Everything We Didn't Say(8)
I could leave. The thought was tempting. She could whip the car around and speed away, past the little blue house and the library and the shot-up WELCOME TO JERICHO sign. This time, she would keep her promise to herself and never, ever come back.
But no. Juniper shoved the idea away. She had a plan. Besides, it was too late. As she watched, one of her nephews came running over to the window. Cameron? He pressed his nose against the glass, and his gap-toothed grin told her that he was indeed her four-year-old nephew. He looked over his shoulder and shouted something so that everyone turned to stare.
The night was moonless and cold, so dark that Juniper could hardly see where she was going and had to pick her way carefully or risk breaking her neck on the icy walk. By the time she mounted the porch steps, Cameron had come outside and Hunter had joined his brother, one hand fisted around the collar of Jonathan’s dog. Diesel was a Great Dane with classic fawn markings and the personality of a teddy bear. The little trio were the only family members willing to brave the night to say hello. Juniper didn’t know if she should be disappointed or relieved.
“Did you bring us something?” Cameron asked in greeting. A towheaded carbon copy of Jonathan at four, he pressed himself against his older brother. Hunter favored his mother, but Cameron made Juniper feel strangely wistful.
“Of course.” She smiled and held out a bag filled with lollipops from Hammonds. She didn’t even tell them to save the sweets for later.
Hunter snatched it and murmured a thank-you. Then they both seemed to remember their manners and hugged her, quickly, before racing back into the house. Cameron left the door wide open for her grand entrance.
But Juniper’s homecoming wasn’t grand, and as she stood just outside the slash of light carved on the crooked porch of her childhood home, the full reality of it hit her like a blow. This was a moment so ripe with shame, she couldn’t stop herself from recoiling a little. She was the runaway, the prodigal daughter who had split when the going got tough. And beneath the brittle layer of that ugly truth, Juniper harbored the fear that she hadn’t left of her own free will—she’d been pushed out. Banished. Suddenly she knew that all the years between hadn’t lessened the guilt and horror she felt. If anything, those feelings had intensified.
It was true that she made the pilgrimage home once a year—usually a quick weekend stay to celebrate Willa’s birthday—but she avoided Jericho proper altogether. It was easy to bypass the entire town by taking gravel roads and then camping on the sagging couch in her parents’ living room for a scant night or two. These whirlwind trips—though carefully structured and contained—were as sweet and fleeting as candy on her tongue. And while Juniper treasured the meager memories she made with Willa, she always drove back to Colorado with a bitter aftertaste.
In the early years, when Juniper came home, she would tiptoe upstairs in the middle of the night to hold Willa in the rocking chair. The child was so small and yet so heavy, a warm, sturdy weight in June’s lap that threatened to anchor her to Jericho. And wouldn’t she give up everything for this? For the curl of her daughter’s chubby hand around her finger? For the scent of her milk-warm breath in the air between them? For the chance to start again? But Reb had quickly put a stop to those nights. She’d snuck up the stairs herself and whisked the sleeping Willa up and away, chiding Juniper that the little girl needed her sleep. The message was clear: Willa doesn’t need you. Juniper feared it was still true. She didn’t belong here.
Crouching down, she buried both hands in Diesel’s warm scruff. “What do you think, boy? Should we get out of here?” He licked her chin.
“June?” Her mother sounded hesitant when she stuck her head out the door, and in the dim glow of the porch light Juniper could see worry carve a deep line between the older woman’s eyebrows. With one hand, Reb carefully smoothed her still-dark hair from her temple to the tight bun at the nape of her neck and attempted a smile. It wavered. Still, Juniper’s chest flooded with something sticky and complicated at the familiar sight: wire-rimmed glasses, crooked half smile, knowing gaze.
“Hi, Mom.” They met over the threshold and hugged awkwardly, like strangers. Reb smelled of wine with a faint undertone of sweat, an odor that reeked of anxiety. Juniper realized with a start that her mother had been drinking. It was in her shallow breath, the rheumy gaze of her pink-rimmed eyes. Even more startling was the realization that her own mother was afraid of her—of those stolen nights with Willa in her arms and what they might look like now that Willa was old enough to make her own decisions. Now that Juniper was staying. Even if only for a while.
She had reason to be afraid.
“Welcome!” Mandy burst into the entryway, tipping the delicate balance toward pure mayhem. All at once, the private moment with her mother fell away and Juniper noticed that the boys were still screaming in the background, and the timer on the stove rang a shrill, insistent note. Before she could even return her sister-in-law’s enthusiastic greeting, Mandy had stood on tiptoe to throw her arms around Juniper’s neck. Into her hair she said: “Shut the door, you’re letting all the cold air in,” and then abruptly let go to call the dog inside. “Come on, Diesel.”
Diesel loped past them, and Juniper pulled the door shut behind her before allowing Mandy to slide her coat off her shoulders. She had learned long ago that it was easier to just go along with Mandy’s ministrations. Mandy had set up this dinner, probably planned the menu, and would no doubt orchestrate the conversation with a cache of benign questions that would steer them clear of politics and religion, Juniper’s extended absence, and what had happened so long ago. She sparked like a live flame, bright and warm and irresistible.