Courtney Walsh [Sweethaven 01 A Sweethaven Summer (epub)

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.The Breakfast Club.Sixteen Candles.Mom had covered Campbell’s eyes during all the questionable parts, laughing and claiming that her baby still wasn’t old enough to know about these things.Campbell smiled at the memory.In the entryway, Mom’s gray sweater hung on a hook next to the door.Her “house sweater” as she called it.“I’ll only wear it at home, Camby, I promise.” But she didn’t.She wore it everywhere.The ratty old thing became a permanent fixture on her mother’s small frame.Campbell picked it up, put it to her nose.Inhaled.Clean cotton and lavender.Another long sniff.The smell of Mom.The flea market sweater she’d tried to talk her out of buying now seemed like a familiar friend.Mom loved the history attached to the things in antique stores and flea markets.“Junk,” Campbell had called it.“You never know who this belonged to, Cam,” she’d said, holding the sweater in front of her.“Could’ve been a famous author or”—she feigned a gasp—“an artist.” Her eyes had grown wide and then she’d examined the wristband.“Is that a splotch of paint?” She grinned.“Or it could’ve belonged to a mass murderer or”—Campbell feigned a similar gasp—“an accountant.” She rolled her eyes at her mom, but it did no good—she’d already bought the ugly thing.She shrugged her own jacket off and wrapped the ratty sweater around herself, poking her arms through the worn sleeves.She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.Ridiculous, yet somehow…perfect.The house creaked in protest to its emptiness.Even the walls seemed sad at Mom’s passing.She’d cared for the house so diligently, made it into a home.Their home.Tiny but tidy.Neat and artsy.Homey.Cozy.Theirs.Hers.Soon to be someone else’s.In that moment, she wanted to stay—to curl up on the couch and spend forever in the house that smelled of lavender and clean cotton.She stumbled into the kitchen.The sight of the full coffee pot stopped her, and her breath caught as she realized the finality of pouring it out.The last pot of coffee Mom ever made.It’s just coffee.She picked up the pot and held it over the drain, but something stopped her from dumping it down the sink.Thoughts of her mom standing in that very spot watching the coffee brew drifted through her mind.She took a deep breath and exhaled.Still, her eyes stung, tears threatening.She returned the carafe to the coffee maker.For days she’d sat in the uncomfortable, vinyl-covered hospital chair holding Mom’s hand, begging her not to die.The nurses flitted in and out of the room, testing, fixing, poking, prodding.They always asked if she needed anything.She always shook her head.“No, I’m fine.”No greater lie had ever been spoken, of course.She was anything but fine.Would she ever be fine again?The lump she’d fought for days intensified at the base of her throat, mixing a cocktail of bile and pain.One stray tear.Then another.She swore she wouldn’t cry.Even though Mom was in a coma, Campbell had to believe she could still hear her, and she didn’t want to risk making her sad.Mom’s hand in hers looked thin and frail.Even the skin appeared almost translucent next to hers.“Mom, you’re all I’ve got.” The weight of the statement hit her like a slap in the face.In a matter of minutes, she could be alone.How could this happen? How could a God she thought loved her let this happen?Mom didn’t respond.Campbell wished she would wake up—give them a chance to say the things they hadn’t.Or at least a chance to say good-bye.Campbell flipped through a mental Rolodex of almost-relationships she’d had over the years.Ashley Robinson.Grades two through six: best friend.Grades six through twelve: worst enemy.College to present: inconsequential person.She hardly ever thought of Ashley’s betrayals anymore.The pain they caused.The permanent damage.Scars are healed wounds, but they still show on the skin.Jason Timmons—boyfriend: one month.Wade Cooper—boyfriend: two months and three days.Travis Berkley—boyfriend: record-breaking seven months, two weeks, and four days.Almost eight months.Almost heart stealer.Almost.Mom told her she had to stop pushing everyone away.“For once, just believe the best about someone, Cam.” She’d tried but failed.She couldn’t let them in.She didn’t believe them.She grabbed a soda from the fridge and carried it into the living room.She sank into an arm chair and propped her feet on the coffee table, kicking her black heels off and pushing them over the edge and onto the hardwood floor where they landed with a thud.The clock told her it was almost one on the day she buried her mother.Now what? How would she spend the rest of the day? The week? Her life?Amid her mother’s flea market treasures, Campbell snuggled into the chintz cushions of the sofa and clicked on the TV.Not because she had any interest in it, but because she hated the lonely silence of an empty house.She flipped through the channels.Nothing.Thoughts of the conversation Mom had planned on having that night bobbed around in her mind.Her cell phone buzzed, forcing the thoughts away.She fished it from her purse and clicked it off without looking at the caller ID.Apologies and sympathy didn’t interest her now.She stared at her feet for a long moment, and only then did she realize the coffee table under them wasn’t familiar.Instead of the usual coffee table, an old trunk with a farmhouse quilt draped over it sat in front of the couch.Where’d this come from?She pulled the quilt off of the trunk and popped open the lock.Musty basement smell filled her nostrils, obliterating the serenity of her mother’s sweet scent.She coughed.A small quilt was folded on the top of the contents inside the trunk.She lifted it out, revealing stacks of canvases, not unlike those that filled Mom’s art studio.These were different, though.Striking.Magical.She flipped them over, one by one.Sweethaven Sunset.Sweethaven barn.Sweethaven dock.Sweethaven?Campbell glanced around the house, looking for other new additions.Things that hadn’t been there the last time she’d visited.She walked into Mom’s bedroom, trying to shut out the emotion that knocked at the door of her heart.The queen-sized bed had been made up with its red and white quilt and topped with pillows.She headed into the bathroom—fewer memories there.A white-framed mirror hung over a pedestal sink.She splashed water on her face and caught her reflection.She hardly looked like her usual self.Her blue eyes had lost their luster, and her skin looked pale.Her cropped blond hair was matted to her skull like an unattractive helmet.The mascara she’d carefully applied that morning had worn away, leaving her lashes to fend for themselves.Unsuccessfully.Behind her, a shelf decorated with seashells and photos caught her eye.She hadn’t noticed them before.A framed photo of her and Mom had been propped on one side of the shelf, but on the other side, something unfamiliar.She squinted at the foreign photo until she recognized her mother at the center of the group of four girls—probably thirteen years old—sitting on a long dock, their backs to the ocean.Or was it a lake?The frame, made of seashells, had a date etched in it.1983.Mom’s long brown hair hung around thin shoulders, and a red polka-dot bikini top showed off her tan.Long and lanky arms draped around other thin shoulders attached to smiling faces.Who were these girls? Mom hardly ever talked about her childhood [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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