Page 24 of Meet Me in the Valley (Oakwood Valley #2)

Chapter Sixteen

TIA

As soon as I walk in the door to my parent’s house, the familiar smell of my favorite meal melts away any anxiety I had on the drive over.

I slip off my shoes at the door, letting the decadent smell lead me toward the kitchen.

It’s when I peek around and see my mama wrapped in her favorite apron, music playing, dancing with Dad in the middle of the kitchen, that I lean against the wall with adoration shining in my eyes.

It’s almost as if everything isn’t falling apart around me. My mom looks normal. Happy. Not sick.

Dad spins her once, then twice, a bubbly giggle and beaming smile on her lips.

He carefully dips her back, kissing her forehead as he pulls her up.

They finally take notice of me as I push off the wall to walk straight into their arms. I breathe them both in, inhaling my mama’s familiar perfume on her neck and Dad’s cigar-scented collar.

“Hi sayang . I hope you’re hungry. I made your favorite,” Mama croons, kissing my temple.

I walk over to the stove, my stomach rumbling, mouth watering.

There’s nothing in the world like your mother’s cooking.

Just the smell alone can heal your inner child.

But the taste? It’s like a time capsule that transports you even on your worst days.

And eating my favorite meal made by my mama right now is exactly what I need.

“Mmm, beef rendang. Thanks so much, mama.”

“You know, you need to learn to make this yourself, so one day, when I’m gone, you’ll be able to make this for your future family.”

It shouldn’t hurt so much, but her words pummel my insides to mush. An overwhelming wave of grief crashes into me. My father casts a sympathetic glance my way—he can see how deeply this simple sentiment throws off my axis.

The thing is, Mama doesn’t have a written recipe for anything she cooks. She cooks with feeling, as she likes to say, yet somehow, it tastes exactly the same no matter the day. If I were to learn to cook my favorite foods, I’d have to record videos in order to follow her chaotic cooking style.

Kissing her on the cheek, I sneak a piece of beef from the pot, moaning at the heavenly taste of Indonesian spices and familiarity. Off to the side of the stove, I notice a plate with a plump filet of salmon, paired with a hefty portion of sauteed leafy greens.

A small part of me wilts, knowing my mom will have to consider everything that enters her body from here on out. It’s good, though. She needs to do everything she can to make life a little easier for her, even if it requires a tedious food regimen.

“You know, Mama. I was doing some research,” I tell her as I make my way to the cupboard to grab three glasses to fill with water.

“Is that right?” She plucks several tiny leaves off a dill weed plant, garnishing her salmon. Her lips tilt into a smile, which brings me peace in knowing she can talk about her diagnosis without falling off the rails.

I note that today is a good day, so I tread carefully to not spoil it.

“Yeah. I downloaded a whole brain-healthy menu of delicious meals to cook. I know how much food means to you, and I want to make sure you’re not only eating the right things to support your brain, but that you enjoy the taste, too.”

My mom turns to me, kissing both of my cheeks. “Your father isn’t a great cook.”

“I’m not that bad,” my dad chimes in with a laugh as he finishes setting the table for three.

Mom rolls her eyes, and for a split second—I see myself. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I shift nervously on the balls of my feet, intently watching my mom fix her plate with a squeeze of a lemon and a tiny dash of salt.

“Daddy doesn’t have to make your meals all the time, Mama. I can cook for you, too,” I mumble, gnawing on my thumbnail.

My mom stops fidgeting with the food on her plate, glancing at my thumb and pulling it out of my mouth like she used to do when I was a child.

“You couldn’t do that, Tia. Your life is in Texas.”

Her expression is somber, and I berate myself because this was one of her good days. Her face tells me it’s changing rapidly, so I do my best to rectify.

“I was thinking I could move back home? Just to help you and Dad. I can cook, I can clean, I can run errands. I’ll be available any time you need me. I can?—”

“No. I won’t allow it, sayang . I’m still me,” she points at her chest with vigor.

“I’m not gone yet. I don’t want you to stop your life because of me.

” Her voice wavers, then in true Connie Young fashion, she steels herself, grabbing her plate and walking over to the dining table where my dad looks on with a tiredness in his eyes.

My mom sits in her chair, staring down at her food like she wants to chuck it across the kitchen. I take it as a signal to bring the rest of dinner to the table, choosing to shut my mouth before I make things worse.

Once everything is in its place, I join my parents and make my plate in silence.

“So, sweetheart, are you taking some time off of work? I was surprised to know you were still in town. I thought you and Logan were leaving back to Austin together,” my dad asks as I refill his water glass in front of him, then my mom’s.

I sit across from her, my eyes locking on the fourth empty chair at the table.

I had already thought about what I was going to tell them, since I’m keeping my bring-home-long-lost-sister mission a secret. Dad said that with Alzheimer’s patients, bringing forth new and overwhelming information can cause a whole load of stress.

I should’ve remembered that before I sprung on my mom that I wanted to move back home to help her.

Routine and familiarity are what my mom needs right now. I had a harrowing thought that bringing Nora back could actually do more damage than good, but you don’t need a doctor to diagnose a mother’s broken heart. If there’s anyone who can stop the bleeding, it’s Nora.

“I’ve been doing some administrative work from home this week, but I’ll be flying out to Vegas this weekend for a design convention.

Roy is sending me to put out feelers, gain inspo, that sort of thing,” I share, crossing my index and middle finger behind my back to forgive the lie that easily slips from my tongue.

“That’s great, Nora,” Mom says.

I nearly choke on a piece of beef, coughing into my napkin as my eyes flick to Dad, silently pleading for backup. He clears his throat and gently squeezes her hand. Calm and steady, the way he always is with her.

There’s so much love in his eyes. I admire him more with each second that passes, watching how confident he is in caring for the woman who raised me.

“That’s Tia, honey,” he says softly. No drama, no sting. Just a gentle correction. Cool as ever.

The burn behind my eyes fades as quickly as it came, and I smile—bright and brave at my beautiful mother. Despite everything, she still remembers how to make my favorite meal, like I’m ten years old again.

“Of course. Sorry, Tia, sayang ,” she says with a small laugh. “A common slip.”

“It’s okay, Mama,” I whisper, placing my hand over hers and giving it a tender pat. I smile wide enough to hide the ache sitting behind it.

The evening unfolds gently. We eat, we laugh, we reminisce.

Mom shares parts about her week, like when she had a conversation with a neighbor about their rosebush on a recent walk, or how she and Dad ran into one of my old high school teachers at the diner one morning and gushed about how proud they were of me.

Listening to her recall things with such clarity brings me comfort tonight. If anything, it’s a gentle reminder for me to live and stay rooted in the moment. I can enjoy a meal with my family without letting the thoughts of everything that’s eating at me interfere and ruin the mood.

Now and then, my eyes drift to the empty chair beside me, the one that Nora

should be in.

In my mind, she’s there—present and glowing, adding her laughter to ours.

I trace Mama’s face with quiet reverence, committing every line to memory. The soft folds around her smile, the gentle thinning of her lips, her big chocolatey eyes still rich with life and overflowing with love.

It’s all the motivation I need.

One day soon, Nora will sit in that chair again. Her chair. We’ll eat, drink and laugh, and finally feel whole around this table once more.

One day soon, my family will heal.

Drive west past the Austin city limits and the stars become unreal. Untouched by light pollution, just bright burning flecks scattered across the sky.

But the stars in Oakwood Valley are unmatched. No contest.

The night is clear as I sit on the balcony of the Violet Inn. A tiny escape for me before I dive headfirst into a new adventure tomorrow. I’m calling it an adventure because I’m tired of feeling sorry for myself. I’m tired of all the crying and confusion.

Since having dinner with my parents earlier, all I care about is finding Nora and bringing her home.

I wrap the fleece blanket tighter around my shoulders, breathing in the cool, midnight air and the earthiness of packed soil.

I love the smells here. I swear I can smell the fermentation of the grapes, but when you grow up in wine country, you’re convinced you smell wine everywhere you go.

It’s like a muscle memory almost, something I find myself flexing when I come back home.

Home.

Logan immediately infiltrates my senses.

I see his honey-brown eyes crinkling in the corners the way they do when he smiles that crooked smile at me.

I hear his boyish laugh, the one I can’t help but join in when he gets going, often ending with us completely silent, fighting for air.

I smell his skin—an enticing combination of musk and bergamot that calls me to bury my nose into his pulse point and drown myself in his scent.

I feel the warmth of his body against mine, whether it’s my cheek against his chest in a warm embrace, or our foreheads pressed together, like we’re sending telepathic messages to each other.

But taste … if only I knew the way he tastes. I have my imagination for that, often leading me to rub my thighs together to seek desperate friction.

The things I would do to have a taste.

I unlock my phone, the brightness temporarily blinding me in contrast to how dark it is outside. It’s just after eight, making it around ten Austin time, and I think back to my conversation with Audrey earlier today at Sip & Savor.

So much of that conversation challenged me, forcing me to come to terms with my growing feelings for Logan. It’s left me vulnerable, seeking his support—his shoulder to lean on.

He should be awake. He might even be out. It’s a Thursday night, and we haven’t spoken at all today. My own words from earlier echo into the stillness of the night.

“I’ll try. No regrets.”

Swallowing my pride, I pull up my text conversation with Logan. Our last message exchange was a simple “Have a great day today.” He only replied with a heart reaction. I don’t have a right to be upset about it. We aren’t together—I made sure of that.

Chewing the inside of my cheek, I draft a text, reminding myself to be vulnerable and not hate myself for it.

Tia

Hey Lo.

My stomach flutters when I see the three little dots.

Logan

Hey T. You ok?

Tia

Yeah, I’m fine. Just feel like we haven’t talked in forever :(

Logan

I know. I feel the same way. Are you ready for tomorrow?

Tia

Right now, yes. Let’s see how I feel when I wake up tomorrow.

Logan

Are you excited?

Tia

A little? I think I’m more nervous than excited.

Logan

What time is your flight tomorrow again?

Tia

Take off is at 2:25 pm from San Fran, putting me in Vegas around 4 local time. Donovan and Audrey are dropping me off. I just sent you a picture of my itinerary.

Logan

Thanks. Got it. I’m glad Auds and D are taking you. Will you let me know when you land?

Tia

Of course.

Tia

I really miss you, Lo. I hate being away from you. I’m actually freaking out about this whole Vegas situation, but seeing Mom earlier at dinner tonight hurt so badly. She called me Nora, and it killed me. I wish you were here.

The second I hit send, my heart beats in my ears. I’m breathing so loud it drowns out the singing crickets. I said no regrets, and although I didn’t flat out tell Logan in my message that I’m in love with him, it’s the closest I’ve ever gotten.

With shaky hands, I cradle my phone so close to my face that the backlight from the screen blurs my vision. Those three dots appear and disappear for well over two minutes. With every passing second, my stomach plummets in a free fall. I worry I’ve said too much.

Or maybe not enough.

I give up after half an hour with no response, dragging my sorry self through the French doors and straight to bed. I keep the safety of the fleece blanket wrapped around me, squeezing tighter as I fight the tears welling up in my tired eyes.

“I’ll try, no regrets.”

My painful words are the last thing I hear before my eyes flutter closed, but not before his crooked smile appears like the most beautiful mirage.

He’s there to haunt my dreams, and I’ll let him, because it’s better than not having him at all.