Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 150878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 754(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 754(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
And that’s what it felt like. As though invading marauders had come through my homeland and laid waste. Rationally or not, I felt personally violated.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I’d received enough emotional blows in the past eleven years that I knew how to stuff the feelings back down, to keep moving. And that was what I did, looking both ways before walking purposefully across the street.
The gate was propped open the way it’d always been. If there was now more reason for security, the Swansons didn’t seem to know it. Or maybe they just chose to embrace the last sliver of tradition that existed in these parts. Trust.
There was a black truck in the driveway, indicating someone was home, and I climbed the two steps to the front door and knocked. A dog started yapping from inside, followed by the sound of a woman hushing it, and approaching footsteps. The door swung open, and Mrs. Swanson was standing there, her face morphing from polite confusion into recognition and then wide-eyed surprise. “Tuck. Oh my goodness.” She brought both hands to her mouth and then dropped them, stepping forward and gathering me in a hug. A smile took over my face, and the expression felt foreign. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt air on my teeth.
“Hi, Mrs. Swanson.”
She stood back, her hands on my arms. “My goodness. Oh, look at you. You’re a man. Goodness, goodness, I’m going to try not to cry. Quiet, Teddy,” she said to the yappy dog dancing around her legs. “Come in. You should have called—I would have made sure Phil was here and had some snacks ready. Oh, forget that. You never need to call. And who needs snacks. It’s just so good to see you.” She led me into the living room where there were several large bins sitting off to the side, the contents green and red and cheerful. It appeared that she’d just started decorating for Christmas. There were a few pieces of new furniture, but it looked mostly the same and something eased inside me so that I could take in a full breath. I sat down on the beige sofa, looking around at the familiar items, the family photos I’d committed to memory long ago. A studio pose of the three of them, another of Emily with dirty knees, grinning with a slice of orange rind covering her teeth like a goof. It made me smile. I knew from Mrs. Swanson’s updates that Emily had been picked up by a record label and recorded an album that was garnering all sorts of success. I wasn’t surprised. She’d been hugely talented, even as a kid. When I looked back at Mrs. Swanson, she was watching me as I took in the room. “How are you, Tuck?” she asked. “Really?”
I sat back, sighed. “Getting by.”
A crease formed between her brows. “I wanted to visit you,” she said. “I would have—”
“I know,” I said. “I know you would have.” She’d written to me many times over the course of my sentence. I’d appreciated the lifeline, but I’d asked that she not come see me. I couldn’t bear it. Just the thought of sitting there in my state-issued uniform in a family visiting room while my mother’s best friend sat across from me had hot shame creeping up my neck. I couldn’t face the reality. I’d written back, though with far less regularity. There weren’t many updates to convey from behind bars.
“Have you talked to your father since…”
Since. I knew very well the words left unsaid. Since you got out of prison.
“No.”
She reached out and briefly touched my hand where it lay on my knee. “Tuck. Surely you don’t still harbor resentment toward him. It’s been so long.”
So long. Not for me. For me it felt like yesterday that he’d told me he was selling Honey Hill Farm to the company that would later turn the panorama of orange groves that was my dream and my legacy into a subdivision. The betrayal continued to sting, like the bees my own grandfather had gathered and lovingly cared for. The memory of that moment still made me clench my jaw and want to swing at something. Anything, even if it wasn’t my father. It’d felt as if he’d ripped my heart from my chest and auctioned it to the highest bidder. He didn’t get it. He didn’t understand because he didn’t have the same attachment to it that I did. That my mother had. He associated the place she’d loved with her loss, but to me, it kept a part of her alive. And because of it, we’d had a falling-out that had never mended. Even before I’d been locked up, we’d rarely spoken once I’d gone to live with Alfonso. “He sent me a few cards over the years,” I said. “He told me he was getting remarried.”