The Return Read online

  Yawning large, his adult self literally ached for a rejuvenating shot of hot, black coffee. That would come later, during a full-on, hearty breakfast prepared by Mom following services. As far as Phillip was concerned, that piece of joyful anticipation was more than worth the early rise, so he stowed the resentful attitude, showered and dressed.

  Before long, he was riding shotgun next to Ben in the old family pickup. He loved hanging with Ben because his youngest sibling embodied the best elements of the strong, silent type. Ben didn’t look for, or enjoy, unnecessary chatter. An easy silence fell between them, and felt good. In looks, they were nearly identical, with Ben just an inch or so shorter, but they both bore every bit of their father’s features.

  That’s where the similarities ended, though. Phillip couldn’t create, or rescue anything mechanical if his life depended on it. Ben, on the other hand, was a mechanical genius.

  “I assume Mom and Pop are ushering today?”

  “Yeah, it’s their week. They left about fifteen minutes ahead of us to get things set up at church, you know, coffee and bulletins and the like.”

  One of those steadying, Ben-esque silences fell between them. “So, how’re the irrigation repairs coming?”

  Ben drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and sighed, eyes going flinty. “Not good. Been studying the manual, and looked up some stuff online, but it’s tricky. Hate to spend the money on a professional repair, but we might end up having to go that route. After church and breakfast, I’ll camp out in the warehouse and see what I can do.”

  “My money’s on you, wiz kid.” They exchanged smirks. “Working on anything cool in the wood shop these days?”

  Ben’s grin spread fast and real, his generally laidback demeanor took on a definite uptick. “I am. A tractor and trailer combo for the autumn craft sale coming up. Almost finished, and almost hate to give it up.”

  “Yeah. Might have kids of your own to hand them down to someday soon.”

  Ben hooted. “Not likely. I’ve got plenty of time for that.”

  Ben was always the calm one, deceptively intelligent in that he wasn’t so much schooled in the art of book learning; rather, he possessed a keenness of intellect no professor, no college on earth, could ever teach. It always seemed to Phillip that Ben was connected to some form of mysterious, unseen wavelength of knowledge. Ben could revamp wiring systems on tractors, trouble shoot sorting machine jams, and even repair complex irrigation systems. He could fix anything mechanical, but he most enjoyed creating items out of wood, and steel. While dusty miles passed on their way to church, Phillip wondered why he hadn’t he given his brother more credit for those attributes.

  Silence fell once more, and that was OK. Phillip embraced the peace and quiet as he watched homes and fields blur by his passenger window. Attendance at Sunday services had been sporadic since leaving home. In Indy, he went to church every once in a while, but not with the kind of dedication and sense of community that tied knots of connection around the townspeople of Antioch.

  Antioch Christian Church seemed to rise from a rolling swell of farm land. Red bricks, a soaring spire, a massive structure, spoke of a centuries-old acknowledgement and appreciation for God’s hand in the land and lives of its parishioners. Low-lying, leafy soybean plants, tall, wavering stalks of corn, and strawberry fields carpeted a terrain that shimmered beneath a gentle, though humid breeze.

  Phillip shook his head. If only that humidity would transform itself into some cloud cover and a weather-breaking downpour. Followed by Ben, he tracked toward the stairs leading to the church entry, already figuring Aaron was either inside or on his way. Ben had informed Phillip last night that Aaron had laid claim to a small two-story place on a couple acres just a mile or so from the farm.

  As soon as he crossed the arched entrance, with its wooden double doors thrown open to the summer morning, Phillip heard the choir performing its opening meditation song. Following worshipers down the main aisle, Phillip took a seat and settled in. A reluctant admiration and welcomed timelessness blossomed for the way attending church and praising God was as deeply ingrained into this town as the roots of its crops.

  Mom and Pop had already secured the family’s regular station, a pew four rows from the front, left of the altar. Mom paused and nudged Phillip, then Ben, into place. That put Phillip right next to Aaron who was already seated. Aaron flexed his shoulders and jaw and then straightened the lines of his suit coat. Never once did he look Phillip’s way. Instead, he stared at the altar.

  “G’morning.” Undaunted, Phillip keyed in on his brother, deliberately calling him out, intent, and waiting on a response.

  “Morning.”

  What a reluctant flat-liner. Phillip ground his teeth and decided to give up on communication for the time being. Rather, he bowed his head, following Pop’s lead by sinking into prayer while the melody of Great is Thy Faithfulness wrapped him in a soft quilt of familiarity.

  God, he began in silent earnest, I don’t want my relationship with Aaron to be like this. Help. Please help.

  The prayer was simple, but it came from the heart. Phillip knew God wasn’t in the retribution or payback business, still, something at the core of him niggled, causing him to wonder how or why his prayers would even be heard.

  In that regard, Aaron had made valid points the other day. Phillip had spent an awful lot of time turning his back on things like faith, and tradition, and family. After such a nose-thumb, why should God care about him now? Why?

  Because my love for you is the love of a father. I love you, Phillip.

  His head jerked up on a startled reflex bringing his gaze into direct alignment with a brass cross that showed the patina of age, yet still shone in rays of diffused light. The words of the Spirit came at him in a rush, like wind sailing through stale, closed-off compartments of his heart.

  Reverend Taylor, a fixture at Antioch Christian nearing his sixties, stepped to the pulpit and began worship, precluding further inner debate and mystical interactions on Phillip’s part.

  “I’d like to begin our time together today with a reading from the first book of John, chapters four and five. Here, we read: Beloved, we love God because he first loved us. If anyone says, ‘I love God,’ but hates his brother, he’s a liar; for whoever does not love a brother, whom he has seen, cannot love God whom he has not seen. This is the commandment we have from Him: Whoever loves God must also love his brother.”

  For the second time in less than mere minutes, Phillip sat, frozen and convicted.

  Reverend Taylor continued. “Upon close study, I believe John had a lot to say about family relationships, and that bond of love. The beauty of it. The delicacy of it. Like a bookend to that reading, we have today’s Gospel selection. It’s one of my favorites—the sermon on the Prodigal. Listen carefully, absorb the familiar with a new perspective, with a fresh spirit, won’t you?” He paused to take a sip of water and flip a ribbon in his Bible; Mom and Pop followed along in their own Bibles.

  Phillip could hardly breathe as the errant son made his return, as the good son lamented, and as the father welcomed and loved them both in equal measure. Without condition.

  Phillip could literally taste those words. Without condition. No strings were attached to Pop’s acceptance of his return, despite the way Phillip had shunned an entire way of life that had been his family’s livelihood and legacy for over a century.

  Reverend Taylor continued his sermon. “We must love the fallen, the lost, those who stumble, but rise, and return. We must love our brothers and sisters. And by that I don’t mean you should probably love, or think about loving. No. There are no qualifiers here. Nothing held back. Love must be given, and received, with appreciation, with grace, with mercy, and joy. In the week to come, let’s embrace that mission and take the gift of love into the world around us, no matter what the devil throws our way. Amen?”

  A chorus of ‘Amen’ rose from the congregation.

  Meanwhile, Phillip’s focus darte
d to Aaron. Aaron caught the gesture and their gazes tagged, held, and then melted away from one another in a unison dip of the head.

  ~*~

  Coffee.

  Phillip rejoiced, inhaling the fragrance of a fresh-brewed pot resting on a trivet at the center of the dining table. He crossed to an empty seat, taking in the spread of food. When he spotted a heaping bowl of scrambled eggs, his stomach rumbled. The aroma of simmering bacon had filled the kitchen for the past quarter hour; the finished product now welcomed him to the sanctuary of a classic Fisher family Sunday breakfast.

  Seated at the linen-covered table, he hefted the meat platter positioned right next to a silver toast rack that had been handed down to his mom from his Grandma Bibler. Hash browns and a carafe of orange juice beading with condensation completed the offering to perfection. Contentment swelled through Phillip’s chest while he filled his plate. Right here, right now, it definitely felt good to be home.

  Returning his attention to the conversation at hand, he devoured half a slice of bacon then focused on Ben. “When I walked the fields, I noticed the dry condition of the soil around here.” Phillip tossed out the observation. “During the drive this morning, I saw the land at the Tenner’s place looks pretty decent. Soil was dark and damp.”

  “The Tenners have state of the art irrigation.” Ben shoveled food, intent on his meal. “Our system blew a couple weeks ago. Like we talked about on the way to church, I’ve been working on it the best I can. Hope to have it up and running in a couple of days. Meanwhile, we’re praying for rain in a big way.”

  “We do need the moisture.” Pop buttered a slice of toast. “Ground is drying by the minute. Even when we get it fixed, the irrigation system on its own won’t cut it for very long without some help from God.”

  And there it was—less than a handful of days into his return—the never-ending battle between earth, man, and God that had haunted Phillip since his youth. He stemmed a groan. How could folks live like this? Work so hard? For…for what exactly? He pushed those thoughts aside and straightened in his chair. “How can I help?”

  Pop stopped eating long enough to spare Phillip a look full of interest, and hope. “Well. We could use you at harvest time, if you plan to stick. Could use some help managing the business end as well—paying the field workers, recording the expenses, negotiating crop sales and such.” He shrugged. “I need help re-finding center after the heart attack. I need to figure out where we’re losing, and where we’re gaining. Height of the season is about to hit. We’re gonna get real busy real fast.”

  “I’d be glad to manage the business side for you.”

  A derisive snort came from Phillip’s right. Aaron, of course. Phillip speared his brother with a glower then caught his mother’s firm, arched-brow look, an unspoken reprimand to both her sons, which banked the embers of Phillip’s temper in a hurry. No one disrespected Anna Fisher’s meal table. Ever.

  Even Aaron had the good grace to backpedal and shoot Mom a sheepish look. Clearing his throat as if to cover a cough, he muttered a hasty, “Excuse me.”

  “I ran into Mila Thomas when I went into town the other day.” Phillip hoped the topic shift would smooth matters further. “She tells me Hailey Beth is running the market now. I’m surprised Mr. Thomas would surrender control to anyone—even HB. Is he still acting as a produce broker? Heaven knows, he loves wrangling with the local farmers.”

  “Be fair.” Pop cut in. “Byron Thomas and his family are only trying to make a living, just like the rest of us. Byron’s easing back his hold on the store, but to answer your question, he remains a tough, trusted produce broker.”

  “He’s the one who needs to be fair, Pop. Byron Thomas arm wrestles us over every crop sale we’ve ever produced.” Phillip itched to continue that stinging indictment, but bit down the tirade when a look of censure crossed his dad’s features.

  “Enough.”

  Cowed, Phillip backed off; Aaron sneered. Ben, meanwhile, shook his head at the two of them and continued to wolf down scrambled eggs.

  And so, to the table at large, Phillip decided to conclude—and clarify—matters as best he could. “I intend to be here for you guys. I intend to help fix things, or I wouldn’t be sitting here. Let me know what to do. If that means a meeting with Byron Thomas to kick off harvest plans and negotiations, then so be it, and count me in.”

  Ben guffawed. “That’d be an interesting get-together.”

  “How so?”

  Ben shrugged. “He’s already been making noise around town that sale prices for produce are going to be lower than usual. We had that rainy conclusion to winter, and start to spring. The seed corn maggots went to town after that—right up ’til the coin flipped, and drought set in. Now we’re being forced to deal with the opposite end of the spectrum—dry land and underdeveloped crops. He figures his argument is reasonable, considering this year’s crops may not be the best.”

  “Weather could still turn enough to make a difference. I’ll do some research and pull together yield projections and some strategy for dealing with the weather patterns.” Phillip addressed Pop. “If you don’t mind me working the numbers, I’ll also get you an overview of expenses and income versus outlay and a budget for what needs to be improved.”

  Ben stopped chewing and focused. “T’be honest, I wouldn’t mind turning the business reins over to Phillip. I’m thinkin’ he can analyze matters a lot better than Aaron and I could.”

  Phillip didn’t miss the way Aaron bristled at the verdict, so he decided to step forward in assurance. “It’s not about better or worse or anything in between. It’s about something of value I can provide.” He caught his middle brother’s eye and held his gaze solid. “Maybe I can turn all that book work of mine into something useful around here.”

  Silence beat by before Aaron dipped his head in acknowledgement and surrendered—albeit with reluctance. “Have at it. We all want the same thing. Right?”

  The words signaled acceptance, sure, but came wrapped in the layers of a challenging bite.

  4

  A rare sense of contentment rode through Phillip’s psyche as he strolled next to Mila. In unison, they ambled along a sidewalk that framed the nearly empty streets of downtown Antioch.

  He had noticed her during services today. Hard to not notice a woman so striking. He noticed the floral print dress that skimmed her knees and floated softly around shapely calves, and feet with red-tipped nails tucked into a pair of those strappy-style sandals women couldn’t seem to get enough of in the summertime. And it was hard to not notice the way short sleeves had accentuated tan, supple arms and a neck he already knew would hint at the scents of hyacinth and rose. Then there was that impossible-not-to-notice wavy fall of hair that skimmed against her shoulders…and the reaches of his imagination.

  So, following breakfast, Phillip had secured her cell phone number through Ben, who received it via a text message from Hailey Beth. Going for broke, Phillip had reached out to Mila, simply hoping to do what they were doing right now—walk quietly, wrapped in the peace-inducing cadence of a small-town Sunday afternoon. Most shop fronts were shuttered, although a few folks meandered past.

  The vibe was so different from the frantic hustle and forward charge of the life he left behind in Indianapolis. So appealing.

  She glanced his way. “You dashed off after church today.”

  “Sorry about that. Ben wanted to get back to the fields and whatever technical magic he can work on our watering system.”

  “Um-hum.”

  Two syllables, drawn out and voiced low. So, she wasn’t convinced. Not surprising since the one element that remained consistent, even after his being away so long, was Mila’s ability to read him. The resulting connection still knocked him off center, and far from his comfort zone. Seemed he wouldn’t be able to slide easily past the truths of his life—but that was OK—right? Wasn’t that what had drawn him back home…back to her…in the first place?

  Phillip cleared his thr
oat, and his mind. “Also, breakfast called.” Awkwardness blooming, he further excused his hasty exit as the sun beat warm on his back. “And I refuse to miss a Sunday breakfast prepared by Anna Fisher.”

  He joked the matter aside, unwilling to express the ways his mad dash had been a bit of a cop out, a temporary diversion from the battle that mounted when he saw her, admired her, and tried to figure out what to do with that realization. The dining table discussion of their two families had eradicated second-thinking and led him to this warm, sun-drenched moment.

  “I can’t blame you there.” She hesitated a beat or two, their footsteps synchronized in a way that somehow tugged at him. “Aaron seemed a little stiff-necked today.”

  “Oh, Mila, you don’t play around, do you?”

  Her answer was a quiet chuckle then a prodding silence, and the lift of a perfectly shaped brow pulled his attention to dark, sparkling eyes.

  “And not much gets past you,” he said. “Yeah, Aaron and I were pretty much convicted during services.”

  “Maybe God is just tapping you guys on the shoulders. Keep reaching out.” Her gentle advice came to him coated by the balm of an understanding he craved and appreciated.

  Mila took hold of his hand, lacing her fingers through his. It was a friendly, caring gesture. Nevertheless, the glide of her skin against his pulled at Phillip’s gut and sent a mighty zing through his senses.

  “Chances are you’ll have to prove yourself. I know that isn’t necessarily right, but it’s part of the process of winning back trust.”

  “I get that, Mila, but come on. I’m honestly exhausted by the struggle. See also: completely over it.”

  There came no ready reply, but for the sympathy and care that lived in the depths of her eyes.

  Phillip pulled in a deep breath, forcing himself to steadiness. “Hey, I have an idea.”