to know.
Dean wished he were invisible. At least for a hour or so, anyway, just until he got used to the idea of being back in Sweetbranch before anyone else noticed he was.
That not being an option, he decided to hide out in his pickup for a bit, cruising the back roads, trying to come to terms with that weird sensation when you return someplace after being away for a long time and everything seems so familiar and strange all at once. And here he’d gone and said he’d stay for a whole week. Lord. If he’d been a drinking man, he’d’ve sworn he’d had one too many when he’d made that promise. He’d figured he’d feel unsettled. What he hadn’t figured on was how right it felt to be home.
And he didn’t quite know what to do with that feeling.
Nine years. Nine years of growing up, of making something of himself in spite of a reading disability that had finally bested him halfway through his junior year of high school. Nine years of forcing himself to stay away from everything good he’d ever known in order to give Sarah Whitehouse the chance to become everything she could. Nine years of wondering if he’d made a dumb-assed mistake.
Well, he thought as he took a swallow of warm Coke from the almost empty can he’d been nursing since Atlanta, nothing to be done for it now. Not a dad-blasted thing.
For a long time, he’d tried to blame his leaving on his Aunt Ethel, his father’s older sister, who’d taken him and Lance in after his mother died when he was fifteen, with her constant harping on the differences between him and Sarah. She’s a doctor’s daughter, not the offspring of some small-time country carpenter. Lookit how bright she is, gettin’ straight A’s in school, and that scholarship to Auburn. What’s a poor country boy got to offer a girl like that? she’d say. Face it—in the long run, you’ll end up feeling like half a man. That what you really want? For either one of you…?
At twenty, he’d discovered, sometimes you’re not so all-fired set in your convictions. At twenty, maybe you’re not so sure who’s right and who’s wrong. Or what’s right or wrong, for that matter. Oh, he didn’t doubt his feelings for Sarah at the time, but his aunt’s objections slowly ate away at his resolve to make the relationship work, birthing an annoying little gremlin of doubt that eventually became a constant, unwelcome companion. At last, he came to believe that maybe his aunt was right, that maybe he would be an impediment to Sarah’s future, that maybe she’d end up resenting him.
So better she hated him then, went the impaired reasoning, than waiting around for their love to die a slow, agonizing death.
He hadn’t known his heart would shatter into a million pieces when he realized how well he’d played his part that day. And in the end, he also realized, he had no one to blame but himself.
He steered the Dakota onto the road leading to his aunt’s house, the eerie feeling of…displacement, he guessed it was, becoming even stronger. The differences in the scenery stood out like black sheep, simply because there were so few. For instance, he noticed Percy Jenkins had planted a new elm to replace the old one he’d had to take out because of disease. The new tree reached over the roof already, its deep green leaves quivering in the light breeze.
And Myrtle Andersen had painted her house trim a deep blue. He liked it.
And Frank Cuthbertson had finally gotten rid of that old Chevy on the side of his house that his chickens had adopted as a sort of coop-away-from-coop. He chuckled, remembering how, as kids, he and Sarah used to sneak up and pilfer the eggs that sometimes appeared on the back seat, an odoriferous booty the all-too-frequent reward for their clandestine activity.
There were some kids he didn’t recognize, of course, as well as the occasional unfamiliar stray dog nonchalantly trotting across the road right in front of his truck. But for the most part, it was all the same. Kudzu-choked pastures sandwiched between the same pecan and peach and apple orchards; the same heady aroma of wild honeysuckle and mimosa; the same Alabama clay that tinged everything in the vicinity a garish orange.
And Sarah’s house, too, was just as he remembered it. Still stately and fussy at the same time—the curse of a good Queen Anne—still yellow and white and forest green, although it looked like it could use a new paint job. He drew in a quick breath: Lance had told him Sarah’s father had died suddenly about three years ago. Heart attack. The news hadn’t really registered until he saw the house, the house Dr. Whitehouse had spent so much time restoring and caring for, ever since Dean could remember. The house he’d grown up in nearly as much as his own. Lance said Sarah’s parents had had a midlife baby, too, a little girl just now turned eight. A real shame, a child losing her daddy that young.
Dean leaned over, peering out the passenger’s side window. That willow tree in the front yard was even bigger than he remembered, as were the maples tickling the roof from the back of the house. The kennel sign was spiffier, though, more professional. Lance’d said Sarah and her mother had done real well with the kennel, even had a champion or two. Black Labs, wasn’t that it? Sarah’d always been partial to Black Labs.
Returning his attention to the road, he reminded himself she wasn’t there. Lance had told him she worked most days at a veterinary clinic over in Opelika, assisting old Doc Jefferson….
Lord. The memories were relentless. He sped up, consigning Sarah’s house to his rearview mirror, not ready to deal with any of it yet. Time enough to do that at dinner tonight. When, he assumed, he would see Sarah, for the first time since his Oscar-worthy performance as the slimeball boyfriend.
How the Sam Hill had his brother managed to fall for Sarah’s sister? Out of all the girls at Auburn, you’d’ve thought at least one of them might have caught Lance’s eye while he was there getting his degree. But no. Lance had to choose someone who’d lived a half mile down the road almost his entire life.
A hiss of air escaped Dean’s lips. Wasn’t as if he didn’t understand. He’d done the same fool thing. Only difference was, he’d turned tail and run, instead of marrying Sarah like he should’ve done and let the consequences be damned. No, he sure couldn’t fault his brother for not finding anyone he liked better. Not when Dean, after all this time in Atlanta, kept seeing Sarah’s syrupy eyes and square jaw and long, silky maple-colored hair superimposed on every woman’s face he saw, dated, slept with. Not that there’d been all that many of the latter, he admitted to himself, slinging his right arm across the back of the seat and trying to shift his weight off his numb bottom.
They say you can’t go home again. Well, he had, but even if all the houses and roads and even most of the damn trees were exactly as he’d left them, he’d be even a bigger fool than he already was if he thought Sarah was. There was nothing left between them but memories. If even that much. He’d hurt her, deliberately and unforgivably. He’d think less of her if she didn’t hate him.
He’d lost the best thing that’d ever happened to him, a fact he’d regret for the rest of his life. And one which made him wonder how he was going to get through the next week.
Hell. He’d be going some just to get through the next few hours.
Sarah actually closed the clinic on time, which gave her maybe a few minutes to sort out her very muddled thoughts about this turn of events. Jennifer had rescued poor Katey right after lunch, to Sarah’s immense relief—she didn’t think she could’ve stood an afternoon of bored sighs and moans and groans.
Almost of its own volition, the Bronco steered toward home. Her hands were seized, however, with an almost uncontrollable urge to veer south toward some secluded Mexican beach. Just for, say, the next week or so?
Oh,
