Page 6

chapter five

Tuck

I stood on the other side of the road, staring at the place that had been a second home to me.

It was barely recognizable.

Swanson Groves still featured the same gate, with a white house in the distance, but instead of the seemingly never-ending rows of orange trees that had once stretched from their home to ours, there was now only a handful of trees. The rest had been mowed down to make room for square, nondistinct tract houses and what looked like a mall in the distance. A hole inside me gaped wide, an old wound made up of anger, bitterness, resentment…hate. I’d spent so many years convincing myself I’d moved on from those feelings, but I obviously hadn’t, because in one unexpected moment, they poured forth.

All these years, I’d held this place in my heart as a slice of heaven on earth. Out of my reach, yes, but still there. Still proof that a piece of perfect, no matter how small, no matter how re moved, existed. But now, I felt that hope crumble. I knew there had been changes, but I hadn’t imagined this level of…carnage.

And that’s what it felt like. As though invading marauders had come through my homeland and laid waste. Rationally or not, I felt personally violated.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I’d received enough emotional blows in the past eleven years that I knew how to stuff the feelings back down, to keep moving. And that was what I did, looking both ways before walking purposefully across the street.

The gate was propped open the way it’d always been. If there was now more reason for security, the Swansons didn’t seem to know it. Or maybe they just chose to embrace the last sliver of tradition that existed in these parts. Trust.

There was a black truck in the driveway, indicating someone was home, and I climbed the two steps to the front door and knocked. A dog started yapping from inside, followed by the sound of a woman hushing it, and approaching footsteps. The door swung open, and Mrs. Swanson was standing there, her face morphing from polite confusion into recognition and then wide-eyed surprise. “Tuck. Oh my goodness.” She brought both hands to her mouth and then dropped them, stepping forward and gathering me in a hug. A smile took over my face, and the expression felt foreign. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt air on my teeth.

“Hi, Mrs. Swanson.”

She stood back, her hands on my arms. “My goodness. Oh, look at you. You’re a man. Goodness, goodness, I’m going to try not to cry. Quiet, Teddy,” she said to the yappy dog dancing around her legs. “Come in. You should have called—I would have made sure Phil was here and had some snacks ready. Oh, forget that. You never need to call. And who needs snacks. It’s just so good to see you.” She led me into the living room where there were several large bins sitting off to the side, the contents green and red and cheerful. It appeared that she’d just started decorating for Christmas. There were a few pieces of new furniture, but it looked mostly the same and something eased inside me so that I could take in a full breath. I sat down on the beige sofa, looking around at the familiar items, the family photos I’d committed to memory long ago. A studio pose of the three of them, another of Emily with dirty knees, grinning with a slice of orange rind covering her teeth like a goof. It made me smile. I knew from Mrs. Swanson’s updates that Emily had been picked up by a record label and recorded an album that was garnering all sorts of success. I wasn’t surprised. She’d been hugely talented, even as a kid. When I looked back at Mrs. Swanson, she was watching me as I took in the room. “How are you, Tuck?” she asked. “Really?”

I sat back, sighed. “Getting by.”

A crease formed between her brows. “I wanted to visit you,” she said. “I would have—”

“I know,” I said. “I know you would have.” She’d written to me many times over the course of my sentence. I’d appreciated the lifeline, but I’d asked that she not come see me. I couldn’t bear it. Just the thought of sitting there in my state-issued uniform in a family visiting room while my mother’s best friend sat across from me had hot shame creeping up my neck. I couldn’t face the reality. I’d written back, though with far less regularity. There weren’t many updates to convey from behind bars.

“Have you talked to your father since…”

Since. I knew very well the words left unsaid. Since you got out of prison.

“No.”

She reached out and briefly touched my hand where it lay on my knee. “Tuck. Surely you don’t still harbor resentment toward him. It’s been so long.”

So long. Not for me. For me it felt like yesterday that he’d told me he was selling Honey Hill Farm to the company that would later turn the panorama of orange groves that was my dream and my legacy into a subdivision. The betrayal continued to sting, like the bees my own grandfather had gathered and lovingly cared for. The memory of that moment still made me clench my jaw and want to swing at something. Anything, even if it wasn’t my father. It’d felt as if he’d ripped my heart from my chest and auctioned it to the highest bidder. He didn’t get it. He didn’t understand because he didn’t have the same attachment to it that I did. That my mother had. He associated the place she’d loved with her loss, but to me, it kept a part of her alive. And because of it, we’d had a falling-out that had never mended. Even before I’d been locked up, we’d rarely spoken once I’d gone to live with Alfonso. “He sent me a few cards over the years,” I said. “He told me he was getting remarried.”

“Yes.” She worried her lip for a moment. “They had a little girl. She’d be…oh, five now, I guess. I tried to keep in touch, but…” She waved her hand through the air, and I took her meaning. He wasn’t interested. He’d washed his hands of this place, and that included the reminders too. Maybe I didn’t blame him. I’d done the same, even if for different reasons. “Anyway,” Mrs. Swanson said, “tell me what you’re doing. Your plans. Where you’re living. You must be on your way somewhere.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. I hated this. Hated asking for help. It made me feel low, worthless. “Well, actually, no… I was sort of hoping you had a job here that I might be cut out for.”

Her face fell. “Oh…oh, Tuck, I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “The truth is, we’re barely getting by here. I’m sure you noticed all the changes,” she said, waving her hand in the general direction of what had once been miles of fragrant orange trees. “We’re downsizing, not expanding. To be honest, I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be in business.”

I winced. From what I could tell, Swanson Groves was the very last of its kind. When it closed down, Citrus Row would truly be a thing of the past.

She watched me worriedly for a beat, then two, as I processed what she’d told me. “It’s been hard, I suppose, starting fresh,” she finally said.

“Yeah.” I let out a small, uncomfortable laugh that died a quick death. “I’ve found I’m not qualified for much, and people aren’t real willing to cut a break to an ex-con.”

“Oh, Tuck. You’re so much more than that.”

“Not on paper.”

She sighed, that worry line between her brows growing deeper. Then her head snapped up, eyes widening as she sucked in a sharp breath. “I can’t offer you a job here, but I can offer you a job. Or rather, Emily can.”

“Emily?”

She nodded, her sudden enthusiasm obvious as the speed of her words quickened, her voice rising animatedly. “Her career has really taken off, Tuck. She’s just announced a big tour which, oh, I don’t even know all the details because they’re still being worked out, but it’s all so exciting. Anyway, she was just telling me a few nights ago that her manager wants her to hire a security team.” She sat up straighter, her smile growing. “You’ve obviously been working out. You’re fit and strong, and well, let’s be honest, you’d spot trouble before someone who hasn’t had the experiences you’ve had in the last decade. That’s an asset and a well-earned skill. It’s fate that you showed up today. Emily needs you, Tuck.”

I smiled uneasily. Mrs. Swanson was being extremely kind. Emily didn’t need me at all.

I hadn’t seen nor heard from Emily in a long, long time. She’d once been like family to me, even if we’d drifted far apart since then. And I was glad that she was well on her way to forging the life she’d always wanted. But no, she didn’t need me. Not even close.

But… I needed her. Or rather, I needed the job she might have to offer.

“I’ll call her,” Mrs. Swanson went on. “She’ll be thrilled. So relieved. Who better to have her back than someone who knows her personally? Do I have your permission?”

I opened my mouth to ask a few questions…where, and when, and what the hours might be. But then I slowly closed it. Did it matter? Not really. “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Swanson. I really appreciate it.”

She reached out and squeezed my hand again. “Your mom was my very best friend,” she said, blinking away the tears that suddenly filled her eyes. “We once promised each other that if anything happened to the other, she’d look out for Em and I’d look out for you. I’ve felt so helpless over the past six years, Tuck, and so I’m grateful you came to see me now, and that I’m able to help you get on the track toward happiness. It will happen. More people than you might think believe in second chances.” She stood, discreetly swiping the moisture from her eyes. “Now come help me with dinner. Phil will be home in an hour or so, and then I insist you stay here until you start working for Emily.”

Later that night, after dinner with the Swansons, I excused myself early and headed to the guest room where Mrs. Swanson had put my duffel bag with the few belongings I owned in the world. The guest room had once been Emily’s. It still held the white, wrought iron twin bed she’d slept in, but now featured a pale gray quilt instead of the pink frills I remembered. That had been so long ago though. Maybe her room decor had changed as she had. I wondered who she was now, and if she would seem like a stranger, or a friend.

The shade clattered as I lowered it, blocking the view that made my gut churn with that old longing. The bedding felt soft beneath my fingers, the sheets crisp and clean, but after a moment of staring down at it uneasily, I pulled the quilt from the bed and laid it on the floor. I grabbed a pillow and then made myself comfortable on the rug, knitting my fingers behind my head.

The whir of the ceiling fan above lulled me into a type of hypnosis, my eyes drooping. I’d been living on the outside for several months now, and yet my body was still programmed to go to sleep early and wake at first light. As I drifted, I swore I could hear the clank of metal and the various conversations happening around me, kept low so as not to catch the attention of the guards. Conversation, laughter, threats, both veiled and outright, personal bodily sounds that I’d never quite grown accustomed to.

I bolted upright, shaking away the slow dip into sleep at the unfamiliar noise that had roused me. My head turned toward the window as a horn blared in the distance once again. My shoulders dropped and I exhaled a slow breath. The ability to awaken quickly, even if it meant I was constantly on edge, had been a necessity for a long time. Now it just kept me from ever feeling truly rested. I wondered if I’d ever sleep deeply again.

There was a bookshelf on the far wall, and I pulled myself from the floor, walking over to it and perusing the titles in the dim light of the small table lamp I’d left on. A couple of them looked familiar for some reason, and frowning, I pulled one from the middle. Aqueducts and Water Supply. I turned it over, reading the description, the words coming back to me. This had been one of my books, one I’d been reading in the weeks before my mother collapsed and ended up in the hospital. I’d read it up in that loft in the old stable. My secret hideout. God, I hadn’t thought of that place in a long time. I tilted my head, staring down at the cardboard cover. How had it ended up here? Something about this particular book in my hands opened up a small wellspring of peace inside me, as though the very pages contained the simplicity of that time. The innocence. The joy.

Then again, books had been bringing me a measure of com fort for my whole life. Companionship. Distraction. They’d helped me survive my time behind bars.

I returned to my bed on the floor, propping the pillow against the wall so I could read. After a few minutes and feeling much calmer, I turned my head toward the window where shifting shadows barely showed around the edges of the blinds. The outside world. One I was now a part of. Only not really. Or at least…not yet. But I felt a tiny trickle of hope as Mrs. Swanson’s words from earlier filtered through my mind.

More people than you think believe in second chances. God, I hoped that was true.