Pawleys Island Paradise boxset, Books 1 - 3 Page 4

  “Oh!” A whoosh of red barreled into the room, a breeze of White Shoulders cologne lingering in its wake.

  “Grammy!” Deakon greeted his grandma.

  The white-haired woman stilled at the sight of the two of them lying on the hospital bed, holding on to each other on the skinny structure. “Close one today, huh?”

  Norman nodded. She leaned over him and placed a kiss on his forehead. Then she turned to her grandson. “You’re going to need to help your daddy, you hear?”

  Deakon beamed at her.

  “He’s going to need assistance for a while, and who are the best ones to give it to him?”

  “You and me.”

  The woman stretched over her son-in-law to place a kiss on Deakon’s forehead too, and when she did, she started singing, “We get by with a little help from our friends.”

  Deakon giggled and joined her, “We’re gonna try with a little help from our friends.”

  They launched into a verse and evidently it was a theme song for them, since Deakon knew all the words and stretched his vocal prowess to the max, especially on the high notes. A few lines in, Norman good-naturedly put his fingers in his ears. “Okay, okay, cut, you two.”

  The singing rambled to a stop, followed by giggling.

  “Mom, this is Leslie Malone.”

  “Of course it is, our guardian angel.” The woman turned beautiful eyes on Leslie. She was struck by the woman’s mature beauty. The red outfit, only a whir in passing, fit her petite body to a tee, accentuating her trim figure. Her face lacked wrinkles, although Leslie guessed her to be a full decade older than herself. Her makeup was expertly applied and her snow-white hair was stylishly mussy. She would not have looked out of place on the cover of a magazine.

  “It is so nice to meet you, Leslie. I’m Joan Lundeen. Deakon’s grandmother and all around helper to Norman.”

  Leslie smiled. She took an instant liking to this woman and found herself wanting everything to go smoothly from here on out for this family so accustomed to trouble.

  “Joan, so nice to meet you.”

  They shook hands and turned back to Norman.

  “They’re getting my papers ready so I can walk. I’m outta here. I have a prescription for a new med to fill, and we’re going to have to figure out my transportation situation for the next few months.”

  Joan sat in the chair beside the bed and took a firm hold of Norman’s hand. “Oh, Norman, why? Why did you have a seizure today?”

  He shook his head, confused lines marring his smooth forehead. “I don’t know. But I have to wonder if I was over tired from all the overtime lately. I’m going to slow it down for a while here and see if I can keep myself healthy.”

  The three adults chatted for a few moments while Deakon kept a vice grip on his dad. Shortly, the nurse came in with release papers for Norman to sign. When he’d finished, Leslie stood. “I’ll get going now, get out of your hair.” She waved away their continued thanks. “Could we exchange email addresses? I’m going on a trip, but when I return I’d love to check up on you and find out how the three of you are making out.”

  “Excellent idea!” Joan dug into her handbag and pulled out a tiny spiral notebook and pen. She jotted some notes, and handed Leslie the notebook. Leslie wrote her own information down, kept the paper and returned it.

  Leslie said her good-byes, happy they were all right, glad she’d been there to help, but suddenly anxious to get on her way. Her roadtrip awaited her.

  “Come with us,” Norman said. “Joan’ll take you …”

  “No, no, that’s okay. I’ve got to get going. Thanks anyway.”

  Norman grinned at her. “Your car’s parked on the shoulder of the highway in the middle of nowhere. Just how do you think you’re going to get going?”

  Leslie stared at him for a moment, then broke out in a laugh. “You’re right! I am going to need a ride.”

  Another chorus broke out of “Help From My Friends” and Leslie joined in as they walked to Joan’s car. She slid into the back seat with Deakon. It wasn’t a long ride till they reached her car where it sat off the highway, safe and sound. Another round of good-byes and she opened her back door.

  “Leslie? I have something for you,” Deakon said.

  Leslie turned back to him. He pulled a paper out of nowhere, a colorful artistic rendition from the Superman coloring book. “Well, thank you, Deakon. For me?”

  He nodded. “It is you.” He pointed and she saw he’d written her name in block letters above the super hero.

  “She was our Superman today, wasn’t she, Deak?” Joan smiled from the front seat.

  “Well, Superwoman maybe, but I didn’t have that picture.”

  Leslie took the paper and held it to her chest. “I’ll treasure it. Thank you, Deakon.” She left the car with a final round of waves to this special family, and got into her car, ready to continue her roadtrip.

  Chapter Three

  Not long after her trip had recommenced, Leslie exited the superhighway 79 and ventured onto a smaller country road called Route 19. A less congested road, she took a long, slow breath and relaxed her shoulders. Gone was the whoosh of high-speed cars passing her by. This road suited her mood fine. After such an eventful day, she wanted to chill out and let the miles drop away underneath her tires. She turned her music back on and progressed from the 70’s to the hits of the 80’s.

  About an hour into the new road, her stomach started making some complaining noises. She glanced at her dashboard clock: 4:10. The whole day had passed by and she hadn’t eaten at all since she left home early this morning! Such a contrast to her fear of long, empty summer days with nothing to fill her time. This trip, day one at least, was distracting her effortlessly.

  She made a turn and followed the road into a small town called Summersville. She drove by a rustic brick and wood sign proclaiming the entrance to the quaint town sitting on the edge of a gorgeous crystalline lake. The houses displayed the pride their residents took in keeping them clean and neat.

  An early dinner was her first priority. As she lowered her speed, she kept a look out for a place to eat. She found one before long – a restored old house, several stories tall and full of personality and charm that now was the home to The Front Porch restaurant. Leslie pulled into a tiny parking lot on the side and started up the eight or so steps to a prominent wooden porch.

  Wooden rockers sat in intervals around the roomy porch. Only one was occupied. A young man with long dark hair reclined in the chair, head back, legs outstretched, heels dug into the wooden floor, toes pointing straight up. Shaggy locks almost concealed his closed eyes and a cigarette burned in one hand. As Leslie made her way up the remaining steps, he brought the cigarette to his lips and puffed on it, smoke forming a faint curtain around his face. He was dressed in black pants, a white shirt and a thin black bowtie.

  Instinct caused her to step by him quietly, almost on tiptoe. She reached the heavy wooden door but as she pulled the knob, his eyes popped open and he jumped in his seat.

  “Oh, hi.”

  “Hi there,” Leslie said.

  He let out a puff of smoke. “You here for dinner?”

  Leslie nodded.

  “You’re early. We don’t open till five.” He pulled his thin, lanky frame out of the chair, lifted his rubber-soled black shoe and rested the foot on his other knee. He squashed the used-up cigarette on the bottom of the shoe, then slipped the extinguished butt into his pants pocket. He quieted, gazing at her with a slightly apologetic smile.

  “I can wait.”

  He nodded, then held up one finger. “Hold on a second. I’ll ask if I can seat you. You can at least take a look at the menu and decide what you want. We haven’t really started much for the dinner crowd yet.”

  He pushed past her and took a few steps into the house. Then she heard a “Mom?” from inside. “Hey, Mom?”

  “What?” A woman’s harried voice came from further inside the house, then the voices reduced to conver
sational tones, too far away to be overheard.

  A minute later, the young man – Leslie guessed him to be a teenager, or a twenty-year-old, at the oldest – returned. “You can come on in. I’ll show you your table.”

  “Thank you.” Leslie followed the boy in. They walked through a delightfully decorated room with couches, end tables and a fireplace. Originally, it was most likely the sitting room, morphed into a waiting room for the restaurant. Through another doorway was a sizeable room with a variety of dining tables. The boy pointed to a small table for two and she sat down, placing her purse on the facing chair.

  He stepped away and returned with a menu. “Like I said, we’re not quite open yet, and we’ve got a limited staff, but if you decide what you want, let me know and I’ll see if it’s ready yet, or if you’ll have to wait.”

  Leslie smiled and nodded her thanks. She scanned the menu and saw a good number of simple but hearty home cooked selections. Truth be told, she didn’t really care what she ate. Most of it sounded good and she wasn’t picky. Just darn hungry.

  The boy returned with a water pitcher and as he filled up her glass she said, “What’s made and ready to be served?”

  He looked at her, considering. “Probably the meat loaf. The mac and cheese dinner. Club sandwich. And any of the salads.”

  She handed the menu back to him. “Sold. I’ll take the meat loaf, mashed potatoes and side salad.” He jotted it down on a pad and she noticed his nametag pinned to his shirtfront. “Thank you, Nathan.”

  His face blushed pink into his cheeks. “Oops, sorry. I was supposed to introduce myself and welcome you to The Front Porch.”

  She shook her head. “That’s okay. I threw you off, coming so early.”

  He headed away toward the kitchen. Leslie glanced around the dining room. It was stock full of knick-knacks. Quilts of different color schemes and designs hung, displayed on the walls. Alone in the dining room, she got up and walked closer to get a look. Running her hand over the sewn handiwork, she admired the beautiful colors and patterns chosen to complete each unique creation. Although she’d never had the talent or interest to create quilts, she had always been a fan. An art form steeped in Americana, yet useful as well.

  She’d almost made her way around the entire room, studying the gorgeous quilts on each wall when she heard a yell from the kitchen, “Nathan! Order up!”

  With a last glance, Leslie made her way back to her seat. She pulled her napkin off the table, shook it open and placed it on her lap. Another summons for her waiter hung in the quiet of the restaurant. Moments later, the door to the kitchen swung open and a woman who appeared to be about her own age, with dark curly hair and an apron tied over her jeans and tee shirt came her way, holding a plate steaming with her dinner. The woman slid the plate onto her spot and pointed at her water glass. “Would you like more water? Anything else to drink? Did he even ask you?”

  The woman’s face showed a smudge of darkness under each eye, and her unruly hair gave her a frazzled look.

  “Oh, water’s fine. Thank you.”

  The woman grabbed a pitcher from a nearby station and filled up her glass. “How can he disappear every time I need him? He has one customer, one! And when it’s time to deliver the order, he’s … gone!” The woman puffed out an exasperated breath and shook her head.

  “He’s your son, right?”

  “Yeah.” The resemblance was obvious in the hair and lankiness both their bodies boasted. “I can’t even fire the kid, because he belongs to me!” The woman shook her head and rolled her eyes, amused now, less annoyed.

  “I have a daughter I bet is about his age.”

  “He’s twenty.”

  “Yep, I thought so. They were probably born around the same time.” The aroma of the meat loaf in such close proximity caused her stomach to announce its intention with a distinct growl.

  Both women laughed. “Oh my, you better start eating. Would you like anything else?”

  Leslie shook her head and picked up her fork.

  “Okay. Save room for dessert. I make them all from scratch. Today I’ve got apple and peach pies, and a delicious peanut butter/chocolate pie. Oh, and my name’s Rita, if you need me.”

  Rita headed back to the kitchen and Leslie dug in. She suppressed a verbal “Mmmmm” at the first bite. The meat loaf was heavenly. Her empty stomach wanted to stand up and cheer. Halfway through the delicious meal, she heard a disruption in the back. Muffled shouts made Leslie look up from her food.

  A mix of Nathan’s and his mother’s voices emanated from the kitchen. She could make out anger in both voices, but not the words. They yelled over each other, and the swinging door from the dining room to the kitchen did little to filter them. Then, a distinct order in Rita’s voice, “Give it! Give it to me, now.”

  “It’s mine. You always want to take over my life!”

  “Well, you’re doing a hell of a job running it yourself, son. Hand it over. You’re done.”

  “No.”

  A metallic thud followed, then another one.

  “Stop it, Nathan. I can’t have you here when you’re out of control. Go walk it off. You’re not driving the car. It’s not safe.”

  Leslie put her fork down, mesmerized by the unfortunate family drama not far away. A slight pause, and then Nathan’s voice again, “I hate this! I hate it here. I hate you, Mom.”

  A shuddering door slam followed. Then, complete silence. Leslie sat there, blinking. She glanced down at her half-eaten dinner and she didn’t feel so hungry anymore. She pushed it away and sipped her water.

  She sat a few minutes and wondered what to do next. She wanted nothing more than her bill so she could pay and flee. But that would be the height of awkwardness, tracking down Rita now, asking for her bill. She supposed she could stick a ten-dollar bill on the table and sneak out. That should more than cover the meal.

  Leslie was no stranger to fights between parents and children. Especially grown children who weren’t quite independent, but hated the fact they still relied on Mom and Dad. Of course, she and Jasmine had their disagreements. Not that loud usually, and never had it ended in “I hate you.” That was a pronouncement rarely said in the heat of the argument, but always apologized for later. It was hurtful, and how could a child flinging that at them and then storming out the door not affect a parent?

  An unmistakable sob came from the kitchen, making her in less of a rush to leave. Sure, she didn’t know Rita at all. But she was a fellow mother. Maybe she could help. Maybe Rita needed a shoulder to cry on – literally.

  She pushed back from the table, her solid chair making a scraping sound on the wood floor. She made her way to the kitchen, saying a quick prayer, “Lord, help me to help this mother. Give me the words to say to provide comfort.”

  She tiptoed across the dining room and pushed slowly on the swinging door leading to the kitchen. At first she didn’t see Rita, and wondered if she’d followed Nathan out. But another sob came from around the corner of a waist-high counter, and Leslie followed the sound. There, crumpled on the floor next to the workspace, was Rita, her head in her hands.

  Leslie joined her on the floor. She put her hand tentatively on her shoulder, and Rita looked up, startled. Rita mopped her eyes with the palms of both hands, and ran them through her hair, moistening the tips with her own tears.

  “I’m sorry …”

  “Don’t be. I figured you’d maybe need a hug and an ear. Us moms have to stick together.”

  Rita stared intently for a few moments, then nodded. Her shoulders relaxed and she cried some more, Leslie patting her on the back, shushing her like she used to do to Jasmine during a crying spell. It’s odd how comforting those gestures are, and how universal. Over five minutes passed and Rita started to pull herself together. Leslie saw a stack of napkins close by and reached for them, handing a few to Rita, who used one to wipe her eyes and nose.

  She stood shakily. “Thanks. I’m sure you’re very sorry you stopped in here for dinn
er today. Obviously I won’t charge you for your meal.”

  Leslie smiled. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m paying. It’s the best meat loaf I’ve had in years.”

  Rita choked out a short laugh. “Too bad I can’t raise kids as well as I bake meat loaf.”

  Leslie knew it was intended to be a lighthearted comment, but it brought on more tears. Rita wiped her face and drew a deep breath into her lungs.

  “Sometimes kids make decisions we don’t approve of, no matter how well we’ve raised them. Especially kids Nathan’s age.” Leslie leaned against the counter, giving Rita some space. “Would it help to talk about it? I know I’m a complete stranger but I’d be happy to listen if you want to talk.”

  Rita gave her a sideways glance. “You know, maybe you can put a fresh eye on it and give me some advice I haven’t thought of before.”

  Leslie nodded. “I’ll sure try.”

  Rita reached for something nearby on the floor, then tossed it onto the counter. Leslie studied it. It was a zip locked plastic sandwich bag filled with what looked like Italian spices – parsley, oregano, basil. But of course they weren’t spices. Leslie had never been this up close and personal to marijuana before, but she could recognize it when she saw it. She looked at Rita and sighed. “Drugs.”

  “Yes. He had his dealer deliver it here. To my business.” She picked it up and carried it over to the industrial sized stainless steel sink, turned on the water. Opening the bag, she dumped the contents down the drain. The distinct odor of the herb met Leslie’s nostrils.

  “How long’s he been using?”

  “Since about a month after his dad left.”

  Leslie nodded her sympathy. A boy needed his father, and this one evidently left his family and his responsibilities. “Does Nathan still see his dad?”

  Rita shook her head. “Neither of us do. At least, not since he deployed to Afghanistan.”

  “Oh, he’s military?”

  “Yep.” Rita picked up a peach pie and a chocolate peanut butter delicious-looking dessert. “Want a piece while we talk?” She motioned with the pies.