Read Online The Welcome Home Garden Club by Lori Wilde - Free Book Online
Authors: Lori Wilde
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All the buildings were the original limestone structures that had been lovingly restored and turned into shops and restaurants catering to the tourist trade. He could almost see cowboys tying their horses to hitching posts, or gunslingers drawing off on each other in the middle of the street.
On the other side of the square sat Sweetheart Park, so christened in honor of the town founders, Jon Grant and Rebekka Nash. Caitlyn’s ancestors. In the center of the park was a fountain statue of two lovers embracing. A tributary of the Brazos ran through the park, dotted with wooden footbridges, lush gardens, and a big white gazebo.
The town made happily-ever-after promises it couldn’t keep. It was rife with true-love legends. Throw a penny into the town fountain and you’d be reunited with your high school sweetheart. Carve your name into the Sweetheart Tree and you’ll be together forever. For one stupid moment, he considered stopping and tossing a coin into the fountain, but he’d never been whimsical or superstitious and he wasn’t about to start now.
Gideon was surprised to note that the place hadn’t changed much in eight years. The only obvious alteration was that the old Twilight Theatre was gone. A vacant lot, gaping like a missing tooth, stretched out between an insurance office on one side and a hair salon on the other.
Most of the establishments were still the same. The Funny Farm restaurant, Rinky-Tink’s Old-Fashioned Ice Cream Parlor, Marsh’s Flower Shop, Ye Olde Book Nook. He drove on past the square, took the road that led to Shady Rest Funeral Home, and saw posted on the marquee that his father’s funeral was scheduled for eleven A.M.
He felt nothing. Until he reached his ultimate destination.
The Twilight Cemetery.
His mother’s grave was overgrown with weeds. It saddened Gideon to realize Linda Garza’s death had been just as lacking as her life. He ran his fingers over his mother’s tombstone etched with the dates of her birth and her death and the simple words: Loving Mother to Gideon .
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he muttered, grabbed a handful of weeds, and started pulling.
He’d dressed all in black leather, his motorcycle helmet on the ground beside him. He’d come back after all, drawn by shame and regret and sorrow. So much damn sorrow.
And J. Foster Goodnight was the cause of most of it.
Anger seethed inside him. Moira had been wrong. He would find no closure here. Only more questions waited for him here. He grabbed another fistful of weeds and yanked.
Gideon thought of the day he’d discovered who his real father was. At the time, it had been the worst day of his life. It still ranked up there in the top three. His mother had died in his arms, a victim of liver failure. A consequence of the hepatitis C she’d contracted. As she drew her last breath, she’d whispered J. Foster’s name.
It was the last thing she ever said to him.
His mother might not have walked the straight and narrow. She had made a lot of mistakes in her life, but she’d been a damn good mother. She’d been kind and patient and understanding. She’d never raised her voice. Yes, she’d run with the wrong crowd. She’d drunk too much, perhaps done other things she shouldn’t have done, but she’d never neglected him. He’d always come first.
Then when he was going through her things, getting ready for the funeral, he’d found that letter. She’d written it years before, sealed it in an envelope, left it in the lockbox tucked under the foot of her bed. The letter had been short and succinct. She’d told him how much she loved him. Praised him for being a good son. And then she’d dropped the bomb that forever altered the course of his life. She’d confessed that when she worked at the Goodnight ranch, she’d had a torrid affair with J. Foster, and Gideon was the result of that encounter.
He could still recall the cold chill that had fallen over him. The denial. Then the rush of hope. In utter
On the other side of the square sat Sweetheart Park, so christened in honor of the town founders, Jon Grant and Rebekka Nash. Caitlyn’s ancestors. In the center of the park was a fountain statue of two lovers embracing. A tributary of the Brazos ran through the park, dotted with wooden footbridges, lush gardens, and a big white gazebo.
The town made happily-ever-after promises it couldn’t keep. It was rife with true-love legends. Throw a penny into the town fountain and you’d be reunited with your high school sweetheart. Carve your name into the Sweetheart Tree and you’ll be together forever. For one stupid moment, he considered stopping and tossing a coin into the fountain, but he’d never been whimsical or superstitious and he wasn’t about to start now.
Gideon was surprised to note that the place hadn’t changed much in eight years. The only obvious alteration was that the old Twilight Theatre was gone. A vacant lot, gaping like a missing tooth, stretched out between an insurance office on one side and a hair salon on the other.
Most of the establishments were still the same. The Funny Farm restaurant, Rinky-Tink’s Old-Fashioned Ice Cream Parlor, Marsh’s Flower Shop, Ye Olde Book Nook. He drove on past the square, took the road that led to Shady Rest Funeral Home, and saw posted on the marquee that his father’s funeral was scheduled for eleven A.M.
He felt nothing. Until he reached his ultimate destination.
The Twilight Cemetery.
His mother’s grave was overgrown with weeds. It saddened Gideon to realize Linda Garza’s death had been just as lacking as her life. He ran his fingers over his mother’s tombstone etched with the dates of her birth and her death and the simple words: Loving Mother to Gideon .
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he muttered, grabbed a handful of weeds, and started pulling.
He’d dressed all in black leather, his motorcycle helmet on the ground beside him. He’d come back after all, drawn by shame and regret and sorrow. So much damn sorrow.
And J. Foster Goodnight was the cause of most of it.
Anger seethed inside him. Moira had been wrong. He would find no closure here. Only more questions waited for him here. He grabbed another fistful of weeds and yanked.
Gideon thought of the day he’d discovered who his real father was. At the time, it had been the worst day of his life. It still ranked up there in the top three. His mother had died in his arms, a victim of liver failure. A consequence of the hepatitis C she’d contracted. As she drew her last breath, she’d whispered J. Foster’s name.
It was the last thing she ever said to him.
His mother might not have walked the straight and narrow. She had made a lot of mistakes in her life, but she’d been a damn good mother. She’d been kind and patient and understanding. She’d never raised her voice. Yes, she’d run with the wrong crowd. She’d drunk too much, perhaps done other things she shouldn’t have done, but she’d never neglected him. He’d always come first.
Then when he was going through her things, getting ready for the funeral, he’d found that letter. She’d written it years before, sealed it in an envelope, left it in the lockbox tucked under the foot of her bed. The letter had been short and succinct. She’d told him how much she loved him. Praised him for being a good son. And then she’d dropped the bomb that forever altered the course of his life. She’d confessed that when she worked at the Goodnight ranch, she’d had a torrid affair with J. Foster, and Gideon was the result of that encounter.
He could still recall the cold chill that had fallen over him. The denial. Then the rush of hope. In utter
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