Page 128 of Love in Riverbend
“No,” I say with a smirk, recalling the way he was banging on the door. “He was a little frantic when the door was locked, but on the way to the picnic table, we just talked. He asked why I wanted to move back to Riverbend.”
“Did you tell him it was his kiss?”
“That’s not the only reason. And no, I didn’t tell him that. I told him that I like the familiarity of Riverbend.”
“Yeah, don’t give Justin Sheers a bigger head than he already has. Oh, my mom is calling,” Marilyn says. “I’ll call back when I can. Drive safely.”
“You too,” I reply before the call drops. I’m thinking about her last statement.
Does Justin have a big head? Meaning, is he conceited?
I might think he is if I hadn’t heard the uncertain tone in his voice as he asked about maybe seeing one another. When I think back on him when I was young, I guess I thought he was a grumpy know-it-all. Now I’m seeing him in a different light. Justin knows what he knows. From what I’ve heard Ricky and Dad say, Justin is the reason the Sheers farm is productive. His research with alternative uses for corn has helped others in the area as well as his family.
Personally, I think it’s great that he’s carried on the tradition of farming. I’m pretty sure Ricky is tired of it. And with the news that Mom and Dad are considering selling the property, it seems as if the Dunn farm will go the way of other farms. The idea of it being broken into small pieces with tiny lots and big houses makes my stomach turn.
Thinking about that, I wonder if I will stay in Riverbend. I mean, it won’t be the same if it all changes.
As I pull off the street onto the lane that leads to our house, my childhood home where I will now again live, the sun is near the horizon, the sky filling with vibrant shades of crimson. The big white barn is the first thing you see. There are still pens where we used to have livestock. When I was a kid, there were cows and goats. When our dad was young, they raised pigs. Now we’ve gone to concentrating on agriculture—growing corn, soybeans, and hay. Cultivating straw.
Maybe there’s no stopping changes.
They happen whether we want them to or not.
As I’m getting out of my car, the screen door flies open, and Mom comes out on the porch. Even though I saw her yesterday, she’s coming toward me with a smile as if it’s been months. Her arms open wide as she pulls me to her. She’s a little bit shorter than I am with the same light color hair. Hers is cut into a cute short style. In her mid-fifties, she’s still in great shape.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” she says.
“What color is my room?”
Her smile grows, making small lines near the corners of her eyes. “I hope you like it.” She looks at my car. The entire inside, minus the driver’s seat, is filled with stuff. “I’ll help you carry some things.”
“First, I want to see my room.” I know that since I asked to come home, my mom has been excited about redecorating my room. And by her palpable excitement, my answer is exactly what she wants to hear.
Together we go up the steps of the porch. It’s one that wraps around two sides of the house. There’s no rail, only columns every ten feet or so. On each side of every column, Mom has flowerpots with bright red geraniums. And in the middle of each set of columns is a hanging fern. While most people buy their flowers from a local nursery or a big-box store in Washington, Mom raises hers in a small greenhouse Dad built for her on the backside of the big barn. The greenhouse windows face south, giving it all the warmth needed in the winter months so that in the spring, they’re ready.
I look at the flower beds near the porch. “You haven’t planted the beds yet.”
“I’ve been painting. Maybe you can help me with the flower beds.”
Nodding, I grin. “I’d like that.”
Our house was built by my dad’s grandfather. It’s had a lot of renovations since then, such as plumbing. Grandpa used to tell stories about an outhouse. As we enter the kitchen, the air is filled with a glorious aroma. On the stovetop is a large stockpot. “Chili?”
“I figured you’d all be hungry after packing all day.” Mom goes to the stove and removes the lid. The scent of chili powder wafts around the room. Stirring the chili, she says, “I told Rick to invite Justin. It was so nice of him to help.”
My circulation slows, falling to my feet and leaving me faint. I reach for the back of one of the kitchen chairs and hold tight. “Is he coming?”
“Justin? I don’t know. I made plenty.” She taps the large spoon on the edge of the pot, puts the lid back on, and lowers the flame beneath the burner. “Are you ready?”
For Justin to be at my house.
No.
Mom’s smile grows. “Let’s go see your room.”
“For my room,” I say softly, “I’m definitely ready.”
The back staircase steps creak as we go upward. There wasn’t much uniqueness that went into planning homes back in the day. At the top of the stairs there’s a landing and a hallway with five doors. At the far end is another staircase leading to our front living room.
