A Sweethaven Summer (3 page)

Even as she said the words, she wondered if
she
could live the passionate life her mother had dreamed for her. Every ounce of her passion had been sunk in her photography—not in people or relationships. Somehow, she imagined her mother wouldn’t approve.

“Art is a wonderful thing, Cam,” she’d say. “But you have to fill up your creative tank. It’s the people in your life who do that.”

She’d purposely kept her remarks brief, and once again, she begged her legs to transport her across the floor and to the safety of the solid pew beneath her.

Sniffles mingled with the piano as the chorus of “It is Well” rang through the vast room, filling the air with a heavy sadness.

“The song isn’t sad,” her mom had insisted. “The writer is rejoicing.”

“I know where the song came from, Mom. The writer was grieving. He’d just lost his four daughters when their ship to England went down.”

“Exactly. And even in that tragedy, he sang ‘It is well, it is well, with my soul.’ ” Mom sang the line herself, then smiled. “Pretty easy to trust God when everything’s going your way. Much harder to do that when your life is spiraling out of control.” Mom shrugged then as if she’d said the simplest thing ever, but Campbell couldn’t help but think it sounded a lot easier than it actually was.

Would things ever be well with her soul again?

Pastor Scott ended with a short prayer. Heartfelt and peaceful. Maybe Mom sat overhead on a cloud next to Jesus. Surely she would continue to watch over her only daughter. Would God allow that? Is that how things worked in heaven?

The pastor walked down the stairs and stopped at the edge of her pew, waiting for her to stand at his side. He offered his arm, even though he wasn’t—and never would be—her father. The kind gesture moved Campbell almost as much as the realization that this was it. Time to say good-bye. One last look at the coffin and she mustered the strength to stand. She turned to face Pastor Scott.

He nodded as if to tell her she’d be okay. She weaved her own long arm through his, and they started down the aisle. Then, as if she were watching from a distant place in the room—as if she’d left her body—she headed toward the back of the church. As she walked, she scanned the room. A sea of recognizable faces.

Except for one man.

Tall. Lanky. Older. Gray hair atop a long face. A stranger.

She caught his eye, but he quickly looked away. At the floor. Out the window. Anywhere but at her.

Who is he?

She reached the end of the aisle and followed Pastor Scott into the foyer.

“We can head right over to the cemetery if you’re ready,” he said.

Campbell had made arrangements to ride with the pastor and his wife to the burial. There had been talk of a car to take her—alone—to the cemetery, but she refused. What could be lonelier than an empty car ride to a cemetery?

“Almost. Do you know who that man is?” She nodded in the direction of the stranger.

Pastor Scott followed her gaze and then shook his head. “Not sure. Maybe an old friend? Colleague?”

Campbell frowned. She expected to know everyone at the funeral. And with the exception of this one man, she did.

She stood in place until Pastor Scott’s wife emerged from the sanctuary, followed by the rest of the crowd.

“You ready?” The pastor waited.

Campbell glanced back at the old man, but he’d gone. She scanned the lobby. There was no sign of him. No sign that a stranger had ever been there, paying his respects.

Sitting in the driveway of her mom’s house on Tee Street, Campbell couldn’t turn the car off. Couldn’t go inside. Would it still smell sterile and medicinal or would Mom’s real scent have returned? Lavender and clean cotton. The perfect mix.

She hadn’t been back since the night she’d found Mom on the floor. Then for a solid week she’d only gone between the hospital and her own apartment. Now, she had to go into the house where her mom had lived. And died.

Red flowered sheets still flapped on the clothesline out back. She’d have to figure out what to do with the house. But not today. Today, she couldn’t think about selling it. She loved it too much.

And Mom had loved it.

That night, the chocolate chip cookie night that never was, Mom would’ve told her what to do about the house even when Campbell tried to stop her—not wanting to face the fact that her mom wouldn’t be around forever. She would’ve broken it down so Campbell understood exactly how to list it and what to list it for. Or what it would take to keep it. She wouldn’t have left anything out.

If only Mom had had more time.

Campbell finally turned the key and shut off the engine, but she sat for a few more minutes, her head on the steering wheel. Tears fell from her cheeks and dotted her black skirt.

A river of tears later, her muscles aching from bunching them up, reason took over. Tantrums were for children.

She wiped her face and forced herself out of the car. Up the walk. Until she came to the tulips.

“I’m planting these for you, Camby-Jay,” her mother had said when they first moved in. “I know tulips are your favorite.” At eight years old, Campbell determined her favorite flower after carrying a tulip bouquet in Tilly’s wedding.

“What color are they?”

“White.” Mom smiled. “Clean and crisp. They’ll be perfect.”

They bloomed the next spring after the last frost, and Campbell had been so proud of the one she picked.

“Not for picking,” Mom said. “Just for looking.”

Now Campbell’s breath caught at the silky whiteness of the tulips. She picked a trio of them. Today she needed them on the kitchen counter more than they needed to be in the yard. The weathered arched door—a flea market find—boasted a Welcome sign her mother had painted herself with a light blue coat of watered-down paint, leaving the chipping, distressed look she loved so much.

“It’ll add so much charm to the house,” she’d said. “I’ll feel like I’m at a beach cottage or vacation home.”

Campbell didn’t argue. She’d learned to trust her mother’s artistic instinct. And her mother taught her to trust her own. She was grateful for that.

She stood in the doorway of the empty house—keenly aware of the absence of her mother’s infectious laugh. How many nights had they sat on that old couch, indulging in popcorn and eighties movies?
Pretty in Pink. 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. Instead, she told vague stories with few details.

And why had her mother never mentioned this place before? It must be real. The painted scenes matched the photo.

Walking through the house, she found similar framed photos, though the girls seemed older in each one.