for your bed. It’s been a while since—”
“I’ll do it,” Dad interrupts, standing and placing a hand on her shoulder. “You stay here with Hazel.”
She turns to protest, but Dad shakes his head with a soft smile. “Linda, when’s the last time you had uninterrupted time with our daughter?”
The question hangs in the air, and I see the exact moment Mom’s energy shifts into something quieter, more intentional. She nods, her eyes suddenly bright again.
“Go on,” she says to him, shooing him toward the stairs. “We’ll be fine.”
After he leaves, the kitchen feels different—smaller, more intimate. Mom finishes the sandwich and sets it in front of me, then pours herself a cup of coffee from the pot that seems to perpetually brew on their counter.
“So,” she says, settling back into her chair. “Tell me about California. Not the work stuff, not Derek. Tell me about you.”
I take a bite of the sandwich, buying myself time. The turkey is perfectly seasoned, the cranberry sauce tart and sweet. “There’s nothing to tell,” I say finally. “Being a Technical Product Manager sounds way more fun than it actually is.”
“It doesn’t sound fun, it sounds taxing,” my mother says, her eyes searching mine.
I shrug. “It was my choice. I knew what I was getting into.”
“You look tired, Hazel, weary.” Mom’s voice is quiet, and I swallow, the sandwich tasting like ash in my mouth.
“I am tired, Mom. I’m very tired.”
She’s silent, the only sound in the kitchen coming from the pumpkin wall clock that Dad puts up every fall ‘to stay seasonal’. I can hear him moving about upstairs, his feet shuffling against the hardwood floors.
My mother’s hand comes to rest on mine across the table. “Why didn’t you come home sooner, sweetheart?”
I open my mouth and then snap it shut. I don’t want to lie anymore, but I don’t want to tell her the truth either. I don’t want to leave carnage in my wake. Let them live their lives, untainted with the truth.
“I had my reasons, Mom.”
“What about Luk—”
“Luke and I are over, Mom!” My voice is uncharacteristically harsh, and she flinches, taken aback by my tone.
“S-Sorry,” I rub my hands over my face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I’ve been traveling nonstop for three days. I’m a little on edge.”
“It’s okay. It’s alright, honey.” Mom reassures me.
I meet her gaze, a honey brown, same as mine, and I feel guilty at the understanding in them. I reach out to squeeze her hand. “I’m here for a month, Mom. I don’t want to talk about Luke. I came back because I missed you and Dad. I missed Sam.”
Mom studies my face with those knowing eyes that have seen through my excuses since I was five years old. “Are you hiding anything from me, sweetheart?”
“No,” I lie, meeting her gaze as steadily as I can manage.
She stands slowly, moving around the table until she’s beside my chair.
Her hand is gentle against my cheek as she cups my face, thumb brushing away a tear I didn’t realize had fallen.
Then she presses a soft kiss to my forehead, the same way she did when I was little and had scraped knees or hurt feelings.
“I know you better than you think,” she says gently. “But I’ll wait for you to be ready to tell me.”
The kindness in her voice breaks something open in my chest. I wrap my arms around her waist, pressing my face against her soft sweater, breathing in the scent of vanilla and home. “I missed you, Mom.”
Her laugh is soft, musical, as her hand smooths over my hair. “Oh, my sweet girl. When you left, it felt like you took a piece of my heart with you.” She holds me tighter. “I’ve kept your room exactly as it is, you know. Your father and I couldn’t bring ourselves to change anything.”
I’m about to respond when the back door slams open with enough force to rattle the windows. Heavy footsteps pound across the mudroom, and I hear a familiar voice calling out.
“Whose deathtrap of a car is that in the—” Sam’s voice cuts off abruptly as he appears in the kitchen doorway.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. My big brother stands frozen, still wearing his work coveralls with “Brennen’s Auto” embroidered on the chest. There’s grease under his fingernails and oil stains on his shirt, but his eyes—the same blue as Dad’s—are wide with shock.
He’s taller than I remember, broader through the shoulders, with the same unruly dark hair that never wants to stay combed. A few days’ worth of stubble covers his jaw, and there are new lines around his eyes that speak of long days and honest work.
“Hazel?” My name comes out as barely more than a whisper.
I untangle myself from Mom’s embrace and stand slowly, my heart hammering. “Hi, Sam.”