Chapter 3

Twenty-Two Years Ago-Age Six

"Diana at school said s-so," I stammered through the sobs. "Sh-she said that it wasn't normal. That I was bad and that's why Mommy wasn't here."

Here, at home in Daddy's arms in the living room, I was safe. He smelled like soap and wood where I pressed my face into his shirt. School wasn't like that. I hated it. I was never going back. Ever. It smelled like paste and pee and Mrs. Schmidt's perfume. The kids were mean. They laughed at me and called me stupid and told me I couldn't play because I didn't have a mommy.

"Shh. Come now," Daddy cooed in a soft murmur. "That Diana doesn't know what she's talking about."

My chest hurt. My tummy wanted to throw up. "But Mommy isn't here," I insisted.

Daddy started rocking, the motion matching his heartbeats. One. Two. Three. "Mommy isn't here, no. But do you know why?" He paused. "She had to go climb mountains so high that the white snow never melts. Where she can see the whole world from the very top." He sighed, rubbing my back with his calloused hands. "She had to go swimming in the deep, deep blue ocean with the fish and octopus. She had lots of important things to do and see."

Why couldn't I go, too? To climb mountains and swim in the ocean?

He kissed the tip of my nose. I loved it when he did that. It tickled, but it made everything better. "Mommy is gone, kiddo, but that's not your fault. You're not bad and normal is overrated. Who wants to be like everyone else anyway?"

I shrugged my shoulder against his chest, not wanting to disappoint him. I wanted to be normal. To be like everyone else. To fit in. I didn't want to be the only kid in school without a mommy. I could still hear them laughing at me in my head, so I pinched my eyes closed really, really tight.

"Why don't we call Ian and Rick over? We can catch fireflies and make wishes on their light?"

At school, Rick had come to my classes' side of the playground and sat with me at recess. "They're dumb," he had said. Ian had shouted at the other kids to shut-up and refused to play kickball with them. At least I had them to talk to. They never made me feel different.

"Okay," I agreed.

Present

Moments like this, in the quiet ease of a day's end with only my thoughts as a companion, was typically all I needed. It usually didn't bother me that I was mostly alone. People unnerved me. I'd much rather not have commotion in my head. So, for just tonight, while I was striving for the contentment my day didn't permit, I wouldn't let the rest of it matter.

I sat on the wooden, faded porch steps outside of the home I grew up in and stared at the moon. The June humidity was heavy, as it forever was in the south, making my cotton shirt cling to my skin. I tried to not let that bother me either. Something magical occurred at sundown. The hum of the world quieted, hushing out the conundrums of everyday life. The fireflies would emerge soon, casting an uncanny glow throughout the yard. The crickets were already chirping their sing-songs, a tune only they could understand.

My mother wanted to take this all away.

I glanced at the curved gravel driveway and smiled, remembering leaping into my father's arms as a child when he'd returned from work. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel that ripple of pleasure at hearing the tires crunch when he pulled in. The black-eyed Susans and coneflowers were pleasantly scattered near that bend by the road. I couldn't see them just now, but knew they were there. Dandelions adorned the ankle high grass on the front lawn in front of me. I didn't care to disturb them, even though they would come back every year with their happy color. I always found it amusing that, when they wilted, I could wish on them. They would scatter more seeds as they drifted away, only to be reborn the next year.

Wishes were funny things. It mattered not how many times I'd made one, they never came true. That rarely stopped me from peering at the stars or dropping a penny into the old well on Barker Road and whispering a secret desire. How many times as a child had I wished for my mother to return? Maybe the fates had just heard my plea now.

I pulled the crumpled note Sharon had left on the counter from my pocket and stared at it. The address she wrote down said "Houston."

You don't know everything, Summer, my mother's voice echoed.

I should talk to Ian about it, but pocketed the note again. What good would that do? It may temporarily make me feel better, but he would infuse me with that I'm worried about you look and then go on a verbal tirade about how I shouldn't talk to the woman.

I glanced next door to see if Ian had returned home yet. Considering there weren't many acres between our houses, I never felt too far away from him. His bedroom light was on, indicating his date didn't go so well. I smirked, trying to remember the last time Ian Memmer was home at nine on a Friday night. He was probably upstairs in his room, waiting for me to bring a movie by to watch.

Rising, I swirled the ice in my glass as I closed the screen door behind me. I didn't bother locking it. The only houses tucked back on the inlet road were mine and Ian's, and there wasn't a need to lock doors in this town. The same people still lived here, as did their parents before them. The same shops on every corner. At times, the same small minds.

I set my glass in the kitchen sink. The floorboards upstairs creaked and I grinned, grabbing a bottle of beer from the fridge for Ian since he was up there. I rarely drank, but kept it stocked for him. Sighing, I headed upstairs, the boards groaning in complaint. Entering my bedroom, I found Ian planted on my window seat, looking as if he had all night to wait. He must've seen me on the porch and went in the back door, knowing I hated being disturbed while lost in my head. So few people got that about me.

In the back of my memory, I recalled a little brown-haired boy running over, covered in mud, insisting we go down to the creek to catch bullfrogs. He wasn't as broody and protective back then. Or perhaps that was the romantic artist in me altering memory.

He wore his favorite faded jeans, even in this heat. But, knowing him, his shirt had come off probably hours before. A thin scattering of dark hair dappled his chest, making a trail down to the waistband of his jeans where a V of muscle peeked over the denim. His stomach was rippled with a slight six pack, the muscles lining his shoulders and biceps bunched as he crossed his arms. It wasn't the kind of body manufactured in a gym, but rather the result of hard, physical work and good genes.

Yeah, I could see why every woman in the county wanted a piece of him. Perhaps one day he'd allow more than sex with one of his conquests.

His head was tilted down, his short, cropped black hair mussed, like he'd run his fingers through it half a dozen times. Interesting. He did that when he was upset. I took in his grin with a curious eye.

Nope, not upset. He was up to something. Probably something wicked.