My Blue Havyn: Hearts of Hollywood, #1

Eight-year-old Havyn Jessup pedaled her bike toward home, trying to hold the handlebars with one hand and slap the dust off her brand-new jeans with the other. But as she eyed the hole in the left knee, a queasy feeling formed in the pit of her stomach. There was no way she’d be able to disguise that. She was sure to catch it, and good. Mama hated it when she came home with torn clothes.

Daddy stood by the big crack in the driveway, leaning against his rusty blue truck.

She pulled into the yard and propped her Schwinn against the big old oak tree Mama always complained about come fall. Hi, Daddy.

Come ’ere, darlin’. He squatted down.

She swallowed and glanced toward the house. Daddy hardly ever talked directly to her. Is Mama okay?

He tilted his head and rubbed a hand over his head. Yeah. She’ll be fine.

Some of the tightness eased in her tummy. Okay, good. She eyed his truck keys dangling from his hand. You goin’ somewhere? She couldn’t remember the last time Daddy went anywhere except to the gas station down the hill to buy beer.

Yeah. Daddy seemed to be having a hard time talking all the sudden. His words were coming out like he had a bad cold.

You gettin’ sick, Daddy?

He forced out a squashed sort of laugh and blinked real hard. No, darlin’. I ain’t sick. But the thing is… He reached out and fingered a strand of her hair. I’m going on a trip. I’m gonna be gone for a while. But…I’ll be back.

She frowned. No one had said anything about Daddy going on a trip. Where are you going?

Well now… He looked down the street for so long she turned to look too, but she couldn’t see anything that might have caught his interest. Finally he looked back at her. I don’t rightly know. But, I’ll be home again before you know it. You look for me, you hear? You sit there under the oak tree every night at five o’clock, and one of these evenings I’m gonna come driving over the hill. Alright?

Relief had her throwing her arms around his neck. He wouldn’t be gone for long. I will, Daddy. I promise.

Good girl. He set her from him and ruffled her hair, then climbed into the cab of the truck. Several boxes were stacked on the bench beside him and on the floorboards.

Daddy’s truck was loud and made a kind of funny clunky sound as he drove away. She could hear it long after he’d disappeared over the rim of the hill. But that gave her a strange kind of okay feeling because she knew she’d hear his truck before she could see it when he came home again.

Gran moved in with them not long after Daddy left on his trip. Daddy called several times a month, at first. He’d tell Havyn about a new job he had, or a new adventure he’d been on, and then he’d remind her to wait for him, and she always promised she would. His calls grew farther and farther apart.

Then his calls stopped coming altogether. Despite her waning hope and building frustration, for two years, rain or shine, she went out to the yard every night at five o’clock and sat under the big old oak tree. Mama or Gran would bring out her supper and make her promise to come in once her plate was empty.

Her anger built slowly, until one night when Gran brought out her food, a wave of such rage washed over her that she took the plate, fork, and even the cup of milk and flung them as hard as she could out into the street. I hate him! She wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face. The first tears she’d cried since Daddy left gushed out.

Gran just sat next to her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders, rubbing her back and stroking her hair.

After a long time, when the sobs had subsided, Havyn turned her head till her cheek rested against her knees and looked at Gran. You’re not mad at me for throwing the plate? I think it broke.

No, child. I’m glad you threw the plate.

Havyn frowned. You are?

Gran smiled. Yes. In fact, you can throw as many plates as you like.

Havyn’s frown deepened. I don’t think Mama would like that.

Well, I suppose you are right about that, Gran laughed. Her gaze wandered to the crest of the hill where the road disappeared into nothingness against the horizon, her face turning serious. And after a long moment she sighed. You remember last year when you and the Carter boy broke the living room window?

How could she forget that? Mama had made her do dishes for a whole month to pay for it. And it hadn’t even been her fault! Levi had thrown the ball too fast. She swiped at her eyes and nodded.

Gran leveled her with a kind look. Trust is like a window, child. Once it is broken, you never see the world the same way again. But realizing the window is broken is half the battle of starting on the road to recovery. Now, gather the dishes, and let’s go inside and get you some dinner.

Havyn’s brow puckered as she rose to do as she’d been told. She sure wished Gran would talk plainer sometimes.

Seattle, eighteen years later…

Tossing the cabbie enough money for the fare to the airport and a generous tip, Havyn Jessup called out a Thanks! and then dashed across the sidewalk into the terminal, her one and only bag rolling behind her. Lord, if I miss the flight, know it’s not because I don’t love You or want to go on this building trip. But when You made me You might have made me with a little better internal clock…or plunked me in a city with less traffic than Seattle!

There! An open computer terminal for her ticket check-in. Thank goodness she’d bought hers online. She rushed through the steps, tapping the screen to approve all the necessary information and galloping her fingers on the sides as she waited for the sloth who was apparently connecting the signals inside the computer to process her request. Finally it spit out her boarding pass and she snatched it with a triumphant Yes!

Snagging her bag and jogging toward security, she darted around a woman trying to walk in three-inch heels and rolled her eyes, thankful for her sensible Nikes, Levis, and T-shirt. She was sure to be sweating up a storm by the time she reached the gate—if she reached the gate.

She glanced at the time on her phone. There was nothing for it but to see if someone in the long security line would have mercy on her. She dashed down the outside of the stretched lane divider toward the front of the queue. Excuse me? She picked a nice-looking middle-aged man and offered him her friendliest smile, adjusting her backwards Seattle Mariners ball cap. I’m going to miss my flight if I don’t get to my gate in less than five minutes. Would you mind if I cut in?

I understand. He motioned for her to take the space in front of him, but didn’t look too thrilled about it.

Thank you so much! She ducked under the divider.

Behind them several people hollered comments about her smarts, and her parental lineage. Her face heated. Forgive me, Lord. Why am I infernally late?

The security agent who’d obviously seen her cut in line glowered from behind his podium, and seemed to take forever studying her ticket, then her, her driver’s license, her, and finally her passport. She squirmed impatiently. Couldn’t he see she was in a hurry here? After another long, assessing look down the length of her, he waved her through.

Snatching her paperwork, she glanced over her shoulder. Thanks again, she smiled at the man who’d been kind enough to let her cut, then hurried over to plop her shoes into a tub. Pocket change, necklace, ball cap, and phone clattered into another beside them. And then she heaved her carry-on onto the rollers and shoved everything toward the scanner. As she scooted through the metal detector, a TSA agent, who had to be named Helga if there was anything right with the world, pulled her to one side.

Of course. She closed her eyes and endured the invasive pat down, supposing she should be thankful Helga was working her over and not Herman, who stood just a few feet away, beefy arms folded, watching the little doorway for his next victim.

You’re good. Helga shooed her on her way.

Her carry-on and tub of extras already waited at the end of the X-ray counter. She grabbed up her stuff, tugged her ball cap into its usual backward angle, and didn’t even bother to put her shoes on as she sprinted up the concourse. She had a minute, tops, to make it ten gates down. Chelsea would kill her if she didn’t make the flight.

Two weeks earlier her friend had called to say someone had canceled on the building trip their church was taking to Malawi, Africa, and could she take their place. It had been a low blow to begin with since Chelsea had known Havyn’s two weeks’ vacation lined up with the trip’s timeline. She’d been looking forward to some alone time in Gran’s old house out on San Juan Island. But how could she deny kids in Africa a couple weeks of her time? And Mom had already booked renters into the place for those two weeks, and heaven knew Mom could use the extra money. So it had all worked out, but if she missed her flight and had to stay in her noisy apartment for two weeks… Ugh!

Excuse me, please! She dashed around a slow couple pushing a stroller, her socks slipping on