Valley of Dreams (Longing for Home #6) - Sarah M. Eden Page 0,1
tossed the envelope on his bed. This was an odd sort of boarding house: the residents brought their own furniture. He’d debated selling it instead of his fiddle, but he couldn’t convince himself that music was more crucial than sleep.
At the window, he pulled back the strip of scrap fabric he’d hung as a curtain and looked out over the street below. This was a tiny town. Hardly warranted being called a town, really. He might’ve made something of himself here. Every possibility had seemed to exist here at once. But there’d been nothing more for him here than any other place he’d laid his head the last thirteen years. And his time here was ending the same way the others had: no friends left, no job, no money, no reason to stay, and nothing but whiskey to keep him going.
He’d run out of hope years ago. He wasn’t even certain it had ever existed.
The bed creaked beneath him as he sat. Soon enough, he’d pour himself a glass of oblivion, but first he had Maura’s letter to read. He’d read every word she’d sent over the years, clinging to the connection he didn’t deserve to have.
Last he’d heard from Maura, she’d left New York and gone west to the tiny town where his parents and siblings had settled. Had she found them? Had they welcomed her? He couldn’t imagine they would’ve been anything but overjoyed. Maura was the kind of person who made a place better simply for being in it. And she deserved to not be as alone as she’d been back East.
Patrick snatched up the envelope and broke the seal. He pulled out the letter inside.
My Dear Darling Patrick,
Maura never addressed him that way. His eyes dropped to the end of the letter.
Ma.
Every inch of air spilled from his lungs. Ma. The letter was from his mother. His mother, who he’d never written to. Who he’d not seen in thirteen years. Who he’d let believe he was dead.
My Dear Darling Patrick,
Maura’s only just told us that you’ve not died as we believed. I can’t make my mind or my heart understand why you’d not tell us. And I can’t make myself not worry over those possible reasons.
We’ve grieved you these thirteen years. The whole family feels as though you’ve risen from the very grave.
I don’t know what’s kept you in Canada for a decade, but if you’ve a mind to come to Hope Springs, even the merest whisper of thought in our direction, I hope you will.
You’ve a home here, lad. You’ve a family.
Please come back to us.
Ma
His breaths came shaky and shallow. His pulse pounded in his head.
Ma had written him a letter. He’d not intended to ever let her know he was still alive; it was better for her not to know. No one was better off for having him around. Not even himself.
His eyes fell on his four glass sentinels, mocking him with their promise of temporary freedom. Liquid numbing was the only escape he ever had from the pain he carried around.
He didn’t drink to the degree of excess some did. And he didn’t grow angry or violent. He simply couldn’t face everything—and there was so very much to face—without something to ease the relentless pain of life. And he had to dull that pain more and more often of late.
I even sold my fiddle. Begor, how had things grown that bad? Luck had landed the instrument in his hands during the war. He’d managed not to lose it over years of marching and battles, and he’d kept it during lean times between jobs. He’d kept his fiddle and it had been an important part of his life.
And he’d sold it.
To buy whiskey.
He dropped his head into his hands, his matted hair and beard testifying to the mess he’d made of so many things. How had he come to this?
Patrick still had some control over this thirst that drove him, but how long would that last? How long before its clutches squeezed the life out of him?
Few people would even notice, and fewer still would care.
You’ve a home here, lad. You’ve a family.
He laughed in a short, humorless burst. What family would claim the lump he’d become? He’d caused them heartache enough. What right did he have to cause them more?
Patrick stood and crossed to the bureau. He set Ma’s letter next to the line of bottles. How long would they last? And what would he sell next time to buy more?