She used to dream of leaving Willow Creek and never coming back. Never again living on food stamps and welfare. And never being like her parents.
Her hands ached and she realized she had a death grip on the steering wheel. She hadn’t been home in nine years, and it was a bit unnerving. As was her visit with Carson Corbett. Since he was five years older than her and Jared, she’d never formally met him, but she’d seen him often around town with his girlfriend, Beth. Jena definitely knew who he was.
He had the same dark blond hair and green eyes as Jared, except Carson was taller and more muscular, probably because of his military training.
When she’d heard of Asa’s stroke from her sister, Hilary, she’d known if she was ever going to find her baby she’d have to do it quickly. If Asa died, he would take his secret with him. It had taken her nine years to get to this point, and no one was stopping her now. Not even Carson.
She got out of the car and walked through the grass to the front door. One of the things she remembered from her childhood was that the grass always needed cutting and they didn’t have a lawn mower. She and Hil used a Weedwacker to chop it down around the house to keep the mice away.
The boards creaked as she stepped up, but then, they always did. Not much had changed. Her mother’s rocker still sat on the front porch, where she used to wait for her daughters to walk home from school.
She hadn’t told her mom she was coming home, and she wasn’t sure how she was going to react. All these years, Norma Brooks had insisted that Jena stay away from Willow Creek. She was still afraid Asa Corbett would kill her daughter.
Opening the screen door, she called, “Mama.” She didn’t want to frighten her.
Norma appeared from the kitchen in jeans and a print blouse, shock etched across her aging face. Her dark eyes were dull and her dark hair was almost gray at fifty years of age. Jena stood in shock, hardly believing her mother’s health had deteriorated this much.
“Jena, what are you doing here?”
She closed the door and walked in. “Hi, Mama. Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Oh, Jena, my beautiful daughter.” They hugged tightly, and Norma drew back, wiping away a tear. “Just look at you. All citified. I almost didn’t recognize you, but you have to go. You can’t stay here.”
She took her mother’s arm. “Mama, we have to talk.”
“Okay, but not too long.” Norma sank into an old worn recliner they’d gotten from Goodwill more than twenty years ago. Duct tape covered the threadbare arms.
Jena pulled a wooden chair close to her mother and noticed a bucket near the windows. Glancing up, she saw the brown stains. The roof was leaking. She’d sent Hilary money for a new roof. What had she done with it? She couldn’t think about that now.
“Mama, Asa Corbett has had a stroke. Hilary told you.”
Norma frowned. “I don’t remember.”
Hilary had said their mother had memory lapses and was out of it a lot these days. It was unsettling to witness.
“He has. He’s in a wheelchair, and he’s not going to hurt anyone. It’s been so long ago no one cares anymore.”
No one but me.
“I don’t know,” Norma murmured in a faraway voice.
“Mama, I’m going to be staying a few days, and you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
The screen door banged and Hilary breezed in with a Styrofoam takeout container in her hand. “Hey, sis, you made it.”
“Yeah.”
People said they looked alike, and Jena supposed they did with the same dark eyes and hair and similar facial features. But the resemblance ended there. They were totally different in personality. Hilary was a bubbly scatterbrain who talked constantly. Jena, on the other hand, was reserved and quiet. She’d been called uptight more than once. Jared was the only one who’d seen she was a warm, compassionate person in need of love. Desperate for love.
“Did you bring my dinner?” Norma asked.
“Sure did, Mama. I’ll put it on the kitchen table. It’s Mabel’s pot roast with mashed potatoes, gravy and homemade rolls. Peach cobbler for dessert. You better eat it while it’s warm.” Hil hurried into the kitchen.
“Okay.” Norma followed her and so did Jena.
Hil fixed a glass of iced tea and placed it and a napkin on the table.
Jena watched this, rather mystified. Her mom was a wonderful cook and was capable of making delicious meals with the little food they’d had. Why wasn’t she cooking?
Jena went back into the living room, and soon Hilary joined her. “I had no idea Mama was this bad.”
“Ever since Dad was murdered and Mama got you out of town so quick, she hasn’t been the same. Every day she gets a little worse.”
“Did she just stop cooking?”
“She left grease on the burner twice, and it caught fire. I just happened to be home or our—” she glanced around the drab room “—mansion would have burned down. I had one of the guys turn off the gas to the stove. I can turn it on if I need to, but since I work at the café I bring her food.”
Hilary had worked at Mabel’s Café ever since she was sixteen. There weren’t many jobs in Willow Creek, a town of four hundred. Her sister would be stuck here for the rest of her life, taking care of their mother.
She reached out and hugged her. “Thank you, baby sis, for all you do.”
“Aw.” Hil pulled away. “You gonna make me cry.”
“I know it’s not easy dealing with Mama.”
“It’s like dealing with a child.”
“I know we talked about her doctor visits. Is there nothing else he can do?”
Hil shook her head. “He said severe trauma from the murders has altered her personality, and dementia has set in, but I know her moods. We’re okay.”
The bucket caught Jena’s attention. “I hate to sound critical when I’m so appreciative, but what happened to the money for the roof?”
“Oh, that. Don’t get upset. Wait till you see.”
Jena followed her sister through the kitchen and suddenly stopped. There was a utility room off the kitchen—a bright cheery room painted a soft yellow with a white washer and dryer. One wall had a mural of a rainbow, clouds and birds.
Jena was speechless.
Growing up, they hadn’t had a washer or a dryer. On Saturdays, they usually went into Dripping Springs to a Laundromat. But if they didn’t have money, their mother washed their clothes in the bathtub—a backward way of life for the poor people who lived across the tracks. A stigma that would be with her for the rest of her life, as would so many other things from her childhood.
“You built a utility room?”
“Fresh, isn’t it?” She pointed to the mural. “It would have cost more money to put a window in, so I painted a scene to liven up the place.”
“Who built this?”
“The guys. I bought all the supplies, and they did the rest.”
“What guys?”
“The ones who come into the café: Billy Jack, Clem, Bobby Joe, Bruce, Lenny and...”
“The