Beneath the Patchwork Moon (A Hope Springs Novel Book 2) Page 2

  “I don’t know. Five days maybe?”

  “Can you get the power and water turned on today?” he asked, looking back at her.

  “I should be able to,” she said, nodding.

  “Then let’s do it. I’ll stay here instead of at the hotel on the interstate. We’ll clean it out. We’ll hash it out.” He paused. Maybe giving her an inch would help get him his mile. “I’m sure there are more than a few things you want to know from me.”

  She swallowed, then said, “There are, but I don’t think this is the best way—”

  He couldn’t think of a better one. The two of them. This house. Their past. “Yes or no, Luna? Yes or no?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  If Luna had had the faintest clue Angelo would be at the house today, she wouldn’t have come. Or maybe she would have; she’d never been given the option, so how could she know? And why—oh why, oh why, oh why—had seeing him again had to happen like this, when he was unexpected, and she was ill-prepared, and the past remained suspended between them, sharp-edged and unapproachable? But that question could wait. Others, not so much.

  What was he doing in Hope Springs?

  Why hadn’t she asked?

  How had he known she’d bought the house?

  Where was her brain, saying yes instead of no?

  He wanted five days of her time. Five days she’d never thought she’d have with him. Five days during which she’d have to watch every word she said, because along with her time, he wanted answers. Would the risk of his finding out about the accident weekend be worth learning how and why things between them had gone wrong? Apparently, some part of her thought so. She just wasn’t sure it was the part she should be listening to.

  That was the thing about having been confined to bed after the accident. Luna had learned so much as a fly on the wall, listening to her parents’ friends talk—about Oscar Gatlin’s condition, about how long it would take her own injuries to heal, how like this person’s brother or that person’s wife she might always walk with a limp. She was eighteen years old. The thought of being in physical pain for the next sixty or more had been another turn of the screw. Her body hurt, her soul ached. She missed Sierra desperately.

  But the most unsettling talk she’d heard was that of the Caffey parents falling apart, leaving their four children still at home struggling. Leaving Angelo, who’d returned to Cornell after Sierra’s funeral, to act as head of household, though he’d been but twenty, a college sophomore, and half a continent away. Yet not once during the next two years had he let on how bad things were.

  It wasn’t until the day his family moved that she found out. How his father’s furniture orders had been canceled when his grief got in the way of his work. How the stitches in his mother’s quilts had grown uneven; then the quilts themselves were left unfinished. With his parents’ savings depleted, bills went unpaid and the collection calls started. The house went without a new roof, the car without new tires. The yard went to seed. Why his parents thought Angelo was equipped to handle all of that when his money was earmarked for school and living, his time for studies and work…

  For so long, Mike Caffey had been a local institution, building furniture in Hope Springs longer than Luna had been alive. The coffee table in her parents’ living room was Mike’s, as were the matching lamp tables. Even the shelving unit still in Luna’s bedroom had come from Caffey Furniture.

  Whereas it now held the docking station for her iPod, her library of escapist thrillers, and framed photos of her scarves torn from the pages of entertainment magazines, it had once been stuffed with Beanie Babies, cluttered with bottles of glittery nail polish, covered with little sticky-note Polaroids of her friends.

  Over the years the tiny pictures had fallen, the adhesive losing its tackiness to time. She’d picked them up when she’d found them, tossed some in the trash, taped others into her yearbooks. Only one remained in place, tied there with a ribbon she’d glued to the back. One she’d taken of Sierra climbing into the family’s car in front of St. Thomas the day they’d met.

  Angelo had been standing in the open driver’s door, yelling across the roof for her to hurry. Sierra had turned back to Luna, rolling her eyes and sticking out her tongue, and Luna had taken the shot. Not focusing on Sierra, but on her brother, his dark hair falling over his forehead, his mouth open, his narrowed eyes hooded as he’d looked from his sister and caught Luna’s gaze.

  And oh the way he’d taken her in, ignoring whatever it was Sierra was saying to study her… her face, her hair, which was waist-length then, too, and held back with a band, her body, which he couldn’t see much of at all, covered as it was by her uniform, but which responded as if he could see all of her. As if he wanted her.

  Of course, none of that longing had meant love at first sight. Even after they were together, they’d fought like dogs. That history, the accompanying memories, would no doubt make the next five days epic. She wasn’t sure she was up for epic. She wasn’t sure, honestly, if she was ready for Angelo at all.

  Once back at home, Luna went in search of her mother. She found her propped against a stack of pillows on the family room sofa, an open book facedown in her lap, a cloth on her forehead, her eyes closed. A glass of fizzy, iced Sprite and a sleeve of saltines sat on the coffee table within reach, as if she’d just settled in to fight the morning sickness that plagued her every day long past.

  Julietta Meadows smiled as Luna plopped into her father’s recliner, kicking off her shoes before tucking her legs beneath her. Her bare feet squeaked against the leather seat.

  “How’re you feeling?” Luna asked, though the answer was obvious.

  “Like I should know better.” Her mother shifted to sit straighter, setting her book on the floor as she looked to where Luna sat. “All the times we talked about birth control when you were growing up, you’d think I wouldn’t have gotten myself knocked up at forty-six years old.”

  “Momma! Don’t say that.” As close as Luna was to her mother, and to her father, they were still her parents. She preferred not to think about the intimate side of their relationship—even if her mother’s unexpected pregnancy made that intimacy more than plain.

  “Well, it’s the truth,” she said, reaching for her drink and toying with the straw as she brought it to her mouth. “And it shouldn’t have happened. But it has, and your father and I will love this little bean just as much as we love you. It’ll be harder to deal with the lack of sleep this time, but that’s the difference twenty-eight years makes. I’ve gotten used to my nine hours a night.” She shifted again, took a small sip of soda, and let it settle on her stomach before speaking again. “How goes the arts center planning?”

  Luna thought about sidestepping the obvious until her mother felt better, but the obvious was why she was here. “I saw Angelo today.”

  “Angelo Caffey?” her mother asked, her frown caught between curiosity and disbelief.

  Luna nodded. “I went by the house, and he showed up out of the blue. I didn’t see a car, so I didn’t realize he was there until it was too late.”

  “Until he found you in the house?”

  “Yeah.” There was no need to elaborate. Her mother knew the significance of today’s date; it was the same date Luna’s hip had been broken, the same date her month-long confinement to bed had begun and she’d taken up weaving. But her mother didn’t know what had happened the weekend before the accident. Or all Angelo had meant to her before walking away for what she’d thought was good.

  “Huh. Does he know you bought the property?”

  She nodded. “I don’t know how, but yes.”

  “Do you think he’ll get in your way?”

  The very question had plagued Luna since she’d driven away from the house. She shrugged, curling deeper into her father’s chair, his dip in the cushions, his imagined warmth. “I’m more worried about the Gatlins’ reaction, but Angel has it in him to cause trouble. He’s still very angry.”

  “Angel.” Her mo
ther smiled, then sighed. “I’d forgotten you called him that.”

  “I don’t know why I ever started. He’s not the least bit angelic.”

  “Do you want him to be?”

  The question surprised her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Her mother took another sip of her soda, returned the glass to the table, and pulled a cracker from its sleeve. “He’s beautiful, yes, but he possesses few other angelic traits. If he did, he wouldn’t have been the boy you had such a crush on in high school.”

  Heat flushed up Luna’s neck to her face, and she wondered, not for the first time, if her parents had suspected how far her relationship with Angelo had gone. “He’s who he is. I’m who I am. High school was a long time ago. Though since I still have the same bedroom, it’s hard to tell,” she said, latching onto the change of subject and leaving Angel behind. “Seriously. Who lives with their parents until they’re twenty-eight years old?”

  Her mother laughed softly. “In this economy? More young people than you think.”

  But Luna was shaking her head. “I understand staying for economic reasons. But I don’t have that excuse. I lucked into a very lucrative profession. I’ve just been too lazy to pack.”

  “I don’t think your still being here has anything to do with being lazy.”

  But it had everything to do with Sierra and Oscar and the accident. “The baby is going to love having her own suite of rooms. If you wanted to buy her a pony, there’s almost enough space to build a stall.”

  Her mother chuckled, then grew pensive. “It’ll be strange, Skye filling those rooms with her things instead of yours being there. It’ll be even stranger not to have you here to run my errands.”

  That made Luna smile. She’d been running them since the day she’d gotten her driver’s license. “I’m happy to stay and help out. I’ve waited this long, and the loft isn’t going anywhere. What’s a few more months?”

  “No, you’ll go because it’s time.”

  It had been time for years. Her mother was just too nice to say so. “You mean you don’t like having your adult daughter still living at home as if she were a child?”

  “Of course I love having you here,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment as she drew in a slow, steady, stomach-settling breath. “You’ve needed to be here, and I can’t imagine what it would’ve been like not knowing you were just down the hall. But a new baby means a new schedule, new priorities, new everything. It’s a turning point in all of our lives.”

  Was that what Angelo’s return was? What the next five days would bring? “You didn’t have to get pregnant to get me to move out, you know. You could’ve brought in movers while I was weaving.”

  “Funny girl,” her mother said, reaching for her soda again and bringing the straw to her mouth. “I’m glad you’ll have enough space for your loom, too.”

  “The light in the loft is amazing. I can’t wait for you to see it. I’m so used to holing up in my shed, all that sun and blue sky might distract me.”

  “Who knows? It might show you new ways to tell your stories.”

  Except she wasn’t sure what was going to happen with her weaving now that she was so busy with the arts center. “Do you realize how little weaving I’ve done the last few weeks?”

  “You’ve been occupied elsewhere. That’s to be expected.”

  “Yes, but I need to be working on Patchwork Moon’s winter holiday line.” The boutique in Austin where her collection was sold was expecting the new items by mid-October. Labor Day had already passed, and she was nowhere near being done. “I’m so far behind.”

  Her mother took a sip of her drink and swallowed, her face paler than just moments ago. “Quality over quantity, Luna. Your scarves becoming more exclusive won’t hurt your reputation or, I’m quite sure, your bank account. If anything, I worry about you suffering without what weaving provides.”

  She’d thought about that, too, the drying up of her emotional well. “I’ll have plenty to keep me busy.”

  “It’s not about staying busy. It’s about nurturing the part of you you’ve poured into your craft. Yes, the arts center will easily fill your hours, but you can’t neglect the artist inside of you.”

  “I’m not so sure I’ve ever been an artist. The weaving… it gave me an outlet for the grief. Everything I was feeling, losing Sierra… I put all of that into the scarves. Sometimes I wonder if I’d had to find the words instead of the right color of yarn, maybe I wouldn’t still be dealing with the loss years later. I’d be over it. Or at least at peace with it.” And even as the words left her mouth, others rose to taunt her.

  She would never be at peace as long as she was living a lie.

  “There are some things in life we never get over, or make peace with,” her mother was saying. “They’re just there, a part of us. They make us who we are. Your accident changed everything. You became a celebrity in your own right because of it. Don’t ever regret that, or feel guilty about it. You survived. And you’ve dealt with it positively. So many others wouldn’t have had your strength or coping ability.”

  “Any strength I have is due to you and Daddy. You’re the best parents I could imagine having.”

  Her mother chuckled. “I seem to recall more than a few times in high school you holding a different view.”

  “It was high school. What does anyone know in high school?” She left her father’s chair and moved to sit on the floor at her mother’s side, holding her hand, damp from the cloth and cool from the glass of iced soda, lacing their fingers, pressing their palms together. “Skye’s going to be so lucky. Not only will she have the best parents in the world, she’ll have me.”

  “That’s the part that worries me,” her mother said, working hard to keep a straight face.

  “I promise to never let her wear a tiara. And only the best in scarves.”

  “Speaking of accessorizing, I still can’t find the necklace your father’s mother gave me. I have no idea what I did with it. I hadn’t even thought about it until recently. I gave you the one from my mother, and I’d like to give Skye the one from his.”

  “The gold cross with the five opals? I wore it to Sierra’s last spring recital, but I’m sure I gave it back to you.”

  “I’m sure you did, too. And I’m sure I would’ve put it back in my jewelry box, but I can’t find it.”

  “Maybe it’ll turn up when I start packing… meaning I should probably get on that.”

  Her mother brought their joined hands to her mouth and kissed Luna’s knuckles. “Are you leaving soon? It’s getting late.”

  Luna nodded, waiting to hear the offer her mother made every year, ready to respond the way she always did. This was something she had to do alone, no matter how much she longed to have her mother’s arms around her while there.

  But her mother didn’t say what she’d said on this date for the last nine years, suggesting they go together, mourn together, remember. Another turning point. A significant one. The first step in drawing the veil between the present and the past. Luna didn’t know if she was ready. What she did know was that it was time.

  “I do need to go,” she said, pulling her hand from her mother’s, getting to her feet, and then leaning down to kiss her mother’s forehead. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, my firstborn girl,” her mother replied, cupping her cheek with her palm, her eyes as misty as Luna’s. “I could never love you more.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was 7:42 p.m., and Luna shivered as she placed the bouquet of white calla lilies atop Sierra’s headstone. As hard as it was to believe, today’s commemorative visit was the tenth she’d made, mourning Sierra even longer than she’d had the girl in her life. She thought at times it wasn’t natural, her attachment to her friend. Thought, too, her guilt at surviving her own accident wouldn’t have lingered as long were it not for the truth of what they’d done that weekend.

  When Angelo had accused her earlier of not being honest, it had taken a
ll the willpower she had not to blurt out every detail she’d stoppered up like a genie in a bottle, fearing the havoc the truth could wreak. It was the first time since the accident she’d been tempted to tell all. She had no idea why, unless it was the combination of the date and Angel’s appearance, and the recent urging from her conscience to come clean. And that was the hardest thing to understand.

  Why, after all this time, was the genie knocking?

  The sound of a car purring to a stop, the engine going silent before the door opened and closed, brought her back to the words on the simple granite marker. Sierra Gracia Caffey. Our pride. Our joy. Our daughter. So simple, but nothing else needed to be said—though every time she read the inscription, Luna added the words my friend.

  Tracing the engraved name with a fingertip, she found herself smiling. Oh, how Sierra had hated her middle name. She’d said it might as well have been gracious for all the people who got it wrong, or gracias for all those who thought she was thanking them for asking when she said it.

  Bringing her fingers to her lips for a kiss she then placed on the headstone, Luna mouthed a private good-bye, her heart heavy. Tomorrow she’d return to the present and think more about the future that had started to feel very real: moving into her own place, starting work on the Caffey-Gatlin Academy. Both terrified and excited her as, she supposed, did all leaps of faith. And then there were the next five days she’d promised to Angelo, a promise she hoped she wouldn’t regret. But next year she’d be back here again, because so much of her life had been defined in the very moment her best friend had lost hers.

  Turning to go, she looked up, stopping almost as soon as she’d taken a step, and wishing for another path to her car. Hers was blocked, the man standing there with his hands shoved in his pockets obviously waiting for her. She’d known she wasn’t alone, having heard the car’s arrival, but to find Oliver Gatlin on the tree-lined path from the parking lot that wound through the grounds…