The Dandelion

  The Dandelion

  A Novel

  by

  Michelle Leighton

  The Dandelion

  All Rights Reserved ©2018 by Michelle Leighton

  ISBN: 978-0-9998952-0-7

  Cover by Designs By Dana

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Michelle Leighton

  Praise for The Dandelion

  “A beautifully written story that touches your soul…”

  —Kat, Tsk Tsk What to Read

  “A stunning read…and a story not to be missed.”

  —Teresa, Readers Live a Thousand Lives

  Praise for the work of M. Leighton

  “M. Leighton is quickly becoming one of my favorite contemporary romance writers.” —Reading Angel

  “Brilliant.” —The Book Goddess

  “Insanely intense.” —The Bookish Babe

  “This author writes so amazingly.” —Danielle

  “One of my top reads EVER!!” —Cathy

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  About Michelle Leighton

  In every ending, there is also a beginning. This one is for you, Tiffany. I hope you find a beautiful beginning.

  CHAPTER 1

  ABI

  Run

  The human heart is a funny thing. To be such an important organ, it’s a smallish one, roughly the size of a fist. Mine, being that of a female, only weighs about seven ounces, but as I flick on the blinker and steer my car to the right, toward the rectangular sign at the end of the ramp that’s welcoming me to Molly’s Knob, South Carolina, population 17,621, it feels as big as a horse and twice as heavy.

  I haven’t been back to my hometown since I was seventeen. The last time I saw that sign, I was watching it grow smaller and smaller in the side mirror of my mother’s beat up Ford LTD as we drove away. It was the summer before my senior year. She couldn’t wait another year to leave. Not one more. She said she wanted a better life, but it wasn’t until later that I understood that what she needed was peace. So she ran. And she took me with her. That was Momma’s one and only coping skill—running. When all else fails, or when it gets too hot in the kitchen, run.

  Run far and run fast.

  Just run.

  That’s what she taught me, too. And I learned from the best.

  Back then my instinct to flee hadn’t fully developed, though. When I left with my mother, it was because I had no choice. I didn’t want to go, but I had to. For her. I rode away with her, even though I left a big piece of my heart lying on the side of the interstate that afternoon.

  I’ve wondered almost every day of my life since then what would’ve become of me if we’d stayed, or if I’d come back.

  But I didn’t.

  I couldn’t.

  I couldn’t leave Momma.

  Even though I now understand what she was feeling, much more than I did back then, I still have to fight the wave of bitterness that swells in my stomach. I push those memories down. Deep, deep down.

  Thoughts like that don’t do me any favors.

  They never did.

  They just make the present a little more painful.

  They always have.

  Now, almost twenty years later, here I am, back where I started. Only this time, it’s me who ran. It’s me who needs peace. It just so happens that my running shoes, as Momma always called our propensity to bolt, brought me back home. Of all the places on God’s green earth I could go, I ended up back here.

  Back where I left my happiness.

  Back where I left my heart.

  At the foot of the reflective green sign that announces Molly’s Knob is three miles in the direction of an arrow pointing left, stands a man. He’s wafer-thin, dressed in rags, and his face is more haunted than a cemetery. And I should know. I’ve seen enough cemeteries to recognize the look.

  Within the grip of his pale, gnarled fingers is a sign. It reads HUNGRY VETERAN. WILL WORK FOR FOOD.

  I stop short of the red light at the foot of the ramp, rolling down my window with one hand as I dig into my wallet with the other. My fingers feel for the first slot. Inside it, there is a thin stack of paper. I know there are six fifty-dollar bills there, lying neatly side-by-side. My travel money, or what’s left of it.

  Without hesitating, I grab one and hold it out to the man. Slowly, as if every bone aches with the effort, he steps forward to take it, nodding his thanks and muttering something about God blessing me. I smile, but I don’t respond and I don’t dally. I find myself anxious to get away from the look in his eyes. Something in them reminds me of what I see when I look in the mirror, something that very closely resembles hopelessness.

  I glance at the bright blue numbers of the digital clock on the dash. It’s four twenty-one on a Thursday, and I did something good for someone else. It makes my heart a little less heavy.

  A little.

  For a while.

  I’ve lived with the pain inside my soul for so long, I just want to think about someone else. I’m tired of me. I want to pity someone else. Hurt for someone else. Help someone else. Because, at this point, I’m beyond helping.

  But maybe I’m not beyond redemption. I wouldn’t mind finding a bit of that while I’m here, too.

  As I turn left, on toward my destination, I wonder for the millionth time if there is a going rate for the redemption of a soul. How much might that cost? But I wonder, too, if some souls are beyond redemption.

  CHAPTER 2

  SAM

  Then

  I watch out the window as Abi plays with the neighbor’s new puppy. She’s down on all fours, and all I can see is her profile, but that’s enough. I can tell by half her face that she’s smiling. I can dig up the rest from memory.

  I know that her small nose is probably crinkled at the bridge. I know that her eyes are probably sparkling like two warm summer lakes, begging me to come and lose myself in them. And I know there’s love and happiness shining out from them. She’s always happiest when she’s with me. Just like I’m happiest when I’m with her. Nothing else seems to ma
tter quite as much when we’re together, like she somehow makes the bad shit in my life more tolerable and I somehow make the pain in her soul more bearable.

  She slaps the ground with her palms and the little dog lunges at them, long hush-puppy ears flopping as he moves. She lets him get one and, even from here, I can see him start gnawing on her fingers right away. I know from experience those damn little teeth are sharp.

  “You better enjoy that while it lasts,” my father says from behind me.

  I clench my jaw. “And why is that?”

  “Because a girl like that’s not gonna wait around for you to get your shit together. My guess is you’ll be watching her walk out of your life one of these days.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk, Dad.” I don’t bother looking at him. I know what I’ll see if I do. I know the expression. I know the scowl. I’m his least favorite person and he doesn’t bother hiding it. I’m the unwanted thing that came along and messed up his baseball career, and I can’t remember a single day that’s gone by when he hasn’t reminded me of it.

  “Smart ass,” he mutters as he walks off. I don’t respond; I just let it go. Let him go. The less I say to him the better. Besides, I’d much rather watch Abi.

  The smell of oregano hits my nose a few seconds before the microwave dings telling me the pizza is done. I pull myself away from the window long enough to remove the hot pie from its cardboard cooking surface and slide it onto a plate. I open the fridge and take out two Cokes, tucking them between my fingers so I can carry both in one hand, then kick the door shut. From there, I head straight for the back door, for Abi, like she’s an oasis.

  Because she is.

  She’s my oasis.

  And I’m hers.

  By the time I step into the yard, she’s sitting in the grass, hair shining in the sun like a waterfall of ink. The puppy is curled up on her lap, fast asleep, one of her fingers still held limply in his mouth. Abi hears the door bang shut and looks up at me. Her face breaks into a smile that hits me right in the middle of my chest. She’s like a warm, beautiful freight train.

  I think to myself that one day I’m gonna marry this girl. I don’t give a damn what my dad says. I’m not letting Abi get away. Not if I have anything to do with it.

  CHAPTER 3

  ABI

  The Lake

  Warm air flows lazily through the open window, tossing the hair away from one side of my face. I inhale deeply, dragging in the familiar scent of wisteria and fresh cut grass. That combination can probably be found in a thousand small towns across the country, but I’ve only lived in one of those towns, so it smells like home to me.

  I catalog details as I drive down Harbor Avenue, committing them to memory and comparing them to what once was. Not a whole lot has changed on this street. The oaks lining the median are bigger and more mature. Now, their long branches stretch all the way across the road on either side, covering the asphalt with a lacey blanket of shade. The houses seem a little different, too. Smaller somehow. Of course, as a teenager, life itself was enormous to me. It was like this living, breathing thing full of infinite possibilities.

  But that was then.

  As if on cue, an intense stab of pain shoots down my right leg like a knife slicing its way through my flesh. I gasp, wincing so sharply that I unintentionally pull my foot off the gas pedal. I slow almost to a stop before I can regain enough movement in the limb to accelerate once more. My vision swims for a few seconds, but I continue to creep on down the street.

  Yes, that was then. Back when things were good. Now, trees are bigger, houses are smaller, and life is not what I once thought, or even hoped, it might be.

  I’m not what I once thought or hoped I might be.

  Gradually, my breathing rights itself as I follow the gentle slope and turn of the road, all the way down to where the trees part. My stomach knots when the lake comes into view.

  The lake.

  My lake.

  My home.

  I stop at the fork in the road, which faces a wide spot in the lake. It spreads out before me like eternity. I breathe it in like I breathe in the scented air, taking a moment to soak up the serene surface of the water as though it might give me peace by simply staring at it.

  My eyes tear with a sense of providence. Yes, this is where I’m supposed to be. This was the right choice, the only choice for me.

  This is where I’ll find peace from the pain.

  And maybe redemption for what I’ve done.

  If I’m even redeemable.

  An engine rumbles behind me, stirring me from my preoccupation with the water. I glance in the side mirror and see that a dark blue truck has stopped behind me. Time to move on. I hit my blinker to go right, and as I’m turning, I look up into the rearview and catch sight of the driver. The dying sun is reflected in the windshield, concealing most of his face, but for just a second the man looks familiar to me—jet black hair, handsome, angular face, pale, pale eyes—a ghost of the only part of my past I’m not running from.

  As I drive away, I watch the truck fade. For a minute, it just sits there at the stop sign, almost like it’s waiting. Waiting for what, I have no clue. Eventually, however, it pulls up and turns left, quickly disappearing from my sight.

  Probably not whom I thought it was anyway.

  I look ahead now, fully focused on getting to the house at the end of the short drive. I see the sloped roof of the cute little cabin before I see the signage. I recognize it and I smile.

  It’s just what I expected.

  Just what I wanted.

  I pause where asphalt meets gravel and look left. 903 Lake Mist is carved onto a wooden placard right above the mailbox. It dangles from a chain looped around a low-hanging tree branch. For the summer, this will be my address. My mailbox. My driveway. My home.

  For the next four months, I get to wake up to the lake, have coffee with the lake, eat with the lake, become best friends with the lake. That’s my intention anyway. I have a plan, after all, and the lake is very much a part of it. It was one of the best pieces of my youth and I want it to be one of the best pieces of this season of my life, too. Lake Wilson and a lifetime of bittersweet memories are all I have left.

  I pull into the grass-and-gravel driveway that juts off to one side of the cabin. The place is small and charming, with an exposed log exterior and two dormers above the wide front porch. The yard is shaded and slopes gently toward the lake. A dock extends out into the water like a long, wooden finger, and boasts a flat-bottom boat tied to the end. Oars hang lazily off either side, making it look like a person lying face-up in a placid, sparkling sea of nothingness.

  I park beside a silver sedan of some sort. I don’t remember the realtor saying she would be here, but maybe I checked out during the last part of the conversation. After she told me I’d been approved, the funds had been received, and my keys were in the mail, I thought we were done.

  Clearly we were not.

  I get out, taking a moment to stretch my legs, paying close attention to the ant-like tingling of my right foot. Gingerly, I wiggle my toes inside my shoe. The action hurts, but it’s not excruciating. At this level, I know I’ll be able to go forward without a limp and without fear that my leg will spontaneously give out and dump me on the ground. If it weren’t for that aspect of it—being able to walk reliably and with a normal gait—I’d actually prefer the overwhelming pain most of the time. Somehow it feels like what I deserve. Like penance.

  That’s why, when it does come, I embrace the pain. It serves as a near-constant reminder of what I’ve done. What I’ve lost. And someone like me should never be able to forget. I shouldn’t be allowed to forget, and for the odd moment here and there when I find myself thinking of other things, the pain isn’t far behind to get me back on track, to whisper in my ear that I’ve earned nothing less than the fiery agony of hell on earth.

  Punishment.

  I make my way to the wraparound porch at the front of the house, knocking quickly on the door
, permitting myself only the barest glimpse at the magnificent view of the lake behind me. Yes, I’ll have coffee here every morning.

  I’m staring at the door, admiring the elaborate landscape carved into the surface of what appears to be reclaimed wood, when it’s wrenched open. I startle, burping up a little squeal followed by a laugh as I clamp a hand to my chest to still my racing heart. “Oh, you scared me,” I tell the woman in the opening. Her face is fuzzy behind the screen, but it’s clear she’s female. And I can tell by the subtle color of her hair and the dark shape of her silhouette that she’s a graying older woman with lots of matronly padding.

  “Abigail Simmons, as I live and breathe,” comes a vaguely familiar voice. It tickles my memory like feathers from the past, reaching through the years to brush the very back corner of my mind. “When Donna told me who was renting this place, I thought surely it had to be you. You’re the only Abigail Simmons I know.”

  I step back as she pushes on the screen to open it. Rather than letting me in, however, she steps out and pulls me into a surprisingly strong hug. She smells of lemon furniture polish and rose powders, and the only person I remember from my youth who wore rose powders was Christy Sturgill’s mother, Anna.

  Christy was one of my closest friends in high school, but like everyone else from Molly’s Knob, I haven’t heard from her in nearly two decades. My mother insisted that when we cut ties with this town, we cut ties completely. We never even came back to visit my father’s grave.

  “Mrs. Sturgill?” I ask when she releases me enough that my lungs can expand.

  She leans back enough to smile down into my face. She’s an inch or two taller than my five-five frame. That hasn’t changed, but a lot of other things have.

  Like the rest of us, this woman has aged, and judging by the deep grooves in her cheeks and the mostly-gray shock of hair sticking out all over her head, I’d say she hasn’t had an easy life. She looks to be closer to late sixties than the late fifties I know her to be. Her brown eyes still sparkle as happily and as feistily as ever, though, and something about them brings me a strange sense of comfort. They remind me of better days, of days when I didn’t have so much regret. Now, it seems regret is all I have.