Pining For You: Jasper Falls Read online

  Pining For You

  Jasper Falls

  Lydia Michaels

  Bailey Brown Publishing

  Contents

  Pining For You

  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

  Epilogue

  Bonus Material

  And don’t forget to visit McCullough Mountain!

  Other Books by Lydia Michaels

  Keep in touch!

  Gran’s Irish Cream

  Ingredients

  About the Author

  Pining For You

  A Jasper Falls Novel

  Special Holiday Edition

  With Bonus Recipe

  PINING FOR YOU

  Jasper Falls Book One

  © Lydia Michaels Books 2021

  * * *

  Written by Lydia Michaels

  ISBN Print: 978-1-7371244-5-0

  ISBN eBook: 978-1-7371244-4-3

  * * *

  Published by Bailey Brown Publishing

  Cover Design by Lydia Michaels

  Edited by Theresa Kohler; Oxford Comma Editing

  Copy Edit by Loren Brake

  * * *

  © Lydia Michaels Books 2021

  For Lauren Campbell, because you’ve been with me from the start.

  1

  Five Weeks until Christmas

  * * *

  Children screamed as a pattering of footfalls rattled the rafters hard enough to shake the dust on the windowsills. Skylar’s gaze latched onto a trembling fleck of dirt as it descended from the open wood cupboards where the serving dishes sat. The dust drifted like snow right into Great Aunt Colleen’s coffee.

  That wasn’t the only thing hiding in Aunt Col’s mug. Chances were, that porcelain cup held an Irish coffee strong enough to strip the paint off a car.

  Skylar breathed in the mayhem and grinned.

  Homeyness, especially around the holidays, hid in the chaos. They weren’t the sort to put on a Good Housekeeping centerfold worthy Christmas. Their family was more along the lines of vintage tacky meets fire hazard.

  Skylar adored how everything smelled like heat baked boxes from the attic, and how melted decorations still made the cut each year. Her favorite holiday accent was the lollypop ghost bundled in bathroom tissue that somehow replaced the baby Jesus that went missing more than a decade ago. That, and the toy trucks the kids usually added to the nativity, made the perfect McCullough display.

  Wax stained boxes waited at the foot of the stairs in the foyer, each one hiding away treasures and trinkets that seemed to release the season’s magic. She’d helped Gran bring them down from the attic earlier, but it would take a week to set all the decorations out. For the whole month of December, the big house would resemble a winter wonderland.

  Family would gather. Aunts would bake with the kids. Uncles would steal cookies set aside for neighbors and friends. The teens would raid the liquor cabinet, and someone would always get caught. Aunt Sheilagh would pull a massive prank on Uncle Kelly, thereby setting into motion more revenge pranks until one got out of hand and someone got hurt. Pop would grumble that there were too many people in the house, and Gran would threaten to call Santa every time the kids horsed around too close to the Christmas tree. It was the absolute perfect shit show, a pure hurricane of chaos that breathed nostalgic memories into each crazy year.

  Thirty or forty tiny legs stampeded down the old wooden stairs—typical of every Sunday dinner—and the shrill voices of several mothers ordered the kids to “calm down,” “stop behaving like animals,” “go outside,” and one stern threat to “settle down before someone loses an eye!”

  More crumbs settled like soot into Aunt Col’s coffee. Gran was about as domestic as they came, but dusting wasn’t her forte. In an old house like the big house, she often claimed she left the dust so flowers might grow. In reality, the dusty sills were a result of Gran’s age, a primitive log cabin built for storybooks, and the growing arthritis in her hands.

  The stampede of little ones raced through the kitchen and out the back door sending a gust of cool November air through the house. Deep baritone voices droned from the wrap around porch. As usual, Skylar’s uncles had some sort of “man toy” occupying their attention.

  Thanksgiving was next Thursday, and this year, the uncles were planning to deep fry a turkey in addition to the two the aunts were already roasting. They were a big family made up of McCulloughs, Clooneys, and Mosconis, and that was only her mom’s side.

  Skylar’s dad was a Marcelli, and they had their own crazy traditions, as well. As much as she loved the noise and chaos of both her Irish and Italian relatives, she appreciated that her mom and dad kept their individual families apart on most holidays. Otherwise, it would be culture overload—and they might shatter the sound barrier from the sheer volume of their gossip alone.

  The Marcellis got Easter, and the McCulloughs got Thanksgiving. Christmas was split—her Italian side getting her family for Christmas Eve, when they celebrated the Feast of the Seven Fishes, and her Irish side getting her family on Christmas Day, when each person consumed no less than four thousand calories and sipped Gran’s homemade Irish cream until they were fall down drunk.

  Gran and the aunts always prepared multiple main courses for holidays. Uncle Finn had big plans for this Thanksgiving, plans that involved a vat of oil, blow torches, and one beloved bird named Augustus.

  In the battle of bird versus man, Skylar’s money was on the bird. There was no way her Uncle could eat an animal after he named it—no matter how much of a master hunter he claimed to be.

  When the deep fryer arrived this morning, every male relative became a culinary expert on preparing poultry, arguing which way the bird should be prepared and how long it should cook—as if any of them had ever prepared a full meal in their lives.

  Finn set up the deep fryer on the back porch of the big house to do a “test run.” But everyone knew it was just a way of showing off his new toy. Egos flexed and voices carried like thunder from the porch as they debated over who should get the job of dropping poor Augustus next Thursday. It was a classic clash of McCullough-Clooney-Marcelli know-it-all-syndrome.

  Men were often scarce in their family when it came time for chores like doing the dishes or setting the table, but whip out a power tool like a leaf blower or deep fryer, and they fought to take over.

  “Maureen, your coffee tastes like shite!” Aunt Col grimaced as she chewed on the sooty brew in her cup.

  “How the hell would you know? You likely burned your tastebuds clean off with the amount of whiskey you dumped in your cup,” Gran snapped, always defensive whenever anyone criticized something that came out of her kitchen.

  “It’s bitter and gritty. Tastes like it’s old. I’ll need to floss when I’m done.”

  “The only thing old and bitter in my kitchen, is you. Drink it and shut the hell up.”

  “I’ll make a fresh pot,” Skylar offered, accepting Aunt Col’s mug and dumping its contents down the drain of the old farm sink. Her lashes fluttered as the fumes of alcohol hit her eyes.

  “You shouldn’t be drinkin’ coffee this time
of day, anyway,” Aunt Rosemarie chimed in. “It’s not good for your blood pressure. Didn’t the doctor warn you about having too much caffeine, Colleen?”

  “I’m sure my blood pressure would go down if you got off my arse about it,” Aunt Col grumbled.

  Skylar set the filter full of grounds under the drip and started a fresh pot to brew. Her aunts’ incessant bickering was more of a love language than any sort of irritation. Skylar had grown up around it and hardly noticed anymore. Just as Gran argued with her sisters, her mom quarreled with Aunt Sheilagh and all her other siblings. Big families meant big mouths.

  Drying Aunt Col’s mug with one of her grandmother’s worn tea towels, Skylar drifted closer to the door to get a peek at the huddle of uncles. A wall of broad, flannel clad backs blocked her view of the deep fryer. She chuckled at the lower level of boys, dressed just like their daddies in denim and plaid, standing hip high and trying to shoulder their way into the cluster.

  They huddled around a tall metal pot, discussing cutlery, sipping beer, and arguing which type of oil would fry the turkey best.

  “Peanut oil has the highest flash point,” Uncle Braydon argued, earning a confused scowl from Uncle Kelly.

  “How the hell do you know that?” Uncle Kelly didn’t know much about grilling or other carnivore kinds of cooking on account of his wife being a vegetarian.

  Braydon shrugged. “I heard it somewhere?”

  “Where?”

  Uncle Finn smirked, using his beer can to point at his brother. “Bray’s been watching the cooking network!”

  “So?” Braydon shrugged defensively. “They have good stuff on there.”

  Kelly slung an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “What’s the matter, Bray? Is Becca’s cooking not doing it for you?”

  “I heard that!” Aunt Becca snapped from behind Skylar in the kitchen. “My cooking’s fine, Kelly.”

  Skylar returned to the sink to grab another dish to dry. It was no secret that all the McCullough women, including Kate, Skylar’s mother, strove to reach the domestic rank of her grandmother’s culinary skills.

  The subtle decline of Gran’s kitchen space spoke of age wearing her down more than anything else. To outsiders, Maureen McCullough could give the Energizer Bunny a run for its money. But to those closest to her, the changes in her energy were clear.

  As the eldest granddaughter, Skylar always felt a special connection with Gran. She liked to think Gran felt it, too. It was no chore to spend Sundays together, helping her prep meals for their enormous family, especially since she’d been doing it since the days when she needed a step stool to simply reach the sink.

  “Skylar, be a dear and get the big serving bowl out from the lower cabinet for me. My knees aren’t what they once were. I don’t have time to get stuck on the floor today.”

  “Sure, Gran.”

  When Skylar passed the backdoor again, the men were arguing over how to field dress a deer. They had been drinking since eleven a.m., on account of it being Sunday, a religious day. Her family worshipped four deities—Jesus, football, food, and beer. Missing mass was a mortal sin, only second to missing Gran’s Sunday dinner.

  “Where’s Uncle Colin?” she asked, passing Gran the bowl she requested.

  “Oh, he stayed after church to collect for the food pantry. Thanksgiving’s one of their biggest drives of the year.”

  “I forgot he was doing that.” Skylar had big news she wanted to share and she didn’t want Colin to miss her announcement. “Will he be here for dinner?”

  “He better be.”

  She smirked. Even Uncle Colin, who had nearly become a priest before marrying her Aunt Samantha, and dedicated most of his free time to helping others, didn’t have a pass to miss a Sunday dinner.

  Steam billowed from a collection of pots on the stove and the house smelled divine. With almost everyone present, the heat indoors climbed to sweltering, despite the autumn chill. Aunt Rosemarie, who had been in a perpetual hot flash since last century, opened all the windows in the kitchen to let some air in, along with the shouting male voices outside.

  Some of the rowdier uncles were already getting that crazed, combative look in their eyes that usually led to a wrestling match on the front lawn. Skylar could tell by watching their body language, who was gunning for a battle and who was hoping to escape the day unscathed.

  Staring out the window behind the sink, Skylar scanned the yard where the kids played. Her gaze snagged on her dad, standing alone by the cars, notes spread out over the hood of their family’s SUV, rocks acting as paperweights so they didn’t blow away as he hunched over his scribblings searching for answers he’d been desperate to find.

  “Mom, did anyone tell Daddy it’s Sunday and he’s supposed to have the day off?”

  Her mom joined her at the counter, her stare following Skylar’s. She sighed. “He’s just so worried about his deadline. If they don’t get that grant funding, he’ll be crushed.”

  It wasn’t news to discover her parents had struggles. Skylar suffered no illusions that life got easier as people grew older, mostly because her parents never sheltered her by hiding how hard they both worked. But her dad needed a break.

  The man worked non-stop. Even when he was present, he wasn’t fully with them. His mind was always on work—more now than ever before.

  Setting down the damp tea towel, Skylar grabbed a cookie off a cooling tray and pushed out the back door. She skirted the testosterone fest on the porch and worked her way through the Jenga-jammed cars in the driveway. Vehicles were puzzled together like tight Tetris blocks, and the disorder made her twitch.

  Her dad was too engrossed in his work to hear her approach. “I brought you a cookie,” she announced, a few feet away.

  He looked up, brow pinched, and a look of disorientation in his eyes as if he forgot he was standing in a driveway at a family dinner.

  She set the cookie and napkin on the hood of the car, her eyes sparing only an impersonal glance at the columns of medical coding covering his notes.

  “Thank you, pumpkin.”

  She rested her hip against a headlight and crossed her arms over her chest. “I thought you took off today.”

  He sighed and scooped up the cookie. “I’m just trying to figure out some last minute changes before we push the proposal through.” He took a bite of the cookie and paused, shutting his eyes to truly savor the homemade perfection. “Did Gran make these?”

  “Yup.”

  “You can tell. She sneaks walnuts into them no matter how much Aunt Col bitches that no one likes nuts.”

  No one liked Aunt Col’s cookies.

  The front door slammed and a car started on the other side of the house where she couldn’t see. The vehicles were so jammed together, it could have been anyone borrowing a car to run into town for an errand. In a family this big, no one had any real claim to private property or privacy, so if car keys were left lying about, grand theft auto was practically invited.

  Skylar glanced at the pages of scribbled notes spread across the hood of the car. Her dad gave up working in the lumberyard to follow his dreams of becoming an epidemiologist, but few people in their family truly understood the work he did, so she imagined it got lonely at times. She wished she understood his work more so that they might have more things to talk about.

  He spent nearly a hundred hours a week isolated in his lab, doing research and writing grant proposals with his team. She hardly saw him anymore, and the older she got, the less he seemed able to bond with her. Her heart longed for the simplicity of the days when he used to push her on the tire swing and call her his little pumpkin.

  “Why don’t you come hang out with everyone, Dad? Sometimes walking away from a project for a little bit puts things into perspective. Maybe you’ll see the answers you’re looking for when you come back—refreshed.”

  He grinned and pulled her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her hair. “When you say things like that, you sound too grown up to be my little
girl.”

  “I am a grownup, remember?”

  “Never,” he teased. “To me, you’ll always be four years old, with rosy cheeks and pig tails. My little pumpkin.”

  She patted his arm. “Well, this four-year-old’s going to grab a beer.” She pushed a doting kiss onto the dark stubble of his cheek. “Don’t stay out here too long.”

  “A few more minutes and I’ll be in.”

  She nodded, knowing a few minutes would turn into another hour and then some. He’d stay focused on his work until he lost daylight or was called inside for dinner, whichever came first.

  Things were getting rambunctious around the deep fryer, so she skipped stealing a beer from the cooler on the porch, not wanting to get roped into some pissing contest about whose truck, buck, or gun was bigger and better. Her uncles might all be grown men, but when they got together, they had a habit of regressing to competitive little boys.

  Just as Skylar returned to the kitchen, Aunt Col was refreshing her coffee with the whiskey Gran kept hidden under the sink next to the Windex. “Hit me up, Aunt Col.”

  Colleen nodded, removed another mug, and doused the bottom with three fingers of Tullamore Dew before topping it with coffee.

  “Cheers.” Aunt Col clanked her mug to Skylar’s and returned to the stove.

  Skylar lightened her coffee with a dash of cream, but her eyes still watered at the first potent sip. Someone fell off the porch and she winced at the clatter, followed immediately by a burst of masculine laughter. Such compassionate uncles she had.