After Matt hauled and stowed his load of mostly unfamiliar groceries--Where the hell do you keep sriracha? In the fridge?—he set out to reacquaint himself with the island.
Unfamiliar emotion gripped him by the throat as he roamed around the outside of the house and among the outbuildings. Someone had kept the grass mowed and the equipment safe, but the placed looked a far cry from the tight ship that Uncle Dan had insisted on. The old man had speared him with a glare of contempt and sent him back with the weed-whacker more than once, to even up the grass around the fence posts. Matt had grumbled with typical teenage scorn, but his uncle had insisted. Take some pride in the land, boy. In what your ancestors have left you. And then let it show.
He started a mental checklist as he set out to cover more territory. General maintenance around the house. A couple of boards could be replaced on the front porch. The dock took longer. More than a few spots there called for attention—he’d have to spend a few good days to get it back up to snuff.
He walked the beach beyond the stand of firs and noted the driftwood that needed clearing up, and then, on a whim, he set off inland toward the old cemetery.
Here the consequences of Dan’s old age spoke the loudest. Clearly the old guy had not been out here for at least a few years. Matt recalled the spot—ancient, timeworn headstones, inscriptions smoothed with age, a surrounding neat, fieldstone wall. All resting under the careful protection of a couple of massive sugar maples. He’d spent a few moody afternoons here, reading the old-fashioned names and sentiments, enjoying the peace.
Shame rode him hard, now, though. The place was an overgrown mess. Maple limbs drooped low over markers nearly covered with grass and weeds. Several of the taller stones listed to one side. Whole sections of the fence had fallen and stones were scattered inside and outside the small space.
Uncle Dan was probably rolling in his own grave over this. Matt couldn’t leave it. He pulled the work gloves from his back pocket, waded in and started ripping out brambles.
Hours later he set the last stone back in the east wall and looked it over with satisfaction. He’d had to go back for water and a few tools, but the old place was looking better. At least you could tell that it was a cemetery, now. Tired but happy, he tossed back his head to catch the last bit out of his water bottle—and caught the lowered position of the sun in the sky.
Damn! He had to hurry and get cleaned up before Anne arrived.
He knew he was too late long before he rounded the curve to reach the house. Music drifted toward him, a low, haunting melody that called to him, and urged him to step quicker. He emerged from the pines and stopped—rooted to the spot by the arresting sight ahead.
Anne had brought her violin. He closed his eyes, remembering all the times she’d played something soothing for him. But now she stood at the end of the dock, facing out. Her song echoed across the water, made molten by the sea and the contours of the cove.
He moved toward her, his steps silent in the sand. She played on, oblivious, even when he reached the other end of the dock. Mesmerized, he waited and watched. Then the song changed. It struck out, lively and martial and her movements quickened and became more dynamic. It struck him, a few bars in, just which song she was playing. He couldn’t help it—he laughed out loud—and she stopped, giving a half turn and tossing a grin in his direction.
“Keep going.” He waved his hand.
“No.” She moved toward him. “That was enough.”
“Still playing, I see,” he remarked inanely. Way to impress her with his witty repartee. But he couldn’t summon his brain. It was stuck, still caught up in the picture she’d made, lithe figure framed against the gorgeous backdrop. The spell of her and her music still hung in the air.
“Yes,” she answered and looked out over the water. “You don’t know how long I’ve fantasized about playing right in this spot.” Sighing, she smiled. “It was every bit as amazing as I’d imagined it would be, too. The acoustics are perfect.”
He struggled not to let her see how she affected him. His pulse was beating and his dick was stirring. And she still resented him, he reminded himself. And rightly so.
“Nice choice of music.” He needed to distract himself. “Skyrim theme.”
“Yep. I went through a Lindsey Stirling phase a couple of years ago.”
“Who?”
She fished a case out of the john boat docked on the side and he admired the curve of backside that showed when her sweater hiked up. She glanced up. “Dancing violinist? Online video sensation?”
He shrugged.
“She does a lot of video game and movie covers, as well as her own stuff.” Her mouth twisted. “I guess you are still a gamer, then?”
Nodding, he took the case from her. “Lots of gaming in the down time, when you’re deployed.”
“Well. You’re home now. Are you ready to get cooking?”
His dick twitched again, at the double entendre. Down, boy.
“I left the supplies on the front porch, when you weren’t home.”
Suddenly, he remembered the filthy, sweaty state he was in. “Ah, actually . . .” He took a step back. “Mind if I grab a quick shower, first? I’ve been working out there.” He waved a vague hand.
Her eyebrows rose. The quick, almost shy glance she let roam over him registered a thousand times hotter than it should have.
“Not at all, Chadwick,” she said. “Not at all.”
Unfamiliar emotion gripped him by the throat as he roamed around the outside of the house and among the outbuildings. Someone had kept the grass mowed and the equipment safe, but the placed looked a far cry from the tight ship that Uncle Dan had insisted on. The old man had speared him with a glare of contempt and sent him back with the weed-whacker more than once, to even up the grass around the fence posts. Matt had grumbled with typical teenage scorn, but his uncle had insisted. Take some pride in the land, boy. In what your ancestors have left you. And then let it show.
He started a mental checklist as he set out to cover more territory. General maintenance around the house. A couple of boards could be replaced on the front porch. The dock took longer. More than a few spots there called for attention—he’d have to spend a few good days to get it back up to snuff.
He walked the beach beyond the stand of firs and noted the driftwood that needed clearing up, and then, on a whim, he set off inland toward the old cemetery.
Here the consequences of Dan’s old age spoke the loudest. Clearly the old guy had not been out here for at least a few years. Matt recalled the spot—ancient, timeworn headstones, inscriptions smoothed with age, a surrounding neat, fieldstone wall. All resting under the careful protection of a couple of massive sugar maples. He’d spent a few moody afternoons here, reading the old-fashioned names and sentiments, enjoying the peace.
Shame rode him hard, now, though. The place was an overgrown mess. Maple limbs drooped low over markers nearly covered with grass and weeds. Several of the taller stones listed to one side. Whole sections of the fence had fallen and stones were scattered inside and outside the small space.
Uncle Dan was probably rolling in his own grave over this. Matt couldn’t leave it. He pulled the work gloves from his back pocket, waded in and started ripping out brambles.
Hours later he set the last stone back in the east wall and looked it over with satisfaction. He’d had to go back for water and a few tools, but the old place was looking better. At least you could tell that it was a cemetery, now. Tired but happy, he tossed back his head to catch the last bit out of his water bottle—and caught the lowered position of the sun in the sky.
Damn! He had to hurry and get cleaned up before Anne arrived.
He knew he was too late long before he rounded the curve to reach the house. Music drifted toward him, a low, haunting melody that called to him, and urged him to step quicker. He emerged from the pines and stopped—rooted to the spot by the arresting sight ahead.
Anne had brought her violin. He closed his eyes, remembering all the times she’d played something soothing for him. But now she stood at the end of the dock, facing out. Her song echoed across the water, made molten by the sea and the contours of the cove.
He moved toward her, his steps silent in the sand. She played on, oblivious, even when he reached the other end of the dock. Mesmerized, he waited and watched. Then the song changed. It struck out, lively and martial and her movements quickened and became more dynamic. It struck him, a few bars in, just which song she was playing. He couldn’t help it—he laughed out loud—and she stopped, giving a half turn and tossing a grin in his direction.
“Keep going.” He waved his hand.
“No.” She moved toward him. “That was enough.”
“Still playing, I see,” he remarked inanely. Way to impress her with his witty repartee. But he couldn’t summon his brain. It was stuck, still caught up in the picture she’d made, lithe figure framed against the gorgeous backdrop. The spell of her and her music still hung in the air.
“Yes,” she answered and looked out over the water. “You don’t know how long I’ve fantasized about playing right in this spot.” Sighing, she smiled. “It was every bit as amazing as I’d imagined it would be, too. The acoustics are perfect.”
He struggled not to let her see how she affected him. His pulse was beating and his dick was stirring. And she still resented him, he reminded himself. And rightly so.
“Nice choice of music.” He needed to distract himself. “Skyrim theme.”
“Yep. I went through a Lindsey Stirling phase a couple of years ago.”
“Who?”
She fished a case out of the john boat docked on the side and he admired the curve of backside that showed when her sweater hiked up. She glanced up. “Dancing violinist? Online video sensation?”
He shrugged.
“She does a lot of video game and movie covers, as well as her own stuff.” Her mouth twisted. “I guess you are still a gamer, then?”
Nodding, he took the case from her. “Lots of gaming in the down time, when you’re deployed.”
“Well. You’re home now. Are you ready to get cooking?”
His dick twitched again, at the double entendre. Down, boy.
“I left the supplies on the front porch, when you weren’t home.”
Suddenly, he remembered the filthy, sweaty state he was in. “Ah, actually . . .” He took a step back. “Mind if I grab a quick shower, first? I’ve been working out there.” He waved a vague hand.
Her eyebrows rose. The quick, almost shy glance she let roam over him registered a thousand times hotter than it should have.
“Not at all, Chadwick,” she said. “Not at all.”
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The Road Home is a Round Robin story written by the authors of Red Door Reads, as a special treat for our readers! To start the story at the beginning, go to www.reddoorreads.com!
