Only Ever After: a River Bend Novel, #2

Only Ever After

COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Niecey Roy

RIVER MIST MEDIA

Contact Information: nieceyroy@gmail.com

Cover Art by:

RBA Designs

Cover Image by:

Eric Battershell Photography

Models:

Scott James & Jennifer James

Interior Design & Formatting by:

Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher/editor does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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Published in the United States of America

Also available in Print

DEDICATION

To the real Angie.

A feisty, spunky Polish woman who loved her family very much.

I miss her kolaches, her singing in the kitchen, and the ceramic shop.

She touched so many lives. This is for her.

And to Shanni.

I always think of you when I think of grandma, for so many reasons.

Contents

ONLY EVER AFTER

DEDICATION

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

OTHER BOOKS BY NIECEY ROY

A word about the author . . .

A note from Niecey . . .

Chapter 1

TREY THOMPSON HATED the smell of the nursing home. The mixture of bleach and medicine made him nauseated. He wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much. Maybe it was the smell, or perhaps it was because the sterile building and staff dressed in medical scrubs was a harsh reminder that no one escaped death. Not even Greg, his grandpa, who’d always seemed more like a force of nature than a mere man.

Greg was a farmer, born and raised. If you asked him about his youth, he’d tell you he walked to school every day, rain or shine, and farming didn’t stop for a blizzard. The cows still needed fed. Fence had to be repaired. The family needed to eat. And that’s what Greg had done his entire life—survived, persevered, took care of his family—and he’d been doing it since the Great Depression and he’d been old enough to hold a shovel. One of Greg’s favorite pastimes was to remind his grandkids that they didn’t know a thing about having to rough it. When Trey left River Bend for the Navy after high school, Greg had been vibrant and healthy.

A lot had changed in the years Trey had been away.

With each squeak of his boots on the tiled floor, Trey’s heart constricted. It was the same every time he visited. The hope of a good day, a day his grandpa would remember him, pressed in on his chest like a vice. He was always hopeful though. A nurse waved to him from down the hall and Trey lifted his hand in return before pausing in the doorway of his grandpa’s room.

Greg sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at his shoes, his forehead creased in bewilderment. Trey inhaled a heavy breath. Not a good day, after all.

The stroke had come first. It had been months before Greg could speak again, and even then, his speech had been slurred, jumbled words. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, his memory began to fade. It started with little things that anyone might forget—where he left his slippers, what day it was, whether or not he paid his utility bill. Soon, names and faces faded in and out, memories gone with a blink of an eye. Sometimes, his life came rushing back to him, but in a different time, when he was younger, when he was happier—when life was better.

It was hard to watch, hard to understand.

There were still lucid days, though. Moments when Greg recognized Trey. Stolen time in which they could talk and catch up before the disease crept back to steal him away again.

What was it like to be trapped in a black void where nothing made sense? Like hell, he was sure, for a man who’d been active his entire life, a man who’d tamed land as he’d tamed horses, herded cattle from pasture to pasture, wrestled everything around him to his will. Alzheimer’s was a bitch.

Trey’s lips twitched as he held back a frown. God, he hated this place.

Trey set down the small nightstand he’d carried in with him, placing it just inside the door. He knocked softly on the doorframe so as not to startle his grandpa. Hey, how you doing, old man?

Greg looked up from his feet and a surprised smile swept over his lips. Dan. It’s so good to see you, son.

The smile on Trey’s lips faltered only for a second. He was used to this. Trey hated looking like his dad. Every time he looked in the mirror he was reminded of the man who left his own kids behind to start a new family with a woman he met at an insurance conference. Great guy, that Dan. Trey had been six when Dan left. He wasn’t sure how he and his brother would have turned out without Greg to fill the hole that Dan left. Greg taught them how to work, had been there to kick their asses six ways from Sunday when they deserved it. Trey had needed it most. His older brother Travis had always been more level-headed.

Trey crossed the room to take the hand Greg offered him. Good to see you up and moving around today.

His hand was small inside Trey’s, his grip frail. Nothing like the firm handshake Trey remembered.

Did you go see the boys? Greg released his handshake and braced his hands against the bed covers on either side of his legs, the brass buckles on his denim overalls straining against his chest.

I did. Trey sat down in the chair across from him. It was hard for him to play this role and pretend to be a better father, a better man, than Dan had ever been.

Oh, good. His shoulders sagged with relief. That’s good, son. Those boys need their father. You’re gone too much.

Before Dan left them, he’d been on the road a lot. Traveling for business had been his favorite and overused excuse. No one realized he’d shacked up with another woman until he packed his bags and headed to Colorado.

I know. Trey gave him a reassuring smile, hoping it was convincing enough. I’ll try harder.

Call home more, Greg said firmly. They’re growing like weeds, those boys.

How many times had Greg had this conversation with Dan? Had Dan pretended to care, played the part the way Trey did now? If he had, the acting would have been to make himself feel better rather than for Greg’s feelings. The asshole hadn’t been back to River Bend to see Greg in over a year.

Would you like to go for a walk? Trey gestured to the shoes beside the bed. It’s decent out today.

Greg scowled at the shoes. Those are ugly damn shoes. He glanced around the floor of the room and mumbled, Don’t know where I put my boots . . .

He’d spent his life in cowboy boots; the orthopedic sneakers with Velcro straps were as foreign to him as sushi, which he’d never tasted and never had a desire to.

They’re good for a walk. Trey knelt beside the bed and picked up a shoe. Now, stick your foot out so I can shove them on.

Must’ve hurt my back, Greg muttered as Trey slipped the left shoe on. Barely moving today. His eyes flickered, as if just now noticing where they were. I don’t know why Mary likes staying here. Damn place serves the worst food.

Mary, Trey’s grandma, had been gone for seventeen years. She’d passed away peacefully in her sleep from a heart attack she hadn’t felt.

She thinks the food’s okay. Trey strapped the Velcro tight.

Who? Greg blinked back at him in confusion, the memory of his wife already gone.

I was talking about the lady in the cafeteria. She doesn’t think the food’s too bad. Trey patted the sock of Greg’s other foot. This one now.

Greg’s brow softened. Okay.

This was always the worst part, watching his mind fumble with reality. The way his eyes moved, as if trying to focus, to readjust with the memories conflicting in his fuzzy mind. Trey kept silent as he adjusted the Velcro.

Trey?

The note of fear in Greg’s voice made Trey’s throat constrict. He swallowed hard at the lump lodged there and smiled up at Greg. Yeah, Grandpa. It’s me. He should be used to this by now, but he wasn’t. He’d never get used to it. How you doing?

Greg clutched his arm. I think I’ll lie down for a bit.

The walk forgotten, Trey eased Greg into the recliner by the window. It was his favorite place in the room, looking out over the pond behind the nursing home.

What have you been up to, boy? Greg settled into the chair, easing the footrest up enough to lift his feet from the floor.

Working out in your shop. I brought you something. He stood and walked to where he left the nightstand. When he turned with it in his hands, Greg pushed the leg rest back in and lowered his feet to the floor. He leaned forward to inspect the stand Trey set in front of him.

Couldn’t have made it better myself. Greg’s eyes shone with pride as he ran his fingers against the beveled edges. And all these years I thought you were too hard-headed for anything I taught you to sink in.

Trey laughed and sat down in the chair across from Greg. While farming had been Greg’s life, the job and lifestyle he’d been raised into, woodworking had been his passion. He once told Trey that a man needed a hobby, something that filled him with joy when life got tough. He was right. His grandpa always was.

I’m full of surprises, I guess, Trey said.

What else are you working on?

Lots of different things. Coffee tables. Made Cole’s son a footstool for the bathroom. I’m working on a cedar chest for Cassie. The moment the names passed Trey’s lips, he braced himself for the confusion both would cause. Greg wouldn’t remember that Trey’s mom had remarried, wouldn’t remember that Trey had a half-sister, Cassie, from that marriage. He wouldn’t remember his best friend Cole had a son, either. Those were all details Greg wouldn’t remember, not today, or tomorrow, or even a month from now.

Cole’s son? Greg scratched his head. Didn’t know he had a son.

I’ve also made a few patio chairs. Trey changed the subject before Greg could think too long about why he couldn’t remember such an important detail about someone he knew so well. He moved the nightstand off to the side of the recliner. I’ve got the shop full of stuff now. I’ll bring you some pictures next time I come.

Greg leaned closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. Smuggle in a couple of beers too.

Trey smiled. Sure thing, old man.

They’re a bunch of hard-asses around here.

Why don’t we just sneak you out for a few hours this week? Fish are biting good down at our spot.

Greg’s eyes lit up. Sounds good to me. You got my poles?

Trey nodded. And your tackle.

That’s a good tackle box. Don’t lose it. Greg popped out the leg rest and reclined back all the way this time.

Not a chance. That tackle box rides in my pickup.

Your mom says you’re seeing a pretty cheerleader. He patted the chest pocket of his overalls, but there was no can of chew there. He’d given it up when Trey was in high school. When do I get to meet her?

Ah, we broke up. Trey smiled and shrugged. You know how that goes.

There’d been a few girlfriends from his high school days, but only one had been a cheerleader. She was now married with a handful of little girls who looked just like her, towheaded and all.

One of these days you’re going to have to learn how to keep a girl. Greg chuckled and patted Trey on the hand. Lucky for you, you got some years to figure women out.

Trey laughed. I don’t think I’ll ever figure women out.

They’re not so complicated, son. Apologize when you’re wrong. Send her flowers on her birthday. Compliment her cooking. Tell her she looks beautiful every chance you get. Greg reached for the remote and clicked on the TV. Next girl, you better bring her by to meet me.

I will.

Greg gave him a severe stare. I mean it. I’ll call your mom and tell her to send you here.

Trey laughed. She’ll lead me here by the ear if you do that.

She’s a good woman, your mom. Never understood why that son of mine was such a dimwit to let a woman like her go.

Yeah, me either. Trey settled back into the chair to watch the fishing show on the TV.

He stayed another hour until exhaustion touched Greg’s eyes. When he drifted off to sleep, Trey eased from the chair, careful not to make a noise. He pulled a quilt from the foot of the bed to drape over Greg.

See you tomorrow, old man, Trey whispered, tucking the quilt around him.

Outside, he squinted against the sun drifting toward the horizon. Across the parking lot, his car glimmered the color of a golden sunset. Greg had been the one to find the GTO out in a farmer’s pasture; he loaded it up on a trailer and brought it back to the farm, knowing Trey would cherish the pile of rust.

Trey couldn’t imagine what his life would have been without Greg. Though it wasn’t Greg’s fault that Dan left, he had carried the guilt around as if it were his parenting that had lacked in Dan’s life. He had tried so hard to fill the void Dan left. Trey wished he had thought to remind Greg more often that the fault in Dan’s character was not his. Now he wasn’t sure what, if anything, Greg would remember with each visit. It tore at Trey’s heart.

To clear his head, he took a roundabout way to the Thompson farmstead, winding dirt roads he knew by heart. When he was overseas, he’d missed driving out in the country. There’d been times on the aircraft carrier when he’d looked up at the sky and wished he were watching the sunset from the tailgate of a pickup truck, drinking a cold one with his friends. He left River Bend all those years ago to run from his past and the pain and guilt after Travis died. Still, that first year in the Navy had been the hardest.

Eventually, that ache, the homesickness, ebbed. So much so that returning to River Bend to settle down hadn’t ever been part of his plan. Not until Greg’s first stroke. Trey was up for reenlistment after eight years in, but he came home instead.

Funny how life never seemed to go the way a person wanted. Not that he was surprised; he and God hadn’t been on the same page for a long time.

He slowed the car at the top of the hill and gazed down at the farmstead. Trey had spent summers here as a kid working on the farm, and it hadn’t changed much since then. The narrow two-story house stood out against the backdrop of pastures and green corn stalks darkening with the setting sun. Huge old walnut trees blocked the long driveway and the creek from view with thick, green foliage. The farmstead was as breathtaking as the river valley it resided in.

Early last year, a couple of months after Greg had been moved to the nursing home, Trey moved into his grandparents’ house to help with the upkeep. All he had brought with him were a few possessions he’d accumulated over the years. After a few months of waking up with a stiff back, he purchased a bedroom set for the guest room. The rest of the house was still furnished with his grandparents’ furniture.

And the truth was, he hadn’t intended to stay so long—not in the house, and not in River Bend. After eight years in the Navy, he hadn’t imagined he’d settle back in his hometown to toss around haybales on the family farm. At first, he’d been bored and aimless, which wasn’t a good thing. He was the kind of person who needed something to keep his hands and his mind busy. When Mason, the fire chief, offered Trey a permanent position at the firehouse earlier in the year, it made sense to take it. The firehouse kept him busy, and he needed that. It kept his mind off Greg’s illness and kept him from dwelling on his poor excuse of a father.

Yet he felt purposeless, as if his life were on hold—had been on hold—since returning. His mind turned again to the idea of opening a furniture store. He’d been thinking about it a lot lately, partly due to Cole’s insistence, and partly because it had once been a dream of his. All those long hours working beside Greg in the woodshop behind the farmhouse, eagerly soaking in everything his grandpa could teach him before he went off to college to learn even more about the craft Trey had grown to love. Then Travis died, and Trey’s life fell apart.

That dream became something he didn’t feel he deserved. Not when Travis was dead and Trey wasn’t. So he left town and joined the Navy and hadn’t looked back, leaving those dreams behind.

He drove down the driveway at a crawl, the windows down so he could breathe in the scent of fresh cut alfalfa and lilacs blooming in the yard. When he emerged from the grove of trees lining the drive, a blue pickup was parked in front of the house. Cole and another friend, Brett, sat on the tailgate and lifted their beers in salute. He rolled to a stop behind them and got out.

What are you assholes doing here? Trey shut the car door.

It’s a national holiday. Brett tipped his beer back.

Trey raised his brows. Yeah? What holiday’s that?

It’s pool league tonight. Brett crushed the can and tossed it into the back of Cole’s pickup.

That’s not a holiday. He glanced at his watch. And that’s two and a half hours from now.

Cole handed Brett a beer from the six-pack beside his thigh. He wiped the condensation on the leg of his jeans. Figured we’d go eat some pizza first.

Yeah, all right. But I’m driving myself. Last time, I got stuck in town. Trey’s phone vibrated against his leg and he dug it from his jeans pocket. And I’m not waking up to your puppy drooling on my face again, he told Cole as he read the message from Shelby. He hadn’t heard from her in a couple of months, not since they’d called it quits. She’d messaged him twice in the last hour.

You can sleep in Micky’s bed. Cole grinned, knowing Trey was three times the size of the toddler bed. He’s with his mom for the weekend.

I’d have to sleep in a fetal position in that tiny bed. Trey hesitated over the text message before typing out a response: Plans with the guys and pool league. Trey pocketed the phone.

He’s ready for a big boy bed anyway, Cole said. Maybe you could build him one? He’d like that.

Trey nodded. Sure, anything for the little Mickster. We can talk about it over pizza.

Speaking of, let’s go. I’m starving. Brett stood from the tailgate, and the pickup bounced from the absence of his weight.

You just finished a bag of chips. Cole shook his head and stood. Don’t know where you put it, man.

Meathead, Trey mumbled, and Brett flexed his biceps while flipping him off.

Chicks dig these guns. He flexed his chest, his muscles pulling his T-shirt tight.

Jesus, man. Trey laughed as he pulled his car door open. Ease up on the ’roids. They’re going to your head.

Brett grinned. If by head, you mean . . .

Cole pushed him toward the passenger side of his pickup. I’m losing my appetite.

Trey turned the car around in front of the farmhouse and cranked up the radio. Led Zeppelin. Classic.

Chapter 2

THE OVEN TIMER buzzed.

Hillary Dubas pulled on a pair of oven mitts before spinning around to the stacked ovens on the opposite wall. The aroma of sweet cheese with a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg filled the bakery’s kitchen even before she pulled open the oven door. She eased her head back a little, anticipating the blast of hot air, but she didn’t flinch; this was a dance she performed every day.

Careful to avoid burning herself on the racks, she slid the baking sheet out, inhaling deeply. A slow, satiated smile spread over her lips and a familiar wave of elation rolled over her. She slid the sheet into an empty slot on a cooling rack to join the last three sheets to fill her order for the next morning.

The scents drifting through the room were as familiar to her as her own reflection. They were ingrained inside her. Kolaches were a family tradition. When she was little, she would sit perched on a too-tall stool in her grandma’s kitchen, chubby legs swinging in time to music playing from an old stereo. Her eager eyes soaked in every detail, every ingredient, while her grandma moved gracefully around the small kitchen, humming along.

Hillary had fallen in love with baking long before she learned boys might have cooties, or that they really didn’t. It was magic, what she’d witnessed in her grandma’s kitchen. Magic that Hillary couldn’t wait to create herself. There’d been generations of Dubas women who touched that kolache recipe, each adding to it, perfecting it, before Hillary got her turn. She remembered the day her grandma placed the tattered paper in her hands; that rush of joy and pride that still surged through her whenever she looked at the now framed recipe hanging above the counter she’d used to roll out kolache dough for the last two years since opening The Sweet Treat.

Her dream of opening a bakery manifested in high school, and she’d never imagined opening her business anywhere else but her hometown. After years and years of planning and saving every penny, creating new recipes, tweaking old ones, tossing some in the trash to start again from scratch, all the blood, sweat, and tears eventually paid off. This bakery was Hillary’s heaven. The one place she felt more herself than anywhere else. Where she went to feel better and to think. To create, to knead, to bake—her happy place.

Even well past closing time, like tonight.

Isn’t it the craziest thing? her sister Emily gushed, her voice flooding through the speakerphone on the counter.

"Mmm hmm. Crazy." Hillary glanced at the clock. She’d been on her feet for almost fifteen hours. She didn’t usually stay this late, but the quilting ladies of Cedar County were converging on River Bend for the weekend, and the community center had placed an order large enough to feed an army. This was the peak of tourist season, and their town was the center of everything. Someone would be by early tomorrow morning to pick up the order.

I know, right? Crazy, crazy, Emily chirped.

"Mmm . . ."

Emily could talk about nothing for hours, and she had no clue what subject her younger sister was on now. She couldn’t keep up. A moment ago, Emily had been jabbering about a liquor shot that tasted like a peanut butter candy bar. Before that, she complained that her best friend’s teen sister stole her favorite pair of leggings. Oh, and she’d mentioned a few times—at least three—how awesome life was without the strain of an eight-to-five job dragging her down. Or any job, for that matter. Emily was unemployed for the fourth time this year. Apparently, her boss at the clothing boutique hadn’t been okay with her taking time off that weekend to fly to Vegas with her girlfriends, so she quit.

Nothing new. Emily had always been fly by the seat of her pants that way, and the only person this seemed to bother was Hillary. The two of them were like night and day. While Hillary had always been Miss Responsibility, Emily never took responsibility for anything she did. Ever. After three years of college, she left the university to find herself. Two years later, she was still lost, and partying like a trust fund baby. Which she wasn’t. There weren’t any trust fund babies in Hillary’s family tree. Their parents should’ve been saving for retirement, instead they spent too much bailing Emily out of every financial trouble she got herself into—unpaid cell phone bills, utility disconnect notices, credit card debt. It drove Hillary nuts.

I mean, what are the chances? Emily’s tinkling laughter intensified Hillary’s exhaustion, and she gritted her teeth together and glanced at the clock. Again. She couldn’t wait to collapse onto her bed. She might not even make it to the bathroom to brush her teeth first. Right now, she didn’t care about anything but finishing up for the night and crashing on her new mattress; it was glorious, and the most exciting thing in her life these days.

"Mmm hmm. Really. Hillary tapped the soap dispenser and caught the pink liquid in her palm. Rubbing her hands together, she said, Exciting."

So out of this world.

Definitely. Hillary nodded, though Emily couldn’t see her. She rinsed her hands and longed for fuzzy slippers. Her feet ached and her calves felt like massive tree trunks.

Are you even listening? Emily shouted into the phone over the chiming slot machines and raucous conversation of the casino behind her.

Yes, I’m listening.

"Hillary."

"Emily. She wiped her hands on a towel, then dropped it on the counter beside the sink. I’m at the bakery, remember? That means I’m working and listening. I’m on a deadline and I’ve been here all day."

Well, sometimes you tune me out. The pout in Emily’s voice made her smile.

It’s a gift. She bent to dig a saucepan out of the cupboard. Or maybe it’s my superpower.

Emily sniffed. A rude superpower.

A helpful superpower, I’ve found. She still had no