Colleen
The kitchen resembled a war zone. Shoes flung in a mismatched tumble
near the door, last night’s dinner dishes stacked haphazardly in the sink, a jumble
of paperwork scattered across the table. Random clutter took up counter space:
an untidy stack of mail, an assortment of socket wrenches, a carburetor. For an
instant, she thought she’d walked into the wrong house. Concern gradually
replaced confusion. She couldn’t imagine her meticulously neat stepmother
living in this kind of chaos. Had something happened to Millie? Was she sick?
Or worse, was Dad living here alone?
“Dad?” she called out. “Millie?”
Silence.
Colleen stepped out of her muddy shoes and walked through the living
room to the front hall. “Millie!” she shouted up the stairwell. “Dad!”
Still nothing.
Her gaze landed on the bare wall beside the staircase, where the
Bradley kids’ high school graduation photos had always hung: Bill, the oldest,
at the top, followed by the others, in order of age: Travis, Casey, and
finally, Colleen. When she’d last been home, eight years ago, those photos had
still been hanging here. What the hell was going on?
Uneasy, she returned to the kitchen and coolly surveyed the devastation.
Then, with a sigh—and in spite of her black sheep status—she did what any good
daughter would do: She rolled up her sleeves and tackled the dirty dishes.
She was nearly finished when the kitchen door burst open, letting
in a blast of cool air. Colleen turned from the sink, expecting to see a
familiar face. Considering how the day had gone so far, she should have known
better. The man who swept through the open door wore overalls, a yellow
slicker, barn boots, and a John Deere cap. In his arms, he carried the
shaggiest, ugliest, stupidest-looking dog she’d ever seen. At least, she
thought it was a dog. It was hard to tell, since both of them, man and dog,
were encased from stem to stern in thick, gooey mud. They looked utterly ridiculous.
Like swamp creatures.
She covered her mouth, but a snicker bubbled past her cupped hand
and through her slender fingers anyway.
The stranger eyed her coolly. Although it was difficult to tell
his age behind the coating of mud—he might have been anywhere between thirty
and fifty—his eyes were a piercing blue. “I don’t know who you are,” he said in
a soft voice that, if she wasn't mistaken, carried a hint of Georgia, “but when
you’re done laughing, I’d be much obliged if you’d fill the bathtub for me.
Right through that door over there.”
She was tempted to tell him that she knew precisely where the
bathroom was, that she’d grown up in this house, but something held her back.
Maybe it was those blue eyes. Or maybe it was his unsettling familiarity with
her childhood home. He was undoubtedly another of Dad’s strays. As far back as
she could remember, her father had taken great pleasure in hiring the most
down-and-out farmhands he could find. Homeless, destitute, recovering
alcoholics, ex-cons—you name it, and Will Bradley was sure to have hired one at
some point in time. It gave him a sense of satisfaction, this ability to help
the disenfranchised pull themselves—and, apparently, their dogs—up out of the
mire.
The laughter threatened to return. She coughed to mask it, and
ushered man and dog into the bathroom, where she knelt, turned on the taps and
adjusted the water temperature. He knelt beside her with the muddy dog in his
arms and slowly, carefully, lowered the animal into the warm water. The poor dog
looked terrified, but she maintained an odd sort of canine dignity.
“Good girl,” he said tenderly. “We're gonna get you all fixed up
like new.” To Colleen, he said, “Washcloth and shampoo, if you don't mind.”
She scurried to gather the items he requested, then stood by and
played the role of bathing assistant. The bath took two people, one dog,
several changes of water, half a bottle of shampoo, and pretty much every clean
washcloth and towel in the house. But when they were done, the dog was clean.
Still ugly, but at least presentable.
“It’s a start,” he said, leaning back on his heels. “Tomorrow, we’ll
make a run into town so the vet can get a look at that foot. While we’re there,
maybe I can sweet-talk him into giving her a flea bath and a clipping.”
“Your dog?” she asked.
“It seems so.” At her quizzical expression, he added, “She’s a
stray. Filthy and half-starved. But those days are over.”
“Looks like she’s one lucky dog, then.”
Those blue eyes studied her with a discomfiting intensity. “I
appreciate your help,” he said, “but I still have no idea who you are or why
you were standing barefoot in my kitchen, washing my dishes.”
His
kitchen? If he thought this was his house, the man was clearly
delusional. If he was delusional, then for all she knew, he could be a homeless
person. Or a serial killer. Serial killers weren’t easy to differentiate from
the general population; they undoubtedly owned dogs, and sent cards to their
moms on Mother’s Day. Colleen took an involuntary step backward and said, “It
isn’t your kitchen. It’s my dad’s kitchen. Who the hell are you?”
Suddenly, and without warning, he grinned. “You’re the other one,
aren’t you?”
She took another step back and said warily, “The other what?”
“You’re the other Bradley girl. Will’s younger daughter. The
wanderer.”
Colleen raised her chin. “I am. And now that we’ve cleared that
up, I’d appreciate you telling me where my dad is.”
“Well…” He raised his John Deere cap and attempted to wipe a
smudge of mud from his face. It didn’t work. “Last I heard, Myrtle Beach.”
“Myrtle Beach?”
“It’s in South Carolina.”
“I know where Myrtle Beach is. But what’s my dad doing there?”
“Hopefully, he and his wife are enjoying retirement in their new
RV.”
It all began to make a horrid kind of sense. The messy kitchen. The
missing photos. His familiarity with the house. But, no, Dad wouldn’t do that.
This was the family home, where he’d raised his kids and lived with Mama until
she died. There was no way he’d ever let it go to a stranger.
In her haughtiest tone, Colleen said, “And who, precisely, are
you?”
He held out a muddy hand. They both stared at it before he
reconsidered and withdrew it. “Harley Atkins,” he said. “And it most certainly
is my kitchen. You’re looking at the new owner of Meadowbrook Farm.”
***
Shock and desperation.
Those were the only words that adequately described how she felt
right now. Dad had given shelter, respectability and self-esteem to a dozen
destitute farmhands over the years. Now, his youngest daughter, equally
destitute, equally in need of respectability and self-esteem, had been forced
to come crawling home, only to discover that, in an ironic twist of fate, that
home had been sold out from under her.
Harley Atkins had turned out to not be a serial killer after all.
He’d taken a single look at her ashen face and had settled her on the rim of
the tub before she could crumple to the floor. He’d left her with the dog,
returning with a tall glass of ice-cold water. She drank it down slowly,
savoring the taste. Colleen had spent years pining for the sweet, delicious
water that flowed from Dad’s artesian well. She’d lived in a lot of places, and
found nothing like it anywhere.
But it came with a price. One she’d been unwilling to pay.
So she’d stayed away. Relinquished her family ties. Burned a
number of bridges. And now, she was in trouble.
She briefly considered calling Bill. She and her oldest brother
had once been close. But Bill was married to Jesse’s sister. Trish Lindstrom
Bradley hadn’t liked her much before the divorce, so she could only imagine how
her sister-in-law felt about her now. She’d rather eat ground glass than ask
Trish to take her in, even for a night or two. So Bill was out.
And she certainly couldn’t go to Jesse. She’d sleep in her car in
the Big Apple parking lot before she’d turn to her ex-husband for help. He’d
already done enough for her. More than she deserved, to be truthful. Their
parting had been amicable, but he’d been left with a nine-year-old son to
raise. And he’d done a bang-up job of it. Mikey was eighteen now, a fine young
man, polite and handsome and smart, and halfway through his freshman year at
Stanford. The credit for that went exclusively to Jesse. Oh, sure, she’d spent
time with her son after the divorce. Christmases, school vacations, a few weeks
in the summer. But none of those things compared to being there for him 24/7.
It was the biggest regret of her life, those years she’d lost with her son,
years she could never recover.
So Jesse was out. That left just one person she could turn to: the
older sister she’d spent her life alternately idolizing and resenting.
She
Who Could Do No Wrong
. The responsible one. The one who, after Mama died,
had taken over the job of raising her younger sister, a job that bore a
striking resemblance to herding cats. The one who remained universally adored.
The family favorite.
The one who wouldn’t hesitate to say, “I told you so.”
Colleen gripped the steering wheel harder, her mouth clamped in a
grim line as she followed the directions Harley Atkins had given her to Casey
and Rob MacKenzie’s new house. Up Route 37, left onto Ridge Road, drive for 2
miles, give or take, big yellow house on the right. A black and gold sign out
front that read
Two Dreamers Records.
She found the house with no
trouble, pulled into the driveway and shut off her engine. Checked her
reflection in the rear-view mirror. Should she put on lipstick? She pinched
both cheeks to add color to a face that was pasty white. How did she want to
play this? She didn’t want to look desperate, even though she was. Whenever
she’d imagined her homecoming—which hadn't been often—she’d imagined sweeping
into town on a wave of triumph. Never had she pictured herself limping in with
empty dreams and emptier pockets, behind the wheel of a car that should have
long since met its destiny in the crusher.
It shouldn’t matter so much. She and Casey shared childhood
memories and the same DNA. Why was she so intimidated by the prospect of facing
her own sister?
“Oh, hell,” she muttered, and flung open the car door. She might
as well be the brassy and bold Colleen they’d all come to know and love. As bad
as this day had been, it had nowhere to go but up. She straightened her
sunglasses, took a deep breath, arranged her face in a smile so fake it hurt,
and picked her way carefully across wet paving stones to the porch.
At the front door, she rang the bell and waited. Inside the house,
a small dog erupted into frantic barking. After a few moments, when there was
no human response, she rang it again. The barking grew louder. She was just
going for her third attempt when, without warning, the door was flung open and
a wave of warmth engulfed her.
The little dog raced through the door and circled her ankles,
sniffing aggressively, undoubtedly picking up the scent of swamp creature that still
permeated her clothes. “Leroy,” warned a male voice, “get your furry butt back
in the house!” The dog retreated and hid behind the man’s legs, peering at her
from a safe distance. To her, the man added, “Don’t worry, he’s friendly.”
Her sister’s husband was tall and lanky, with neatly clipped wavy
blond hair. He held a baby in the crook of his arm, as comfortably as though
he’d been holding them all his life. In one hand, he carried an open jar of
baby food. In the other, a spoon. She automatically ran him through her
Colleen-o-meter, her personal hotness rating system, by which she judged the
men she met on a scale of 1-10. Compared to Husband Number One, her sister’s
current main squeeze was a pretty average-looking guy. Nice eyes, and nowhere
near ugly, but on the other hand, nothing to write home about. He would
probably rate a 5 on her scale, except for those eyes, which bumped him up to a
6. She raised her sunglasses to see him more clearly. “Hi,” she said. “I'm—”
“Holy shit,” he said.
She removed the sunglasses. “Funny thing. I get that reaction from
men all the time. But usually it comes a little further along in the
relationship.”
He flashed her a grin that instantly shot him up to a 12.
Whoa.
This explained a lot. Forget everything she’d said before. If he wasn’t
already married to her sister, she might offer to have his babies.
“You can only be my wife’s sister,” he said.
“And you can only be my sister’s husband.”
Juggling baby, spoon, and jar, he stuck out his hand. “Rob
MacKenzie.”
His handshake was strong and confident. “Colleen Berkowitz,” she
said. “You have strained peaches all over your shirt.”
“Yeah, we generally have to hose down the kitchen—and all
participants—after we feed Miss Emmy Lou Who. Come on in. Casey’s at the
grocery store. I’m on Mommy duty. Did I miss the memo?”
She followed him through a pleasant, cozy living room and into the
kitchen. “What memo?”
“The one that said you were coming. Casey never mentioned a
thing.”