“Remi Honey!” Gilbert Ford was one inch taller than his wife and a little less athletic. His dark red hair was always slightly mussed, clothes just a little mismatched, but he had a way of really listening to people that made them forget all about his disheveled appearance.
In his excitement, he missed the last step and nearly bowled both women over at the foot of the stairs. He flashed a sheepish grin before wrapping Remi up in a tight hug.
She closed her eyes and let herself be loved. “Hi, Dad.”
“What a wonderful surprise,” he said, swaying them side to side. Gilbert was an expert-level hugger and just the right medicine for what ailed his daughter at the moment.
How was it possible, Remi wondered, to be homesick while standing in her childhood home wrapped in the arms of the first man to ever love her?
“You didn’t know either?” Darlene asked her husband, shooting him a calculating look.
He shook his head, releasing Remi. “I had no idea,” he insisted, giving her hands a squeeze. “Didn’t you?”
Her parents were notoriously busy and often forgot to relay messages of varying importance to each other.
“I didn’t tell anyone I was coming home. I wanted to surprise you both,” she assured them.
Gilbert’s smile faded a bit, and his eyes narrowed behind the tortoiseshell glasses he’d been wearing for twenty years. “What’s this?” He gave Remi’s wrist a gentle squeeze.
“Oh, that. That’s a cast,” Remi said.
“A cast? As in you broke your arm?” Darlene barked.
“I was in a little fender bender. It’s just a baby break. No big deal.”
Her dad’s brow furrowed. “Can you paint with the cast, sweetie?”
“I haven’t really tried yet.”
So many little white lies, and she hadn’t even made it past the foyer. It was a record.
“Well, come on back. You can help yourself to some coffee and tell us all about it,” Darlene insisted. “How long do we have you?”
“I thought I’d stay for a couple of weeks. Take a little vacation,” she said, following her mom into the kitchen.
It was her favorite room in the house. After spending two straight weeks arguing about stains, her parents had gone rogue and painted the cabinets a hunter green. Glossy blue tiles made up the countertops. An odd-shaped island angled its way between the workspace and breakfast nook, a booth with deep cushions and a rich maple table built into the bay window.
“Did you get fired?” Darlene asked.
Remi snorted as she opened the mug cabinet over the coffeemaker and dug through the contents until she found her favorite. A chunky, bright yellow mug that said Don’t Worry Be Happy. “No, Mom. I didn’t get fired. I’m actually painting full-time now.”
“You are? Well, isn’t that—Holy crap! Is that the time?” Gilbert squawked, checking the microwave clock. “I have to get to school!”
“Well, shit. I have a call I can’t miss this morning,” Darlene noted as she glanced at her own watch.
Remi jumped out of the way as both parents dove for the coffeemaker to top off their travel mugs.
“Family dinner for our starving artist,” her mom decided, screwing the cap on her mug.
The starving part of that description was something Remi had, until recently, looked forward to dispelling. But now she couldn’t reveal the good news without breaking the bad.
“Tonight?” Gilbert shoved the now empty carafe back on the burner and frowned. “Do I have a thing or do you have a thing?”
“Double shit,” Darlene groaned. “You have the fundraiser at the basketball game tonight, and I have a town council meeting.”
“It’s okay,” Remi insisted. “I’m in town for a while.”
“Tomorrow night,” Gilbert announced, pointing both index fingers at her. “I’ll call your sister.”
Darlene grabbed the bag of coffee beans and shoved it at Remi. “Make yourself a fresh pot and pull a roast or something out of the freezer. Oh, and since you’re here, mind switching the laundry over to the dryer?”
Her parents sandwiched her for noisy, rushed cheek kisses, and then they were gone. She heard the old Yamaha snowmobile fire up on the street and watched through the front window as her dad climbed on behind her mother. Chief Ford would drop Mr. Ford off at the K-12 school and then loop around into downtown to start her day at the police station on Market Street.
She felt the tiniest sliver of disappointment that they hadn’t had time for coffee together. But that’s what she got for popping in on them unannounced on a Thursday. The kitchen was too quiet, so she switched on the ancient radio her father used to catch Wolverine games.
As something quiet and classical poured forth from the speaker, soft yellow and gold clouds billowed around the room, keeping her company. Who’d have thought that the little girl with skinned knees and pink E’s would find her place in the world painting things that only she could see?
“Coffee first,” she decided.
She started a fresh pot, then ducked into the tiny laundry room housed between the kitchen and dining room. Not much had changed there besides the amount of clutter. Since there were no longer two teenage girls in residence, the space was tidier. The little clothesline strung between two walls was no longer laden with bras. Now, it held unmatched socks clipped with wooden clothespins.
She opened the lid of the washer and began stuffing damp clothes into the dryer. Everything took twice as long as it should with only one good arm. She wasn’t looking forward to four to six weeks of being without full use of her dominant hand.
Something red and lacy caught her eye. Digging it out, Remi gingerly held up a fancy thong.
“Dear God. What is this?”
She grabbed her phone and snapped a picture.
Remi: Please tell me this is Mom’s and not Dad’s.
She saw three dots appear then disappear. It took a solid five minutes before her sister responded.
Kimber: What are you doing digging through our parents’ underwear, perv?
Remi: I came home to surprise everyone. By the way, surprise! Mom and Dad abandoned me and gave me a list of chores.
Kimber: Some things never change. Except Mom’s underwear apparently.
Remi: Are you home? Want to hang out?
Her sister didn’t respond, so Remi finished loading the dryer and pushed the start button. The tinny vibration on top of the appliance signaled a new message.
Mom: Don’t forget to clean the lint trap! That’s how fires happen.
Remi: I know, Mom. I’m not 10!
Guiltily, she stopped the dryer and emptied the lint trap before restarting it. Then just for fun, she pinned the thong to the clothesline where her parents would definitely see it.
Dryer running, fire averted, and mug full of fresh coffee, she headed into the basement. The wooden steps were scuffed and worn in the middle from decades of trips up and down. Paint splatters on the risers told the story of her earliest artist days.