My Soul Loves: Hidden Creek Series #1 Read online

  She tutted and patted my arm. “But surely you’re going to have some work done beforehand, right? You can’t move in with the kitchen that terrible shade of yellow. And the drapes in the living room—I tried to tell Gwendolyn they were much too heavy and dark, but would she listen? Of course not. When did she ever listen to me?”

  I opened my mouth to defend Grandma’s choices, but then I saw the tears glistening in the faded blue eyes behind the thick lenses.

  “I miss her too, Priscilla,” I said, smiling gently. “How’ve you been?”

  She waved a hand. “So-so, my dear, so-so. Things are different without Gwen. And my sciatica is acting up again. I haven’t been able to go on my walks for three weeks now, which is a shame because the town has a lovely new walking trail—and I was up to half a mile.”

  “Half? Wow, that’s impressive. I’m so sorry your regimen was interrupted.”

  Priscilla nodded sadly. “It’s a cryin’ shame. Now Donna and Rosie are going to pass me. Rumor has it they’re closing in on a whole mile, but they’re trying to keep it all a big secret until they get there so they can make a big announcement at the sewing circle meeting. But Sarah Beth heard them bragging about it to Donna’s visiting cousin, so that cat’s out of the bag.”

  I tried to keep my smile hidden. “Well, I think it’s great that all you ladies are seeing the importance of exercise,” I said sincerely. “Maybe when your doctor clears you to get back out there, you and I could take a stroll.”

  “I’ll call you,” she promised, jumping all over that. “Just don’t invite Donna and Rosie. They’ll try to show us up, and we can’t have that.”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Did you see that Cool Whip is on sale this week, dear? It’s always good to have a tub or two on hand for desserts. And Jell-O is buy two, get one free.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I suddenly remembered that Grandma had always taken Jell-O salads to the church potluck dinners, which meant Priscilla probably did the same. It made me feel emotional all over again and I cleared my throat, fighting tears. “I just need to grab some coffee yet, then I’ll head on over to the house. You’ll have to stop by sometime, once I get settled in.”

  “You bet I will. You can show me all the things you plan to do to the place. The girls at the sewing circle will want to hear all about it.”

  “Um, yeah, I’m sure they will. You take care, Priscilla.”

  “You too, Ava Ann. Will we see you at church on Sunday?”

  Her eyes had a laser focus now and I quickly nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  She relaxed and patted my hand again. “That’s a good girl. Gwen would be proud. Go on and get your coffee, now. The Folgers is on sale.”

  “Great, thanks,” I said, making my escape and hurrying into the next aisle before she could think of anything else that needed saying. I tossed a bag of Folgers into my cart, then headed to the front, managing to check out and clear the store without any more of Grandma’s friends making an appearance.

  I left the business section of the town behind and drove through two residential blocks. At the stop sign I turned left, then right, then drove almost a quarter mile farther, just past the village limits, to Apple Tree Drive. Left onto the dead end street, then all the way down to the second to the last house on the right.

  5201 Apple Tree Drive. Home.

  I smiled at the sight, even though my eyes had started stinging again. I ordered myself to think of the happy times. The house was empty, yes, but I had so many joyful memories. Memories that would be with me until my own death.

  Even so, the way I felt as I pulled into the drive was the very definition of bittersweet. I turned off the car and just sat there, my throat aching from pent-up emotion. How could I go in there? How could I face the emptiness?

  My phone sounded with a familiar text tone, providing a much-needed distraction. The sound was muffled because the phone was way at the bottom of my purse, and it took me a bit to find it. From the tone, I already knew the text was from Myla Garrett, my best friend and fellow Hidden Creek resident—although, unfortunately she wasn’t here now because she’d enlisted in the army over three years ago and was currently stationed in Arizona.

  I hated that I was here and she wasn’t, but I was extremely proud of her for serving in the military. She was thriving in the army and took her job very seriously, even though her reason for enlisting had been to escape from a bad breakup rather than a strong patriotic desire. Apparently, small towns aren’t so great when you’re running into your ex at every corner. Myla couldn’t take being around hers, so she’d looked for a way out.

  The army had offered the quickest escape—so quick in fact, that no one even knew about her plans until she’d already taken the test and signed the enlistment papers. As soon as she got her dates for boot camp, she’d quit her job as a loan officer at the bank and hightailed it to Fort Benning.

  I’m sorry to say she hasn’t darkened the streets of Hidden Creek since, although I haven’t given up hope that she’ll return when her enlistment is up in another six months. It just doesn’t seem right that I’m finally here to stay and she isn’t.

  Myla and I go way back—so far back I can hardly remember life before she was in it. Our first meeting was in Sunday school at Hidden Creek United Methodist, the very first summer I spent with Grandma. We’d started off as two skeptical second-graders eying each other warily the first few Sundays, then we’d begun making small overtures of friendship. I gave her the little box of raisins Grandma had tucked into my pocket to keep my stomach from growling during church, and Myla gave me a pencil with pink flowers from a pack she’d been given by the teacher for memorizing Bible verses.

  Soon we were fast friends. It was a friendship that had not only survived our long separations, but grown stronger each summer. She’d even visited me in the city several times after I’d taken up volleyball and stopped coming for extended visits. When we graduated from high school, we’d chosen to go camping and hiking in West Virginia for a week, just the two of us, instead of joining our respective classmates partying it up during “beach week.”

  We were really bad at camping and we got nasty blisters from the hiking, but it was one of the best weeks of my life.

  I finally located my phone and read her text.

  Are you there yet?

  I quickly replied. Just pulled up to the house. Trying to get up the nerve to go inside. Can’t imagine it without her.

  Ugh, I know. It still hasn’t sunk in that she’s gone. But it’ll be ok. She’d love knowing you’re moving in.

  I opened the car door, typing a response as I got out. That’s true. I just wish you were here to help me get settled in. You sure you don’t want to go AWOL?

  When she didn’t immediately reply, I began to regret my teasing comment. Pushing her to come back before she was ready might make her mad, yet I wanted her to know how much I would love to have her here.

  It’s always been hard for me to know what I should or shouldn’t say on the subject of her leaving town, because I don’t know what happened between her and the guy she was dating back then. All I know is that whatever it was, it not only drove her away in the first place, it’s still keeping her away.

  I’ve given up hoping Myla will tell me more details. To this day, I know very little about their relationship. When they were dating, all I knew was that he was a new guy in town, and Myla had fallen hard and fast. I hadn’t heard from her much in the few months they were together, which, to be honest, I’d been pretty peeved about. I mean, we’d always talked about boys, the ones we liked and the ones we didn’t, and this was her first real boyfriend. I should have gotten all the details. Instead, she’d all but cut me off.

  It hurt, and I’d sulked for a while. I understood why her first serious boyfriend would take priority over an absentee friend, I just didn’t like the feeling of being cast aside for something new and more exciting.

  Three months later they’d broken
up, which I learned about only because her mother told my grandmother. She said Myla’s devastation had been so great it had driven her to seek escape by signing up for four years at whatever base the army saw fit to send her to.

  The whole thing had been so weird. A week after I heard the news, Myla herself had called to tell me about the enlistment. She didn’t come right out and apologize for her long silence, but I could tell she felt bad. It was also obvious she was suffering. Of course, I’d forgiven her immediately, even without her asking, and then I’d tried to get her to talk things out so I could understand what she was going through.

  First, she tried to claim she was simply sick of Hidden Creek and needed to get out before she suffocated. I called her out on that lie. She’d always loved the town, and I wasn’t buying it. When I’d flat-out asked her if it was because of the guy, she got snippy with me, and I could tell it was because she was having a hard time containing her emotions.

  Eventually, she’d told me the bare minimum. She referred to the guy only as JP—as if she was afraid if I knew more than his initials I’d try to look him up somehow, even though I’d never set up a Facebook account and I wasn’t the stalking type. She’d also revealed that the mysterious JP worked for a construction firm, he was a total jerk, and she wanted to forget he’d ever been a part of her life.

  And with that, she’d asked me to not mention him again.

  There had been so much more I wanted to know, but she was adamant in her refusal to talk about him. It bothered me terribly, because I felt like, as her best friend, I could help if she would just trust me. But at least we were talking again, and since I wanted that to continue, I put my hurt feelings aside and let it go.

  Once Myla realized I wasn’t going to keep pushing her, she’d started acting more normal, and pretty soon we were back to communicating as much as we ever had—aside from the months she spent in boot camp with very limited access to her phone.

  But I’d never learned anything more about JP.

  ***

  After waiting a couple minutes for a reply text, I sighed and pocketed the phone while I rooted once again in my purse, this time for the house keys. I really hoped Myla didn’t think I was trying to make her feel guilty about not being here. It’s just that I was feeling a little lonely and nostalgic. How awesome would it be to actually live in the same town as my best friend after all these years? It would’ve happened, too, if not for that idiot JP.

  Her text tone sounded again just as I saw the glint of keys in my bag. I grabbed them with one hand and my phone with the other.

  Can’t go AWOL, but maybe, just maybe, I’ll look into taking some leave time so I can come see how you’re doing.

  My heart leapt when I read those words, because I knew even the suggestion was huge for her. Huge. I hoped to goodness she meant it.

  I kept my reply casual, determined not to push.

  That would be so great. I’ll be a lonely gal until I meet some people here.

  Come on, you already know all Gwen’s friends. LOL. And you could always buy a cat to keep you company.

  I literally laughed out loud at that. You’re seriously going to let me become a lonely old cat lady? No thanks. I’ll hold out for your scintillating presence.

  Yeah well it won’t be any time real soon. Maybe a couple of months.

  That was longer than I’d hoped, but way better than nothing. Fine. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that. Thanks for checking in. I’m gonna be brave and unlock the door now. Later, bestie.

  Buck up, buttercup. You’ll be fine.

  Yes, I would be, in time. But as I stepped inside the front door, I knew some major tears were going to be shed. I’d mourned Grandma an awful lot already, but walking into her silent house made my loss feel raw and painful all over again.

  I walked down the hall to the living room and stood there looking around, taking it all in. Memories pressed in on me, making my throat ache. I noticed a musty smell and quickly busied myself with opening a few windows, trying to get a cross-breeze going.

  If Grandma was still alive, she’d have been ushering me into the kitchen for banana bread right now, her arm around my waist, her gait a little stiff because of the knee replacement she’d had a few years ago. I’d always loved our catch-up talks over warm baked goods, and it hurt so much to know it was never going to happen again.

  I closed my eyes and gave in to the memories, letting them wash over me here in her house. Mrs. Gwendolyn Marion Milton had truly been one of a kind. When I was growing up, before I switched to public school, most of my peers were from well-off families. They had youngish, hip grandmothers who were still in their fifties and early sixties. These trendy ladies went to the gym and the spa and the theater. They dressed in expensive, stylish clothes, and their hair and makeup was impeccable at all times. They took my friends to malls and boutiques, spoiling them with cool clothes and gadgets, making sure their beloved grands were solidly part of the haves, rather than the have-nots.

  I seriously doubted whether any of those fancy grandmothers had ever baked a loaf of calorie-laden banana bread—or even allowed their cooks to make such a thing.

  My own grandma was neither young nor hip. She was seventy when I was only ten, eighty-five when she died. When I came to visit, she fixed me three big meals a day, heavy on the meat and potatoes, light on the salads. She baked delicious, comforting desserts. She crocheted doilies and afghans. She dressed up for church, but her everyday attire involved an assortment of indestructible, double-knit polyester pants in various colors, most of which I’d bet good money were a minimum of thirty years old when she died.

  Every Saturday morning found her at the hair salon, having her blue-tinted hair coaxed into curls that would hopefully last the week. To that end, she wore a weird little cap thingie to bed each night, pulled snugly up over the curls by way of a drawstring at the top, which made her silhouette in the night-light look a lot like an alien when she peered into my bedroom to make sure I was tucked in tight and all was well.

  My elderly, decidedly un-hip grandma was also the smartest, funniest person I’d ever known, and she loved me madly and unconditionally. I wouldn’t change her for the world. And right now, I was missing her like crazy.

  I crossed the living room and curled up in her favorite wingback chair, the one with the extra-large doily hanging over the back, and gave in to the sobs I’d known would come.

  When my head started pounding from the long bout of crying, I tried to talk myself into acceptance. Eighty-five years was a good, long life, right? I should be glad I’d had her for as long as I had, right?

  Maybe that was true…..but it didn’t seem like long enough. I wanted her back.

  Chapter 2

  My head might be pounding, but the cry had been necessary. Being in Grandma’s house alone was incredibly painful, but it was also cathartic. She wanted me here, I knew that, otherwise she’d have made the house part of the rest of the estate, with the proceeds from the sale distributed between all three of her grandchildren.

  I remained confident that coming here was the right thing for me at this point in my life. I loved my family, but being out from under their watchful eyes and the constant suggestions on how I could improve my life would be good for me. I was ready to make decisions completely on my own, rather than having to consider how my parents and sisters would react.

  Decisions such as what kind of car I might want to buy, what color to paint the rooms of my new home, whether to go with carpet or hardwood, curtains or blinds, and which organizations I might want to volunteer with.

  Oh, the possibilities. The freedom. As I contemplated all this from the comfort of Grandma’s chair, renewed excitement began to push some of my sadness away—at least for the time being. I got up and went to the kitchen, thinking once again of soft grandma hugs and banana bread, but also of all I needed to do to make this house my home.

  I walked around the room, opening drawers and cupboards, taking stock of what was
there. My dad and I had gone through the house the day after Grandma’s funeral, right after we’d sat for the reading of her will at the local attorney’s office. Since we’d known by then that the house would be mine, I’d decided to keep all the kitchen stuff. I wanted all her well-used utensils, pans, and dishes, because that would be a way of keeping her with me.

  We’d donated what food we could and thrown out the rest. The fridge had been cleaned and turned off, the door hanging open to prevent odors. I closed it now and turned the dial to the mid-point between “cold” and “colder.” I wished I’d thought to bring a cooler and ice to keep my groceries cold while the fridge cooled down, but since the appliance was on the smaller side, it wouldn’t take long.

  I went outside and brought the groceries inside, leaving the cold items wrapped up together in a heavy paper bag, to stay as cool as possible while the fridge did its thing.

  I wandered back to the living room. Even though the kitchen was intact and basically ready to go, I had a lot of decisions to make about the rest of the house. There were a number of pieces of existing furniture I wanted to keep, mostly for sentimental reasons, but I had to figure out how to make them work with my own things.

  That would be doable and even kind of fun. It was the thought of tackling Grandma’s bedroom that was completely overwhelming. I’d peeked into the room when Dad and I had come over to clean out the kitchen, but when I’d realized that everything was just as Grandma had left it the day of the stroke, I couldn’t make myself go inside. It hurt too much to think of her tidying up the room and then going downstairs to face the day, having no idea she had just spent her last night on earth.

  I remembered exactly how the room looked. The bed was neatly made, Grandma’s floral printed nightgown folded in a neat square on the corner of the quilt, ready for a night that had never come. The quilt was the one that had been on Grandma’s bed ever since I could remember—the one her mother had made and given to her as a wedding gift.