Home to Stay (The Long Road Home #2) - Maryann Jordan Page 0,5
those hours, he had to admit the layover had been good. Blessing had not brought anyone else into the library, so in between snatches of sleep and decent food, he’d continued to converse with Cam, Jaxson, Kyle, and Sebastian. Never one for conversation with strangers, he’d found a simple camaraderie with the other men much like him. They’d even gone so far as to trade cell phone numbers, something he would’ve scoffed at before their time at the USO.
Another vehicle approached, pulling off to the side of the road near him, a vacationing family spilling from the sides of the minivan. With the quiet reverie broken, he climbed back into the SUV and pulled out onto the coastal road. He passed by several massive million-dollar homes perched on the rocky coastline. Another snort escaped as he thought of his grandparents’ house. The house he’d spent years in might have a million-dollar view but was a small, somewhat ramshackle house that his grandfather had barely kept up after his grandmother passed. Some would’ve been surprised that his grandfather wouldn’t have taken the offers that came in for the land around it, but John knew Gramps would never give up that little slice of the Maine coast.
The road turned through thick forests, tall trees on either side. The wall of pine, maple, beech, and oak trees with their branches stretching overhead created a tunnel of green. The area was now familiar, and he turned by the mailbox that was leaning even more than the last time he’d visited. No reason I can’t help the old man out. He added repairing the mailbox to the start of a mental list of things to do—at least, things to do until he figured out what the hell the next step of his life was going to be.
The winding gravel lane emerged from the woods, exposing a grassy knoll in front of him. And sitting at the end was the gray clapboard house. Three years. That was how long it’d been since he’d laid eyes on the old homestead when he’d come home to visit. He pulled to the front and parked to the side near the garage where the grass had long since been worn down. Climbing from the driver’s seat, he grabbed his bags and walked around the back of the SUV toward the door leading into the kitchen.
His grandmother had been gone for almost ten years, but the whitewashed stones that had lined her flower bed still sat in a semicircle by the side of the house. Now faded and more gray than white, the stones brought back memories of a burst of multi-colored blooms from spring to fall. A few blooms now managed to struggle up through the weeds, still offering an occasional dot of red or yellow.
He lifted his hand to knock, then hesitated as more memories washed over him. Letting out a deep breath, he rapped his knuckles on the wooden doorframe. Turning the old, rusty knob, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The pale yellow walls of the kitchen appeared even more faded, the bright curtains his grandmother had hung long since taken down. A frying pan coated in grease sat on the old stovetop and the scent of strong coffee still filled the room. A few dishes sat soaking in water in the sink, and any remnants of dishwashing bubbles had disappeared.
An oak table sat near the back of the kitchen, the top scarred and worn. He remembered his grandmother telling him that the table was a wedding present from her family. She would scrub it daily, polishing it often, keeping it clean and bright. Now, crumbs battled with dust to cover the top.
The small house was built long before the open-space concept was developed, and he stepped through the narrow doorway leading to the living room at the front of the house. His gaze landed on his grandfather sitting in an old cracked-vinyl recliner, the small flat-screen TV blaring in the corner. His hair was now white, there was less of it, and what was on top stood straight up. His wrinkled clothes appeared clean, but he still had a napkin tucked into the neck of his shirt and draped over his chest. A small tray sat next to him, a now-empty plate resting on top.
As the grey eyes in the weather-lined face looked up at him, John’s heart stuttered slightly, and he dipped his chin in a low-voiced greeting. “Gramps.”