The Son & His Hope Read online

  It was the biggest locket I’d ever seen.

  Round and polished and perfect.

  The fine engravings of filigree and flowers glinted in the sunlight as I tossed away the empty packaging and snatched the locket as if someone would take it away from me at any moment.

  With my tongue between my teeth in concentration, I cracked it open and gasped.

  Folded neatly and tucked safely in its new silver shell was Mom’s lace.

  My cheeks heated. My heart raced. My hands shook as I scurried off the bed toward the dressing table and its aged mirror. It took a few goes to fasten the chain around my neck, but once I did, the weight of the jewellery filled me with something I’d never felt before.

  Contentment.

  Relief.

  Acceptance that Mom had gone, and I didn’t need to fret myself over answers. There was also gratefulness, awe, and the undeniable need to hug Jacob as hard as I could for such a thing.

  What he’d given me in the stables that night had somehow calmed the anxiousness in my brain. To finally be spoken to rather than babied made the urge to be close to him squeeze unbearably around my heart. It hadn’t been easy for him talking about it, I knew that. But he’d done it anyway.

  He’d done it for me.

  And now, he’d bought me something I would treasure forever.

  My fingers stroked the locket reverently.

  It was the perfect size to fit in my palm.

  It was the best gift I’d ever received.

  See, Jacob is my friend. Even if he doesn’t realise it.

  There was no way he’d send something like this if he didn’t like me just a little bit. Only a true friend would’ve been so thoughtful, so kind, so pure to send me something so precious.

  I have to thank him.

  Rushing back to my workbooks on the side table, I ripped out a blank page, pinched a ballpoint from my pencil case, and curled up on the hardwood floor to write the most important letter of my life.

  A letter that, at the time, I had no idea would set me on the path of utter heartbreak and utmost desolation.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jacob

  * * * * * *

  Seventeen Years Old

  DEAR JACOB,

  Today, Dad took me to a local pub where he let me try Guinness and we played a game of darts where I accidentally speared the pool table instead of the bull’s-eye.

  I got told off by the pub keeper, but Dad bought a round of drinks for everyone, and they cheered.

  It was fun.

  I’ve been riding three times a week lately. A stocky little highland pony called Haggis. He can’t jump, but he can hack for miles and is bombproof on the narrow country roads.

  You’d love it here, Jacob.

  Everything is so green and rugged. There are rock walls made by king’s men and ancient castles destroyed by Vikings.

  I used to hate history, but now Keeko and I can explore for days, researching Anglo-Saxon wars and royal battles. Sometimes, I can even taste the gunfire when I’m standing on the turret of some ancient fortress where the Scots were tortured and hung by the redcoats.

  Dad has signed up for a second season, so I guess the TV show is going well. Have you seen it over there? He’s had to grow this shaggy beard and comes home smelling of wood smoke from filming in smoky manors.

  Oh, I almost forgot!

  I had a small part two episodes ago. I was the tavern’s daughter and poured ale for a troop of riders. I would’ve much rather ridden myself, but it was cool.

  Anyway, enough about me.

  What did you do for your birthday?

  Did you get anything nice?

  Are you still farming?

  What do you do on your days off?

  Do you have a girlfriend?

  Been to see any movies lately?

  How’s Forrest?

  Is Binky still around?

  I haven’t heard from you in a while, and I don’t want to bug you, but I’d love to have a letter back!

  P.S. It would be a lot easier to talk if you were on Facebook or email. You sure you won’t open an account?

  Love, Hope.

  I sighed as I re-folded the letter and stuffed it into the envelope decorated with Scottish stamps. Hope had been gone a year, and in that time, I’d received thirteen letters.

  I’d replied to just three of them.

  And only under threat of agony from my mother.

  The first had gushed with thanks for what I’d sent her.

  The second had begged for a reply.

  Now, she just treated me as a diary entry, sharing her world with me when I didn’t ask to be a part of it.

  “Hope again?” Mom asked as I shoved the envelope into the box I’d packed from my room.

  I nodded curtly.

  The topic of Hope never ended well. Ever since Mom found out I’d sent her a silver locket that I’d bought from Mr. Pickerings Personals—the only antique store in town—she’d watched me closely whenever Hope’s name was mentioned.

  To start with, I’d indulged her.

  I let her think we were friends and that I had the strength to care about another person who wasn’t blood. But as the months went on and the letters kept coming, Mom’s questions became more personal.

  Twice now, she’d asked if I had feelings other than friendship toward Hope. She’d reminded me Hope was four years younger than me, then advised I should be friendly but not too friendly.

  It’d been hard, but I kept my temper and didn’t yell. I didn’t bother telling her that where romantic entanglement was concerned, I wouldn’t be getting involved with anyone—let alone a little girl who knew far too much about my family.

  Mom gave me a half-smile that pissed me off. A smile that said she didn’t believe me and put up with my denials because she thought she knew better.

  She didn’t know better.

  My life was perfect just the way it was. I’d been a full-time farmer for a year. I didn’t have to interact with anyone if I preferred not to. I could work as many hours as I wanted. I could hide for however long I needed.

  The solitude was good for my sanity, giving me the ability to be a better son when spending time with those I cared about.

  I ensured each time I saw Mom, I gave her a hug—no matter that my heart raced with fear of losing her. I made sure to clean the house once a week, so she didn’t have to. I put my grubby work gear in the washing machine and made her dinner as often as I could before I passed out on the couch from the early starts.

  Mom was busy with her own projects, breaking in the rescues that Aunt Cassie had inherited, tending to her flowers, and caring for all of us. For the most part, our lives brushed against each other in a way that said we were close but not dependent.

  So far, I’d kept my promise to Dad.

  Mom seemed to be coping, if not happy, and I was able to keep my fears of losing those I loved from prying eyes.

  However, despite the fact that Hope was thousands of miles away, she never left me alone for long. Her letters were like clockwork; whenever I relaxed after a few weeks of no correspondence, one would be waiting for me, placed on my pillow by a mother determined to force me into meaningful relationships.

  The letter would taunt me with gossip I didn’t want to know and stories I had no time to read. Then again, I didn’t really mind the waffling news of Hope’s new life in Scotland. I was glad she was riding, exploring, learning, growing up. But once she’d filled me in on her world, there were always a hundred questions about me.

  Endless questions about what I was doing, how I was going, what my goals and dreams were.

  She believed we were friends.

  And it was all because of that goddamn locket.

  What the hell had I been thinking?

  What possessed me to do such a thing?

  Even worse, what made me buy something from the only antique store in town and believe it would stay a secret with the nosy busybodies of this place?
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  I’d bought it purely out of common-sense. She wanted the lace with her at all times, but a pocket wasn’t a safe place for something so light and flimsy.

  A locket made perfect sense.

  After all, Mom kept a photo of Dad around her neck. It was a place for precious things that needed safekeeping.

  It didn’t mean anything more than a solution to Hope’s problem—not that other’s (especially Mom) saw it that way.

  “You should write back.” Mom kept her eyes averted, folding laundry with the TV on low behind her. “There’s been a few now that you haven’t replied to.”

  I merely stuffed the letter farther into the box of random stuff I didn’t really need. Things like old running gear from school and the blazer I’d worn to the movie premiere and would never wear again.

  When I didn’t reply, Mom stopped folding and came toward me. More boxes waited patiently by the front door, ready to move with me now that I was leaving the nest.

  She slowed to a stop before me. “Are you sure you’re ready? There’s no rush, Wild One. None at all.” Her eyes glossed with tears before she smiled bright and swallowed them back.

  I picked up the box, carrying it to the exit. “It’s not like I’m leaving, leaving.”

  “You are. This house will be so lonely without you.”

  I couldn’t look at her. The eternal guilt of letting Dad down when I made Mom sad suffocated me. “I’m just across the meadow, Mom.” I glanced through the open door toward the small cabin nestled, almost camouflaged, against the treeline. “You can still see me. Besides, you knew this was coming. You helped me build it.”

  In the past year, everyone had chipped in. Even Uncle Liam—who pulled long hours as a cop in the next town over—had come to help hammer nails and cut wood.

  The cabin wasn’t much.

  A two bed, one bath single story dwelling that kept its rustic heritage with simple white walls and a high beam ceiling. The kitchen was modern, along with the bathroom, and my bedroom was four walls of glass, jutting out like a box, the entire room cradled by woodland.

  I didn’t want to live in a tent fulltime, but more and more, I’d been drawn to sleeping unhindered beneath the treetop canopy.

  Now, I could be free every night.

  “I should never have helped you get planning permission. Then at least you’d still be living here with me.” Mom pouted.

  This was one of those times when a hug would be good. A hug would defuse the tension and give her the contact she needed with assurances that just because I wasn’t sleeping under her roof anymore didn’t mean I wasn’t still her son.

  But today was a bad day for me.

  A bad day for both of us.

  Today was the anniversary of Dad’s death, and the pain cut me like a thousand blades. Mom and I had already been into the forest to pay our respects to our dead loved one. We’d shared a simple breakfast beneath the initial-carved tree, our thoughts with Dad rather than on conversation with each other.

  I was unbelievably cruel to choose this day over any other to move out, but…I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t sleep in the same house where love and heartbreak painted the walls. I couldn’t eat in the same kitchen where laughter and togetherness and family lingered like broken ghosts every day.

  This place was too hard.

  Too full of affection that I couldn’t tolerate a moment longer.

  “I love you, Mom,” I said softly. “I just…I need my own place, you know?”

  She looked at the floor, nodding quickly. “I know.”

  “You’re welcome over there anytime.”

  “I know. You too. Here, I mean. Your bedroom will always be yours.”

  I went toward her slowly. “It’s not my bedroom anymore. Decorate it however you want. Make it a writing room. A library. Anything you want.”

  She smiled through fresh tears. “A library could be nice.”

  I grinned, my heart hurting despite knowing moving out of home was the right thing to do. This was the only chance I had to try to figure out the mess inside me. I would never leave Cherry River because I would never leave Mom. But I needed something of my own. Something where I could let down my walls and just…

  Breathe?

  Exist?

  Fade?

  Either way, my path was already laid out before me, and I was content to tread it—as long as I had my own space to hide when the mask I wore to protect those I cared about slipped.

  My arm came up, my fingers grasping Mom’s long blonde hair and the blue ribbon tangled in the strands. I didn’t know if she’d cut a new piece lately or if this was the piece I’d cut for her on request of my dad, but either way…not a day passed when she didn’t have the ribbon somewhere.

  Last year, puberty meant my height shot upward, putting me a least a foot over her. She said it was the only thing I hadn’t taken after Dad. I was taller even than him. And at that moment, I was grateful for the height difference as it meant I could bend close, kiss her forehead, and arch out of her reach before she could return the affection.

  Her lower lip wobbled as I backed away with a small wave. “I’ll be right across the meadow if you need me.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll have my phone on me at all times if it’s an emergency.”

  She nodded again.

  “I’m not truly gone, Mom. I’ll never leave you, ‘kay?”

  Her final nod was obscured as I turned around, scooped up the closest box, and walked out the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Jacob

  * * * * * *

  Seventeen Years Old

  “WILD ONE?”

  I looked up from where I had my hands in compost, transplanting seedlings into my first official veggie garden. I’d lived alone in my cabin for three months, and after a long day working the land, toiling with sun and seasons, I’d hoped I’d find some resemblance of peace in my own space.

  The opposite happened.

  I couldn’t relax. The silence was too oppressive. The emptiness too familiar. I didn’t like watching TV, so I settled on doing anything I could to keep my mind busy.

  I studied YouTube tutorials from how to install an extra skylight in my kitchen to planting a garden full of potatoes, tomatoes, broccoli, and every other vegetable I could think of.

  I wouldn’t admit it, but I was slowly running out of things to do.

  Grabbing the rag that I kept in my pocket for tractor grease, occasional cuts, and farm muck, I stood as Mom stepped off the wraparound deck and smiled at my progress.

  “Wow, are you feeding yourself or an army?”

  “You, me, Grandpa, Aunt Cassie…” I smirked. “I did kinda go overboard when I bought the seeds. And some won’t survive with the colder weather, but hey.”

  She chuckled. Her skin was tanned like mine from being outdoors all spring, and my dirty blond hair almost matched her lighter strands as she came toward me, holding out a bunch of letters. “I’ve been meaning to give you these.”

  I raised an eyebrow, taking the stack. I didn’t need to ask who they were from. The Scottish stamps gave it away.

  I counted four.

  Sighing, I shoved shaggy hair from my eyes, wondering how I could stop Hope from this futile outreach of friendship. The fact that I wasn’t on social media should be clue enough that I didn’t want to stay in touch with anyone.

  Mom cleared her throat. “Write to her, Jacob. She’s probably lonely over there on her own. The least you can do is be a proverbial shoulder to cry on.”

  I looked up. “I don’t owe her anything.”

  “No, but ever since she saw you, she’s been rather enamoured. Be kind. She’s young and fanciful and will grow out of her little crush, eventually.”

  “Crush?” I froze. “It’s not a crush. It’s, um. I don’t know what it is but—”

  “Believe me, Wild One. I know when a girl is in awe of a boy, and Hope is in awe of you. I’m not asking you to lead her on. In fact, I�
�m telling you she’s too young and at no point are you to contemplate anything more than friendship, but it wouldn’t hurt to write her back. At least until she meets her first boyfriend and then you’ll be replaced.”

  I rolled my eyes. “She’s just so…young.”

  “We’re all young once.” Mom smiled sadly. “But it doesn’t last long, and age really doesn’t matter when the heart knows what it wants.”

  “Even more reason for me to ignore her.”

  Mom shook her head. “Read them. Respond. Just be nice.”

  With a wave, she left me in the setting sun as I smeared a streak of mud on the pristine white envelope and moved to sit on the fallen tree by the kitchen.

  Once again, I cursed that damn locket. If I could rewind time and just send the lace, I would.

  I’d caused this mess.

  I’d given her the illusion that I was open to more than a casual acquaintance, and I honestly didn’t know how to stop her.

  The rip of paper sounded loud in the orange twilight as I tore into the envelope and lifted out the first letter.

  Dear Jacob,

  Still haven’t heard from you, but that’s okay. I’ve been busy, busy with my lessons. Keeko says I’m gonna kick ass in my first lot of exams this year, so that’s good.

  Scotland is still fun despite the mist and drizzle that seems to cover the entire country for weeks on end. I’m used to riding in the rain now. And I own more jackets and scarfs than I ever have, but that’s just life in the highlands, I guess.

  Um, what else is new?

  Not much really.

  I guess I just wanted to hear from you.

  Are you busy with farming?

  Do you still feel your dad there?

  Do you think my mom is here with me in Scotland?

  I know you’re super busy but write back when you can!

  Love, Hope.

  Placing the letter beneath a rock so it wouldn’t flutter away in the gentle breeze, I opened the next one. Determined to read them as fast as I could so I could get them over with.