Honeysuckle Love
Authors: S. Walden
Honeysuckle Love
a novel
S. Walden
Penny Press
Honeysuckle Love
Copyright 2012, S. Walden
Publisher: Penny Press
This work and all rights of the author S. Walden to this work are protected under U.S. copyright law, Title 17 of the United States Code. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. This ebook may not be circulated in any format, resold, or given away. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
Cover design by Alfred Porter.
Cover photograph by Gian Paolo Dessolis
PH Gian Paolo Dessolis Jeides Foto
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real persons, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
To my husband, Aidan, who watches me from the corner of his eye, just in case.
Table of Contents
Out of a desolate source, love leaps upon its course. ~ W.B. Yeats
Clara sat at the kitchen table that afternoon running her eyes over the papers. She had them spread out, covering every inch of the worn Formica table top, somewhat organized as she tried to make sense of each bill. And how she would pay them. There were several notices of unpaid electric bills. That was her first concern. She picked one up and read it again out loud: “
This is your final notice. A
payment of $332.79 is due no later than September 15 to avoid termination of service.
”
She felt the dull pains of panic ripple through her chest—butterfly feelings of dread—and breathed deeply. Today was the twelfth. Three days before her house stopped humming with the sounds of running dryer, whirling fan, buzzing light bulb. She placed the notice back on the table and picked up another. She read to herself:
Dear Mrs. Greenwich:
Our documents show that you are not up-to-date on your gas bill totaling $126.12. These charges include late fees. We have tried several times to reach you and have handed over the matter to Collections. You must make a payment on or before September 7 to avoid your gas service being terminated. Please contact us with questions or concerns.
Sincerely,
The Blue Flame Gas Co.
Clara dropped the letter on the table and moved to the stove. September 7. Five days ago. But she had used the stove the previous night. The gas was connected.
She turned the dial to one of the burners and listened for the familiar
click click
that ushers the burst of low blue flame.
Click click click
but no flame. Her heart dropped as she turned the dial to OFF and then back to START.
Click click click . . . burst!
She watched the flames shoot up, licking the burner insert hungrily. Clara stared at the flames reluctant to turn the burner off for fear that she would not see them again. She did turn it off when she realized she was wasting gas.
She returned to the table and picked up a sealed envelope. It was the only unopened envelope she found amidst the stacks of unpaid bills, and she wondered why her mother never opened it. Clara immediately feared the worst, an amount she couldn’t hope to pay off with the money she made working at a clothing store. The envelope was stamped
Baltimore County
State Department of Assessment and Taxation
. Clara didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded official and menacing. And she knew what a tax was. Nothing good. She looked closely at the postmarked date: May 22.
My God
, she thought turning the envelope over and running a shaky finger under the flap.
She pulled out a letter of multiple pages and unfolded it carefully. She didn’t bother to read the writing, only scanning hurriedly over the first page for a number. There was no number. She flipped the first page over. No number. She searched the second page until her eyes fell on the big, bold ink at the bottom: $1523.63. Clara let out a strangled cry. She covered her mouth instinctively, turning to the hallway. She waited for her sister to emerge from her bedroom. But no one came. Beatrice did not hear.
Her eyes went back to the letter. This time she read it, fast and impatiently. Her mouth moved forming the silent words. Property tax. Two payments. One due July 1! She panicked as she continued reading.
Payment may be made without interest on or before September 30 . . . Second installment is due December 1 but may be paid without interest on or before December 31 . . . Delinquent notices are issued in November and January . . . interest will accrue . . . interest will accrue . . .
Clara didn’t know she was crying. It wasn’t until a tear dropped on the page, spreading in an uneven circle over a smear of black words that she realized her physical response to the information. She placed the bill on the table and wiped clumsily at her eyes. She tried crying quietly; she did not want Beatrice to hear. She moved to the kitchen sink and leaned her head over the basin. The blood rushed to her face immediately; she felt it pulling her head down farther into the sink like a heavy weight. She thought if the sink were filled with water she might just let her face be pulled into it. Permanently.
She watched as the tears splashed into the empty basin making soft plopping noises in the quiet stillness of the small kitchen. A moan escaped her lips, and she slapped her hand over her mouth once more.
“Clare-Bear?” Beatrice asked from behind.
Clara stood up immediately and wiped her face. She took a deep breath and turned to face her little sister.
Ten-year-old Beatrice stood in the center of the kitchen holding a piece of paper in her hands. Her fingers were small, her fingernails short and stubby, painted with a cheery purple that was already chipping around her cuticles. Her blond brows were furrowed as she took stock of her older sister.
“You know when you have a really bad headache and it makes you cry?” Clara asked.
“No.” Beatrice narrowed her blue eyes at her sister. She flipped her long blond hair over her right shoulder.
“Well, I have a headache like that now,” Clara explained.
“I don’t believe you,” Beatrice said. “Are you crying about Mom?”
The girls’ mother disappeared a week and a half ago. They had no idea where she went, and they were afraid she would never come back. She had packed a suitcase, Clara discovered, when she went in search of it and could not locate it. Some of her clothes were gone from her closet and dresser drawers. She left a stack of papers on her bed that Clara was unwilling to go through until today. Clara searched through it multiple times trying to find a note, some sort of letter of explanation. She needed to read the words
I love you
. But her mother did not write them. She wrote nothing. She simply left.
After a week and a half, it was as though she never existed.
“I’m not crying over Mom,” Clara said.
“Then why are you crying?” Beatrice pressed.
“I told you, Bea,” Clara said. “My head.”
Beatrice listened as she turned her back on Clara to take a look at the papers strewn over the kitchen table.
“What are these?” she asked, waving her hand over them.
“They’re nothing. We’ll talk about it later,” Clara said, hastily moving to the table and gathering up the bills.
Beatrice shrugged and looked up at her sister.
“Mom will be back, Clara.” She said it with such certainty that for a moment Clara believed her. She loved that about her sister, that Beatrice could be so resolute at such a young age. Clara’s heart sank thinking that Beatrice would need that quality more than anything in the coming months. That was if their mother never returned.
“I know,” Clara responded. “She just went to the store, right?”
Beatrice giggled. It was the joke they started after the fourth day—the only way they could cope with the pain, anger, and fear of not having an adult in the house. The feeling of security was wiped out, and Clara decided that day that she would have to bring it back, do everything she could to make Beatrice feel safe and secure. And happy.
It was a bad night. Clara held her baby sister in her arms, rocked her side to side as Beatrice moaned her grief, cried her anger.
“Where
is
she?!” she screamed over and over into Clara’s soaked shirtfront.
Clara didn’t know what to say, what to do. She blurted the only thing that came to mind, an absurd response to a grave situation. “She just went to the store, Bea.”
