Spoon left, p.1
Spoon Left, page 1
Spoon Left
CARAWAY CARTER
Copyright © 2024 by Caraway Carter
Cover Art: Frauke at Croco Designs
Editing: Posy at Boho Edits
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
An Excerpt from Aftershock
Epilogue
A Note from Caraway
About the Author
Also by Caraway Carter
Chapter One
Eleven hours in his Jeep Renegade were more uncomfortable than he’d expected they would be. His sister, Donna, had sounded desperate on the phone, but probably not as desperate as he’d been that same day two years ago. Marc’s life had changed that morning; his comfortable, carefree life had disappeared in a heartbeat—a heart that pumped out blood faster than he held it in. They weren’t rushed to the hospital; Jed couldn’t be moved.
It took them hours to pry the raspberry and blackberry packages from Marc’s hands.
Screams and shouts still echoed in Marc’s ears his own screams and shouts, as he knelt there asking Jed why he’d had to forget the berries.
The road in front of him blurred for a moment, then cleared. At first, Marc blamed the radio station for the tears. The songs had changed from upbeat pop to country spirituals, so he knew he’d crossed the border into Arkansas.
Jed had forgotten the berries.
Marc’s hands gripped the wheel, and he pulled to the side of the road so as not to swerve into oncoming traffic. He turned off the radio in the middle of a sad, lonely singer crooning a sad, lonely song and wiped his eyes.
Stop this. Jed’s dead and thinking about the berries isn’t helping you pay attention to the road.
His eyes ached. Where had the time gone? The past eleven hours had flown by and dragged, the scenery remembered and forgotten, and his eyes were just weary from the drive still in front of him.
That’s all it was. They were just tired. He wiped his eyes again and got back on the road.
The GPS said it was another thirty minutes before he’d pull into the driveway of Grammom’s house. He knew he was getting close as the signs for the battleground popped up on US-71. Before long he’d see the tree line of the Pea Ridge National Park. A few tiny roads behind and around and he’d be driving through the tall grass to park beside the old, peeling white-and-red trimmed house.
For now, all he had to look at were clouds and other cars, especially slower cars in front of him that never seemed to slide into the travel lane. He sped up to pass a station wagon with six kids inside, the mother singing at the top of her lungs to a song on the radio from the looks of it. Her left hand extended out the window as though praising God, and the other gripped the wheel as though she were a Formula One driver.
He hadn’t been back in years, and he’d never managed to show Jed his Grammom’s home. His eyes watered again as he sped down the open road into Arkansas, following his memories down the dark asphalt slash in the countryside.
“Turn left in three hundred feet.” The male British voice of the GPS startled him out of his reverie for the past, and he focused on the road once again to make the turnoff. The trees, full of leaves, bathed the car in shadows. As he’d suspected, the lawn hadn’t been mowed in months, maybe years. Even though Donna and Ralphie had moved in a few years ago to help Grammom, neither was really able to keep up the yard outside.
He parked and just sat for a moment. Then, instead of knocking on the door, he wandered to the backyard and into the woods beyond. Like a rabbit following behind Hansel and Gretel, he picked up the trail to his childhood sanctuary in the woods.
The tall rock had been his refuge for so many things. From his father yelling, to his first kiss with a girl, whose lips tasted like a tuna sandwich; and his first kiss with a boy, whose lips tasted like cotton candy. The tall rock was where he’d come when he needed shelter from his storms.
He boosted himself up and lay on the top, his feet hanging over the jutting edge. He jumped down into the cave behind the rock—it was cooler there—and squirmed to the deep end of it.
The soil was still loose back here. He dug into it, searching for a half-remembered icon of childhood. His fingertips thwapped the top of the container he expected to find, and he pulled it from the loose earth. He scrambled out of the cave to sit on top of the rock once again.
In the fading sunlight, he lifted the lid and peered inside.
As if there were a speaker over his shoulder, a melancholy fiddle tune wove its way through the woods, and he looked up—half-remembered childhood games making him afraid to see a Confederate soldier standing over him. Then he smiled, pocketed the tin box, and followed the sound, jumping off the rock and moving through the woods he’d remembered running through as a child.
It was shocking how it all came flooding back. The trees had grown and the branches lay differently, but it was as though he were fifteen and he was chasing Donna through the forest again. He stumbled once, smacking his knee on a rock — “Ow, dammit!”—and ripping his khaki Dockers, then jumped up and walked through the pain.
At a final row of trees, he stopped as he saw the owner of the violin.
A man with messy curls of thick, dirty blond hair was pacing and playing in his backyard. A house stood beyond him, its kitchen window glowing brighter than the fading daylight around them. The man paced back and forth to the rhythm singing from his instrument, then sat down on a stump, replaying a lick several times.
The clothes drying on the clothesline behind him in the dark evening seemed to be the gray and light brown of a soldier’s uniform. A red linen shirt, a long, beige nightshirt, and three pairs of pants hung on the line, moving gently in the soft breeze.
The music flowed from the fiddle in the man’s hands, then stopped halfway. In the silence, the man let out an angry, “Dammit!”
And then the tune began again.
Marc couldn’t stop watching the man as he closed his eyes and soldiered through the song.
Marc prayed he would make it through the ballad. This second time, he did. The music didn’t stop again. The part that had caused the violinist so much pain emerged perfectly, and the song died to a whisper on the strings.
The violinist’s eyes were closed, his curly blond hair surrounding a face with lips that made Marc think of that first cotton-candy kiss, and he couldn’t help a quick, indrawn breath of desire. The other man’s eyes opened, and they stared at each other.
He raised his hand as if to wave but then turned and ran back the way he’d come, like he did after he’d kissed that boy—feeling guilty for tasting the sweetness and liking it.
The woods were almost pitch black. He stumbled, then squinted, looking for the path back to his Grammom’s house.
His phone buzzed and jiggled in his pocket as he got closer to the house. “Hello?”
“Marc, where are you? I see your car.”
“Hi, Donna. I’m coming. I was just out back exploring for a minute… You know my rock fort still had my treasure?”
“What?” His sister sounded puzzled.
“I mean, ‘I’m sorry, Donna.’ I’m almost there.” His breath came in ragged gasps as he rounded the corner near his rock and stumbled again to slide along dead leaves into his Grammom’s backyard, landing on the wet earth as his legs went out from under him. He found himself laughing suddenly.
“Marc?” Donna shouted as she came into the backyard.
“Uncle Marc!” His teenage nephew, Ralph, barreled past his mom to slide down beside Marc on the ground.
“What in the hell are you doing on the ground?” Donna stood laughing at them. “Ralphie, help your uncle up.”
Marc got his feet under him. “I fell. I forgot how much I loved these woods. Guess my feet forgot how to walk on dead leaves.” He took Ralph’s hand and stood up.
“Oh, you ripped your pants,” Donna shook her head.
“I did that about an hour ago.” Marc grunted as he stood. “Thank you, Pill Bug,” he said, clapping Ralph on the shoulder.
“Nobody’s called me that in four years, Unk. People call me Ralphie now.” His nephew stood up, offered his hand and Marc grasped it, allowing Ralphie to lift him to his feet.
“You guys get in here,” Donna said, gesturing to the door. “I don’t want someone complaining about us being loud.”
“Who’d complain, Mom? You said almost everyone is out of here.”
“Is this worse than I thought?” Marc asked. He looked around. In the fading twilight, not many other houses along the road had lights in their windows.
Donna gestured at the door again. “I’ve got dinner waiting on the table. I’ll tell you inside. Get your bags.”
Marc beeped the back hatch of his Jeep and grabbed his duffle and backpack, slamming the hatch down again with an elbow.
“That’s all you brought? I thought you were staying longer.” Donna looked d isappointed.
“Well, I thought the sooner we get this place cleared out, the sooner we could get everything handled.”
He dropped the bags at the door and followed her into the kitchen. Donna had set the table with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and butter—lots of butter. Ralphie had already piled his plate high, and he was digging in.
“I’d really wished you’d stay longer, but if you’ve got pressing matters back in Los Angeles, I understand.” She handed him a plate as he sat down and then took the seat where a half-full plate waited for additions.
Marc shrugged. “Do I have anything waiting for me anywhere?”
“Ralphie and I are more than just anythings.” Donna got up, opened the fridge, and produced three Dr. Pepper bottles. Ralphie handed her the bottle opener, and she distributed them.
“I know you guys are. That’s not what I meant,” Marc said uncomfortably. “I just got here. Let me eat and look around the place. From the looks of the kitchen, it’s not that bad.”
“We spend a lot of time in here, that’s why. The rest of the place is total shit,” Ralphie said.
“Ralphie, I told you not to cuss,” Donna said. From the way she said it, it sounded like she’d already said it a thousand times without being heard. Marc smiled as his nephew rolled his eyes.
“Sorry, Mom.” Ralphie turned to Marc. “It looks like crap.” He grinned at his mom. “There, is that better?”
She laughed. “Both of you, eat! I didn’t spend two hours over the hot stove for this food to go to waste.”
Chapter Two
The next evening, Marc and Donna left Ralphie frowning at a stack of homework on the kitchen table, and arrived at the town hall just as the Oakville council meeting was about to begin. They took seats in the back row. Marc insisted on the aisle seat.
“You know I’m older.” Donna laughed, as she filed into the row first.
“If you wanted the seat, then you should have stood behind me.” Marc sat down next to her, leaning out into the walkway to scan the town council’s six members sitting at the front of the room. One of the men looked familiar, but he wasn’t sure why. Other people moved down the row, and Marc grunted in frustration as he leaned farther out to see around them.
Donna grabbed his arm and pulled him back into his seat. “Stop that! You’re acting like Ralphie did when he was six.”
“Sorry,” Marc said, resigning himself to the obstructed view.
“What’s so interesting?” Donna demanded. “And why’d we sit in this back row when there were three empty rows up front?”
“I don’t know any of these people,” Marc said. “This was Grammom’s neighborhood, not ours.”
“It’s been Ralphie’s and mine for the past three years,” Donna pointed out. “Since we moved here to keep an eye on her.”
“Why didn’t you clean up the house then?” Marc retorted.
“Do you know what it’s like moving things with a hoarder still on the premises? I’m lucky she let me clean the kitchen so we could eat.”
Marc considered that.
“Okay, that’s fair. I try to not watch those shows. They give me the heebie-jeebies.”
Donna chuckled. “Ralphie said the same thing. At least Grammom wasn’t a cat lover; we’d be up to our knees in cat shit for sure.”
They both laughed wryly.
People were sitting down, and Marc scanned the council. The man on the end still looked familiar, and it was bugging him. He turned to Donna.
“Do you know any of the council members? I mean, are any of them single? Maybe we could get you hitched.”
“Not me.” Donna shrugged him off. “After Cliff, like hell I’m getting hitched again. It’ll just be Ralphie and me until he kicks me out.”
“You sure? None of them are likely prospects?” Marc teased.
She shook her head. “Nope. But I’ve heard rumors about that one guy on the end.” Donna pointed at the blond man Marc had been trying to identify.
“Rumors? What kinds of rumors?”
“The kind that say he’s not my type,” Donna said.
“Oh.” Marc raised an eyebrow. “What’s his name? He looks familiar.”
“Familiar? But you just got here,” Donna said.
“I know, but I feel like I know him from somewhere. It’s going to drive me— Oh!” Marc placed his hand in the air and laughed in recognition.
“What the hell are you doing?” Donna tugged on his shirt. “Put your hand down!”
Marc lowered his hand. “Sorry. The light is in my eyes.” He grinned. “The guy I ran into yesterday was wearing a hat, but I think that’s him. He was in a backyard playing the violin, some old song I’ve never heard before. We startled each other.” He looked back at his sister. “So what’s his name?”
“Benjamin Adams. He’s the town historian.” Donna shook her head, but she was smiling too.
The town historian and a great violinist. Stop that! It’s too soon to be thinking of other men.
His smile faded. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, and listened as the people around them settled in their seats.
Donna jabbed him in the shoulder. “What’s with you?”
“What?”
“What happened just now?”
“Nothing happened,” Marc said, looking away.
Donna wasn’t buying it. “No, I saw you. You smiled, and then you were looking at Mr. Adams, and the smile was gone.”
He turned back to face her. “Because it’s too soon.” At her raised eyebrows, he added, “You know. Jed.”
“Jed died two years ago, Marc.” She placed a hand on his thigh.
“He chose raspberries,” Marc said, looking down at his hands.
“I know.” She took a deep breath. “Marc, Jed would want you to move on. Find someone else to make you happy, like he made you happy.”
“I know. But I still think it’s too soon.” He shrugged. “Besides, this historian doesn’t know me at all. We’re here about the house, not to get me hooked up.”
Donna let it go. “All right, then. Let’s just listen.”
A man with a buzz cut and Clark Kent glasses was banging a gavel. “Let’s bring this meeting to order!”
The murmuring quickly softened as the banging grew louder in the room. The nameplate in front of the man said Albert Upshaw.
Marc leaned over and whispered, “He’d be sexy if he didn’t have such an angry frown.”
Donna smacked Marc on the knee and motioned forward with her chin.
“We called this meeting to order because there are three families who have not yet filed the transfer paperwork.” Upshaw stood up, pressing his hands on the desk as he loudly continued. “Is there a reason? Do you not understand why not getting this paperwork in to us only makes the project take longer?”
There was a microphone stand in the middle of the aisle and a tall man walked to the center. “I don’t understand why the town council thought it was in the best interest of our town to raze our homes to build.”
“Crandall, how many times do we have to explain this to you?” Upshaw held up his hands. “It’s for our tourists.”
“But we get plenty of tourists,” Crandall stated.
“We need more—” Upshaw pounded his hand on the desk. “—if we are going to compete with the other battlefield towns.”
A woman on the council held up her hand, tilting her head, eventually standing up and speaking over Upshaw. “Councilman Upshaw, let’s get this meeting back under control. You don’t have to yell at them.”
Upshaw looked to his left. “Fine, Wendy. What information do we have on the holdouts?”
She frowned and looked at her papers. “Because the remaining residents have waited this long to submit the forms, they are no longer eligible for the buyout we were offering them.”
The brown-haired woman seated beside Wendy spoke up. “Shouldn’t we also mention that the Jamesons”—he pointed at Crandall— “have put forward an argument that their home and several others on their street should be considered historic sites due to the fact that their backyards and, in some cases their front yards, border the Pea Ridge Battlefield.”
