Page 4 of Jordan
It looked the same. Not really. There were several changes. The sleepy little town of Winter's Peak had evolved. She noticed the changes as soon as she collected the car at the airport and was on her way. The journey had been long and exhausting. She had flown first class from home until she had to connect in New York. From there, the little plane had shuddered and dipped, plunging downwards, until she felt herself gripping the armrest, her fingernails digging into the soft leather.
She hated flying, especially in small aircrafts and had questioned herself several times why she felt the need to go and see her aunt laid to rest. It wasn't out of love, but duty. Aunt Sybil had taken them in. And even though she had let them know that it was a trial and an inconvenience, she had saved them from being homeless.
Now sitting behind the wheels of the sensible Subaru, she found herself slowing down almost to a crawl. The road leading from the airport was long and winding, with few farmhouses cropping up here and there.
It was mostly a tourist destination. With the quaint historic buildings and lush green foliage. The place was well known for its citrus and produced some of the ripest, roundest and sweetest oranges and lemons. The Wainwrights - she wondered why they had never changed the name of the town to theirs. They had been settlers here for more than a century and had certainly made their mark.
Every business had their name stamped on. From the simple farm stores to the lofty malls, banks, museums, galleries, and hotels. Her fingers tightened on the wheel as she recalled how starry eyed she had been when her mama took her to the "big house." She had stared at the towering white façade in wonder, her breath caught inside her throat as she took in the manicured lawns, the blooming rose patches, the pride of Jacquline Wainwright.
She swallowed the awful lump that had found itself inside her throat as she recalled how the woman had coldly told her mamathat children were not allowed. When mama had tried to explain in her quavering voice that school was out and she did not want to leave her daughter alone at the house, Jacquline had simply told her to take the child outside and leave her in one of the barns.
"You know better than to have her underfoot," the woman had said briskly.
Heaving out a cleansing breath, she was determined not to cry. She was back and the last time she came for her mother's funeral, tongues had started to wag. She had settled her mother's accounts and left immediately after. The only one from the Wainwright's family that had attended the funeral was Jordan. He had stayed back to offer his condolences and asked if she needed anything. Her answer had been a curt no, that had discouraged any further conversation.
The anger and humiliation fought for supremacy. She thought she had gotten over it. Caleb would have been pissed had he known that she still remembered, still feel the helpless fury at being treated like dirt.
"Rich people are generally assholes. They cannot seem to help themselves. And the Wainwright's were perfect examples."
Except one. The voice sneaked inside her head insidiously, taunting her, forcing her to remember. She had been planted inside the barn by her tearful mama and told to stay there and read her book and color.
And she had. It was five minutes later, the gangly dark-haired Jordan had come sauntering in, with a mischievous smile on his dare devil face. At first, she had been prepared to ignore him, but he hadn't stopped until very soon, she was laughing at his jokes. And several minutes after that, she had done the unthinkable and fallen into a desperate crush. He had just wanted to make her feel better and make up for his mother's disgraceful behavior. But she had taken it the wrong way.
Her mother had brought her to the manor and planted her inside the barn, and she had not minded, because she was hoping to see Jordan. But he had not bothered to come back. And the next time she saw him, he was playing in the pool with some rich and pretty girls. She had humiliated herself by calling his name.
When he barely acknowledged, she felt the crushing letdown and slunk back to the barn.
Easing her foot off the accelerator, she recognized the landscape and realized that she was driving through the town. It was pretty. Store front shops that looked more like quaint buildings. A lovely carved stature of an army general holding a rifle in the middle of the square. It was almost ten at night and everywhere was locked up, giving the place an air of quiet serenity.
She pulled into the driveway of the small, weather-beaten house that had once been her childhood home. The porch light flickered weakly, casting a pale glow on the chipped paint and overgrown shrubs that surrounded the entrance. It was clear that time had not been kind to this place, much like it had not been kind to her.
As she stepped out of the car, she felt a wave of memories wash over her. The laughter of summer nights, the scent of freshly baked pies, the warmth of her mother's embrace—all seemed distant yet oddly present. She could almost hear the echo of her younger self running through the halls, chasing dreams and shadows.
She walked slowly toward the front door, her steps heavy with the weight of the past. The key turned with a familiar click, and she pushed the door open, revealing a space trapped in time. Dust motes danced in the dim light, and the faded wallpaper peeled at the corners, whispering secrets of bygone days.
The living room was just as she remembered, with the worn-out armchair where her mother used to sit and read, and the old wooden table that had seen countless family meals. She ran her fingers over the surface, feeling the grooves and scratches that marked years of use and love.
She made her way to the kitchen, where the aroma of homemade meals still seemed to linger. The cabinets creaked in protest as she opened them, revealing mismatched dishes and tarnished silverware. She couldn't help but smile at the sight of her mother's favorite teapot, still sitting proudly on the shelf.
Her journey took her to her old bedroom, a sanctuary of childhood dreams and adolescent heartaches. The bed was neatly made, as if expecting her return, and the bookshelf still held the stories that had once fueled her imagination. She picked up a worn copy of her favorite book, feeling the familiar pages beneath her fingers.
As she settled into the room, she felt a sense of peace wash over her. Despite the pain and bitterness that had shaped her life, this house held the essence of who she was and where she came from. It was a reminder that, no matter how far she had traveled or how much she had changed, this place would always be a part of her.
She knew her return to the town would not be without challenges, but she was ready to face them. The past had already taken so much from her, but it had also given her the strength to endure. She would honor her mother's memory, reclaim her sense of self, and find a way to move forward.
Despite the undertones of obligations from her aunt, Martha Simpson had tried her best to make a comfortable home for her daughter. Worn to the bone from slaving over at the Wainwright's place, she would come home and try her best to be a mother and that was something Julesa would never forget. Her pressing regret was that her mother had died before she could reward her for her sacrifices.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she glanced around the shabby room that still held most of the things she had left behind. She would get rid of the ones she no longer needed and take backthe ones she was keeping. And sell the house. Her aunt had been childless, so everything had been left to her. The woman had pinched every penny and complained about every expense and all along she had a sizable bank account, including stocks and bonds. Julesa wanted to laugh at the irony of it all.
They could have used some of the money while she was growing up. Now she did not need it.
Pressing her lips together, she stared off across the darkened room. The slice of moon shown through the wispy curtains, casting a glow on the shabby furnishing. She had a funeral to plan. Aunt Sybil had prepared everything, paying for the plot and giving detail instructions to her lawyer. All Julesa had to do was make certain to follow her aunt's last wishes.
*****
He should have stayed at the club. Or take off to some exotic island in the Caribbean. Or even go and hang out at the vineyard in Tuscany. But he had responsibilities and as such, he had reluctantly returned. Only to find himself hemmed in.
He had made the mistake of alerting them of his plan on returning home and his mother had invited Sally Granger. She had implemented it perfectly. After his arrival from the airfield, he barely had time to go upstairs to grab a shower to get rid of the travel. Instead of the family, his parents, his two sisters and their spineless husbands, Sally looking sleek and graciously lovely was already seated around the twenty-chair glossy mahogany dining table.
