Sometimes It Happens Here Read online

  sometimes it happens here

  By K.S. Thomas

  Copyright © 2019 - by K.S. Thomas

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the consent of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Sometimes it Happens Here is a work of fiction. All characters and subject matter are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Art by Wild Girl Book Covers

  Photo by Evelin Horvath via Unsplash.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Further Reading: One More Chapter

  Also By K.S. Thomas

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  LILAN

  “Come on, buddy,” I try to coax Jax from the bed without waking Mona, my nine-year-old, who sees no reason to get up at the crack of dawn like I do, “let’s go outside.” I watch the old man yawn and stretch out all three of his scrawny limbs before he curls back up into a perfectly furry golden ball, careful to bury his face under his one front paw where he can politely ignore me should I make any more attempts to get his attention.

  I shake my head, quietly laughing to myself as I tiptoe from the room. Jax has never been an early riser. Mama blames it on the missing leg, an infection that spread as a puppy and nearly killed him, and all the reason anyone should ever need not to buy from one of those doggy display stores that get their merchandise straight from some overcrowded puppy mill, like the one Jax was rescued from, but I’ve seen that boy wrestle the neighbor’s Pitbull often enough to know a lack in strength, speed or mobility has nothing to do with it. He’s just plain lazy.

  Since Jax is insisting on sleeping in along with Mona, I move on to my favorite part of morning. Teatime.

  The house feels peaceful as I walk down the long hall to the open stairs and navigate them one by one until I reach the bottom. I savor the moments, listening for winter just beyond these walls. Snow came early this year and surprised us all, and I’ve enjoyed it more than most. The wind moving along the house, the occasional cracking of wood within the structure as the temperatures shift between the freezing cold outside and the heat rising from the furnace within.

  With the rising sun, comes more of winter’s music. Melting icicles that slip and land on the roof with a thud. Birds and squirrels making themselves known as they scurry around for breakfast, and of course, mama’s roosters taking it in turns to announce the brilliance of another day upon us.

  The kitchen is the only part of our home already awake. The heat of the oven warms the entire room and the smell of fresh baking bread is delicious no matter how many times I walk in to smell it. Won’t be long and my first loaves will be ready to come out and the next round will be going in. But first, tea.

  I move the kettle to the front burner, giving it a quick sway to check the water. It’s nearly always full in this house, between Mama and me, someone’s always putting on the kettle.

  Moving gently in the peaceful comforts of my early morning kitchen, I take my favorite winter mug from the cupboard. It’s white with a string of golden stars going all around, simple yet beautiful, and entirely festive.

  The tea cubby is overflowing with seasonal selections I only just picked up this week at the marketplace, all sorts of delicious combinations, hand crafted and served in the loveliest of tea sachets for steeping. I decide on a holiday chai blend and place the little pyramid shaped bag into my mug before I retrieve the raw honey from my pantry.

  Then, just as I’m returning to my mug, the kettle begins to whistle, announcing that the water is hot and ready. No sooner have I heard it, than I’m reaching to turn the burner off with one hand and picking up the kettle with the other.

  Silence returns.

  Careful not to burst the delicate bag, I pour the hot water over the tea leaves and watch in quiet bliss as the flavors seep into the water, turning it dark, rich colors as though someone’s come and dipped a paint brush in it.

  Waiting is easy. The calming warmth of the steam. The lovely scents tickling my nose. My last little bit of stillness before the day ensues in all its glorious chaos.

  When it’s time, I use my spoon to scoop out the sachet, wrapping the string around it twice to wring out any lingering flavors. I pour the honey. I stir.

  And then.

  An all too familiar scratch and thud moves in my direction, the sound of Jax and his signature gate, coming into the kitchen, nails tapping at the hardwood with every hop of his front leg.

  I’ve got both hands wrapped around my mug, only just about to lift it close enough for the rim to meet my lips, when he arrives. Standing directly in front of me, staring up with anticipation.

  “Ruff,” he barks quietly, jerking his head toward the door.

  “Seriously?” I put my mug down, accepting defeat. The faster I do, the sooner I’ll get back to my tea. “We do this every morning, Jax. How do you always time it like this?” I ask, slipping into my boots and pulling my coat from the hook by the door. “Do you hear the kettle and then watch the clock? Three minutes, her tea must be ready for that first sip now?” I harass him as I slide one arm into the thick heavy sleeve. “Better go insist on going out,” I harp on him some more when my hand gets halfway through the other sleeve just to get stuck on some knotted-up patch of lining. I shake it out and force my fist through. Much better. “You know, it wouldn’t be so bad if you could go out alone,” I point out, still talking to the dog as I make my way to the door. “But we both know all you’ll do is sit outside the door and whine until I come out and walk with you while you go about your business.” I reach for the handle and hold the door open for him. “Go ahead.”

  Jax steps up to the frame and stops, letting only his nose make contact with the great outdoors. He takes stakes a step backwards and sits back on his haunches, looking at me.

  “Yeah.” I stare out at the front porch still covered in frost, and the yard that’s been hidden under a blanket of snow since yesterday afternoon. “I’m not impressed either. But one of us doesn’t know how to flush, so...” I give him a gentle nudge with the tip of my boot. “Come on, buddy. We’re in this together, remember?”

  He sighs. Dog sighs always make me laugh a little internally. On the outside, I’m limiting it to a respectful smirk. Jax doesn’t tend to appreciate being openly laughed at. Which is similar to how he feels about snow. And having to walk in it first thing after crawling out of Mona’s cozy bed.

  Once we make it outside, he takes all of three steps before he pees, turns on his heels, and dashes back for the door.

  I just might get to enjoy a hot cup of tea after all.

  “Wuss,” I tease him as he wiggles his way past me to beat me back inside the instant I crack the door far enough for him to get through.

  I don’t waste time getting in after him and hurry to close the door, leaving the bulk of the cold outside. I shake my boots from my feet and
shimmy out of my large winter coat, hanging it back on its hook before I rush back to the kitchen.

  When I returns, it’s not near as empty or quiet as I left it.

  “Morning, Mama,” I greet her just as she’s placing a new sheet of dough into the oven.

  “They smelled ready,” she says, nodding her head toward the golden-brown loaves, perfectly crisp and piping hot, now resting on the cooling racks on the counter. “It was silent torture, I tell you. Who needs an alarm clock with the likes of you in the kitchen every morning?”

  “I can’t tell if I’m meant to apologize or not,” I say, chuckling as I finally cup my tea mug in both hands. It’s still warm. Still a perfect first sip.

  “You let me slice into one of those for breakfast and we’ll call it a wash,” she offers, knowing full well there’s always plenty extra for our own pantry when I do the baking. And I always do the baking.

  “Just make sure I have a full dozen in my crate when I leave, and you can eat all the hot bread you like.”

  Finished with the oven, Mama moves on to getting the tea kettle heated up again. “What else are you taking today?”

  “I’m making apple cinnamon and pumpkin spice for my specialty breads and a variety of rolls. They’ve been selling out fast lately.” I take another sip of tea. “All the dough’s prepped and ready. Just waiting on the big oven to heat up.” Big commercial monstrosity Mama found on eBay last year. We have to keep it out in the garage, and it takes a while longer to heat up, but once it’s up and running it cuts my baking time down by a great deal.

  Mama’s eyes light up, and it’s not remotely related to the last bag of chamomile tea she just found in the bottom of the cubby. “You making any extra pumpkin?”

  “Mama,” I shake my head, smirking at her, “is that really a question you need to ask me?”

  “I never like to assume.” She places the bag into her mug and reaches for the kettle before it starts to whistle. “Meanwhile, I notice no one’s asked if I’ll be around to watch sleeping beauty this morning.”

  I shrug. “It’s Saturday, Mama.”

  “And Saturdays my grandmotherly contributions are taken for granted?” she asks, lips pursed as she waits for my response.

  “And Saturdays Mona gets picked up by Uncle Jimmy to go out to the ranch and help with the horses.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since now.” I shake my head, trying not to laugh. “I told you about this.”

  I had mixed feeling about it at first, Mona going out there on her own. Without me. But, it’s her dad’s family. And if they’re finally past the grief of losing him, and ready to get to know what part of him that’s still here inside her, then I’m happy for her to know them. Be loved by them.

  “And you’re okay with this?” Mama looks at me the same way she’s been looking at me all my life anytime she has doubts about my decisions and thinks I may live to regret them.

  “I’m trying to be.” I take my mug and start for the far end of the kitchen, just beside the pantry. It’s the connection between the house and the garage and my immediate means of ending this conversation.

  “Lilan,” Mama calls out before I make my escape, “You’re always welcome to take my grandmotherly duties for granted. Any day of the week. Should you change your mind about these arrangements down the road.”

  I turn back over my shoulder to smile at her. “Thank you, Mama.”

  She nods. “It’s Lilan love.”

  The best kind of love, according to Mama.

  “I know. And I love you, too.”

  This time, I make it out.

  I know before I even check the thermometer that the oven is ready. I can smell it. Gets a strange, not quite burnt but sort of burning thing going on. Stops though as soon as you put something in it, so I’ve convinced myself it’s just a normal part of the old oven heating process.

  Along with the eBay oven, we have two massive refrigerators standing side by side out there, both garage sale finds, also my mother’s purchases. Some days, I don’t know where I’d be without her. She’s quite literally the driving force behind all of my ambitions, always providing the fuel to help my dreams take flight. Like The Bread Bin. It seemed almost silly, three years ago, baking bread, selling a few loaves here and there just for a little extra money. Now, I’m at the marketplace every morning but Sundays, provide weekly orders to four different restaurants in town and even started doing custom orders for special events. My silly home-baked-to-every-table idea has grown far grander than I ever thought possible. Mostly, because Mama saw the possibility in it from the very start.

  Bodhi

  “EXPLAIN TO ME AGAIN why you’re doing this?” my agent Mel nags in my ear for the hundredth time, “You’re already Hollywood’s golden boy, you hardly need to do community service to improve your reputation.”

  “You know, I’m going to have to fire you one day for saying shit like that.” I shake my head even though I know he can’t see it and keep wandering on in search of the guest room. It’s my first-time visiting Hannah since she moved and with her stuck at work, I’m left to explore on my own. Not that I mind. “I’m not doing this for publicity. I’m doing it to help out a friend. And while we’re on that, do not make it about publicity. If I see one unsolicited camera coming at me, you and I are done, Mel.”

  He huffs and I can just picture his face turning red with frustration. “You’re bluffing.”

  Most days I am. Mel and I see eye to eye on nearly nothing, but when it comes to the work I want to do and the jobs he lines up for me, we’re completely aligned. But my life isn’t always about work, and when it’s not, I could do with a hell of a lot less Mel in it.

  “Please don’t make us find out,” I tell him, turning the corner when I reach the end of the hall. “Ah-ha!”

  “What?”

  “I found the guest room.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” It’ll take too long to explain that I’m not staying in a five-star hotel, and that I am doing so by choice. “I’m going to hang up now and you’re not going to call me again, not even if it’s the gig of a lifetime. At least not until after Christmas. Maybe New Year’s if you can hold out that long.”

  “That’s a whole month from now!” he screeches in my ear, “we can’t break communication for that long!”

  “Bye, Mel,” I say calm as ever, I know better than to play into his theatrics. “And remember what I said about publicity. I want a nice, quiet, private holiday for once.” I end the call before he can return with another hysterical objection. He’s the most high-maintenance agent in the industry, but he’s also one of the best. Something I have to remind myself of in moments like these.

  I’m barely able to take in my new surroundings and temporary abode, when my phone starts buzzing all over again.

  This time, unlike the last, I’m happy to answer, “Hey, Hannah.”

  “Are you inside? Did you draw the curtains, close the blinds? I don’t want a mob of teenagers blocking me from my front door when I get home tonight,” she’s rambling a mile a minute as per her usual means of conversing.

  “Actually, I’m enjoying the sunlight shining in through all your uncovered windows. But, yeah. I’m inside. Even found my room,” I confirm, at least in part. “How serious are you about the mob of teenagers though?” Sometimes it’s hard to tell her sarcasm from her serious.

  “Dude, not even serious. I dropped your name like five times yesterday all-around school, only one of the kids even knew who you were.” This time serious. Painfully so.

  “Ouch.” I laugh. “I can’t tell, are you telling me I’m getting old or just irrelevant?”

  “I mean,” she stalls, “I can’t tell you you’re old, we’re the same age. But around here, I’m not sure you’re going to find a lot of people who find you all that relevant. Other than me, of course.”

  “Of course,” I say, mocking her. “Thank goodness for that at least.”

  “I’ve
always got your back, you know that.” She laughs, and I can hear other voices getting louder in the background. “Anyway, all my theater kids are spilling in for Saturday rehearsals as we speak. Now that you’re officially here, I guess I can tell them about you.”

  “Why bother? They probably won’t even know who I am,” I remind her.

  “Shut up.” Then she hangs up on me, still laughing.

  Chuckling to myself, I lug my oversized and overstuffed duffel bag over to the closet. I travel constantly for work, and I learned a long time ago, I’m not the live out of a bag sort. I unpack. I don’t care if I’m staying one night or one hundred. I’m moving in all my shit for the duration and packing it back up again when it’s time to go. Life is just easier when you don’t have to dig your way to the bottom of a bag in search of a second sock.

  As soon as I slide the closet door back, I’m greeted by a set of lime green eyes. “I should have known I’d find you here.” I bend down and scoop up the petite calico hiding among the shoes. “Still into dark places, huh? How long have you been locked in there?” She meows at me, but I sense her complaint lies in being carried more than having spent time inside the closet. Hannah’s had Fizz since college, even then she knew how to push the doors in the crease to open them from the inside. Still, I’ve always wondered how she closes them.

  “Here. Try the bed for a change,” I offer, placing her down on the queen-sized canopy sitting in the center of the room, complete with flowy pink and lavender material wrapped around each post. It’s not the most masculine guest room I’ve ever stayed in, but I’m usually more interested in comfort levels over decorating, so I don’t mind.

  With Fizz out of the way, I return to my plans of unpacking. Doesn’t take long before all of my clothes are hanging neatly on the pink and purple hangers Hannah chose to match the room, and my shoes are placed side by side below.

  I pull the door shut and turn around to face the cat, still lying on the bed, and still staring daggers at me for relocating her. “You can sleep on the sneakers, but the boots are off-limits,” I tell her, pointer finger wagging and all. I have no real expectations here but given the claw marks she left in my loafers last visit, it feels necessary to at least try and set some boundaries with her.