A Place on the Porch

By Erin Pickett

Her world shattered in an instant. Can a heartbroken widow pick up the pieces and rebuild a hopeful future?

Elliott Norton is struggling to escape her grief after the deaths of her husband and son. Determined to move forward with her daughter, she relocates with the hope of leaving the past behind. When a rundown house calls to her, she’s unprepared for the waiting torrent of emotional turmoil.

Befriending a neighbor who offers to help her remodel, Elliott bonds with the hunky man over their shared tragic losses. But her fresh start comes to a crashing halt when she discovers a devastating town secret.

Will she risk renewed heartache for the sweet joy of watching a sunset together?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erin Pickett
• Release date: Jun 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005852412

Erin Pickett

Erin grew up in a small town in Indiana and dreamed of getting away after high school, but instead she went to work in a factory and later became a waitress at a local restaurant while earning an Associate’s degree in Office Administration from Indiana Business College. The thrill of exploring new places was once filled by reading until she discovered her passion for writing.Erin is married and has three children, three bonus children, and three bonus grandchildren. She has put her days as a waitress behind her and now helps her husband with his appliance business.Her debut novel, Tombstone Secrets, is due for publication March 2021.

Book preview

The door to my Acura swings open over the evil crack that has terrorized my childhood driveway since I was six. My brother, Cale, had warned me it could ‘break my mother’s back’ and even though I know now how absurd it is, I fully believed the gap in our pavement held a source of evil power until I was…well, I’m not actually sure I ever truly stopped believing that. Funny how childhood things can stay with you. The first time I stepped on it was because Cale had pushed me and I landed on it. Six months later, I broke my arm. The crack brewed silently for almost a decade before I accidentally slipped onto it one winter in the ice. A few weeks after that, we found out my mom had pancreatic cancer and there was nothing anyone could do to convince me the two things were not related. I was even more careful after that and the next time I stepped on it was in high school. My boyfriend, Doug, was kissing me goodnight in the driveway and my dad flipped on the porch light. Doug backed me against his car to avoid the beam and I soon realized my toe was barely over the tiny evil gap still left from Dad’s repair job. Four months later, I found out I was pregnant. Even though my dad had tried to keep the crack sealed, the evil was just too strong. Or so I am convinced.

My daughter, Charlotte, doesn’t hold the same convictions about the crack. Her foot slides right over it as she darts toward her grandfather who’s still holding his coffee cup in the weathered front porch chair. He carefully places the mug—the one Mom bought him on their honeymoon—on the small table between his chair and the empty one he reserves for his bride. Charlotte scrambles onto his lap as if her nine-year-old body is half its size.

I stretch my leg out, way over the evil line, wondering how I was so careless on today of all days. I should’ve moved the car. The last thing I need today is the bad luck that comes with stepping on this crack. Two birds fly over my head, bickering at one another. The one who is in trouble circles around and comes at the other—and I happen to be directly in their path. I leap sideways as their flight rises. They bicker in the small front yard on the other side of my car. I watch them chase each other to the ground. That’s when my body goes rigid. The hem of my jeans touches the edge of the crack. I had forgotten about the curve that winds out of the main section. As a general rule all cracks are fine unless they connect in any way to the evil one. I wasn’t sure how much evil seeped into the hairline cracks until three years ago when my hands had been full and I hadn’t seen the newest one sprouting. Maybe the little ones are more powerful than the big one. Elliott, you’re being straight up crazy. All you have to do is make it out of this driveway one more time, then you won’t have to worry about it again.

I tiptoe across the drive, worrying about my dad. It’s normal for him to sit on the porch and talk to my mom while he drinks his coffee, but it’s nearly ten o’clock and he’s never out here this late unless something is on his mind. I ignore the cracks on the concrete steps and take them two at a time. Convinced I’m the reason he needs extra time with Mom, I take a seat on the cement railing of the porch. I know better than to sit in Mom’s chair. Nobody ever sits there. It’s been an unspoken rule since her death. The chair is reserved for her.

Dad waits patiently while the birds take their fight slowly across the street. I still don’t understand this, Ellie.

I cross my arms, preparing to go over my reasons again. Dad, I’ve told you, I’m not like you. I can’t stay in the same place with all the reminders.

You can’t outrun a memory.

I stare into a faded stain on the concrete where Mom had dropped a gallon of blue paint many years before. A path wore through the middle over the years, but I still think of her when I pass through it. I can’t be surrounded by them day in and day out.

He motions toward the chair nobody dares sit in. I’m comforted when I look around and see what your mother saw.

I force a smile. I know, Dad. You haven’t changed a thing in twenty years.

It makes me feel close to her.

I lean over and take his hand. "It reminds me of what I lost. I can’t do it anymore. I keep seeing that empty chair at the table and it kills me. I almost burned it."

It gets better. You have to give it time.

I laugh. Time? Dad, it’s been three years. How much time does it take?

It’s different for everyone.

I trace the outline of paint splatter with my toe, wishing I’d worn sandals instead of shoes. It’s warming up faster than the weatherman predicted. Well, for someone who spent almost a year afraid to leave her house, I’d say I’m progressing slowly.

You’re doing the best you can.

I gently squeeze his hand and release it. Charlotte deserves better. And part of that involves moving away. I have to get clear out of this area—to some place he’s never been.

That won’t make his memory go away.

Charlotte spots a butterfly on the railing and jumps up to catch it. It flutters onto the grass, enticing the girl to follow.

I just don’t understand how you can stay here. Why not move back to the country?

An old truck backfires at the stop sign half a block away. He chuckles and turns his attention to me after the vehicle rolls through the intersection. I’m content to take a drive on a back road every now and then. Home is where Mom is, and this is where I feel her. He shrugs. I see her everywhere I go. I guess I’m afraid if I leave, she will stay behind.

My heart breaks for my father. He’s torn between two loves and sacrifices one to hold on to the other—even if it is only a memory.

A rusty truck with a missing headlight putters up the driveway. Dad’s housekeeper, Bea, keeps that old beater for the same reason Dad keeps the house—it belonged to her late husband. Her arms barely reach around the large pot she struggles to get out of the passenger seat. I rush to help her before Dad can leave his seat, but I’m careful to let her get past the crack first. The last thing I want is to be tricked into some catastrophe because I couldn’t see the ground.

It’s a Peace Lily, she tells me.

The leaves tickle my neck as we walk. It’s lovely, I say, though I despise house plants.

Dad stands as Bea takes the railing to aid her up the steps. The twinkle in his eyes and thin smile gives me a glimmer of hope as he opens the door for us. Bea’s husband had been a customer of Dad’s and somehow, she’d ended up cleaning our house every week after Mom died. When her husband passed ten years ago, though, she’d decided she needed to stay busy so she started showing up with meals every few days. Sometimes she’d pop over in the morning and other times it would be late in the evening, but she always seemed to know Dad spent the first and last part of his day with Mom. I only hope one day I will find the same peace.

Chapter 1

The glow of my daughter’s tablet reflects into my rearview as I flip my blinker to merge into the right lane. A road sign announces seven miles to the next town. You should’ve read the name. This could be the town. Right, because the last four you claimed would be the town and here we are, driving way after dark. You know Dad always says it’s best to be in before sundown when travelling. Yeah, and Cale teases him about being scared of the boogeyman. Wispy clouds slip over the moon until a large one swallows the light completely. My mirrors reveal an inky blackness so thick I’m sure I could bottle it if I wanted to chance rolling down the window. I’m not scared, I silently mumble to my brother. Then why are you checking your mirrors? He seems to taunt. The only headlights on the opposite stretch of road promptly take an exit, leaving me vulnerable to—to what, Elliott? It’s not 1950. You have a cell phone for crying out loud. The boogeyman isn’t going to jump out of those woods and stop your car. There’s your exit—a town named Darien. Take the stupid exit and stop letting your brother torment you.

A rich floral perfume, the vile one my mother-in-law always bathes in, soaks deep into my nasal cavities.

Charlotte sprays the small sedan like the testers at the malls do in old movies. Grandma packed me a surprise!

Unable to talk amidst an uncontrollable urge to sneeze, I blindly swat for the bottle or the hand connected to it. A plague of sneezes consumes me, and my vision blurs with tears in seconds. We skid onto the rumble strips and I maintain our position on the road based on vibration alone. Charlotte slinks into her seat. The wheels slip on and off the strips, creating an awful racket, while I blindly search the passenger seat for a napkin. Through narrow slits filled with water, I spy a fast-food bag on the floorboard. With my left hand on the wheel, I lean over and slip my hand inside. My finger grazes the pickle Charlotte didn’t want, slides through slimy ketchup or mustard, and I finally recognize the rough surface of a wadded napkin. A tickle races through my nose and explodes out of my mouth. My left arm jerks with the forcefulness of the sneeze, sending us across the safety of the vibrating strips. I slam my foot onto the brake, skidding us around. A thin layer of goo smears my eyelids as I run the napkin from one temple to the other. We spin a full circle and come to a stop when the bumper folds into a large tree. The jolt slams us against the seats. You were right, Dad.

I unbuckle and extend myself into the backseat. Are you okay?

Charlotte’s lip quivers. I’m sorry, Mom.

I kill the ignition and slip into the seat next to her. Wrapping my arms around her shaking body, I stare in horror at the small body of water illuminated by the headlights for the lingering ten seconds it takes them to shut off. If it hadn’t been for the large tree in our path, we would’ve plunged into it. You could’ve killed her! She could’ve drowned. Would she have known what to do if we started sinking? What if she couldn’t get the window down? Or the seatbelt unbuckled? What if she forgot how to swim? Are there alligators in there?! Pay more attention! Charlotte squeezes my hand until the diamond on my wedding ring cuts into the side of my pinky.

She uses the dim light from her device to find a napkin and hands it to me. You smell like mustard.

A high-pitched laugh echoes into the dark sedan until it is joined by the sweet laughter of an innocent girl. That was just like Kevin Harvick last week at The Glen, except he hit the wall and not a tree. I dab at the globs matted between hairs and swat at Charlotte’s outstretched saliva-moistened finger.

I relish the hit that took the 4 car out of the race. And we were probably driving faster. Waving her away, I climb over her and out the back door. With the flashlight of my phone poised, I head to the front to inspect the damage. The thought of turning the Toyota’s lights on briefly crosses my mind, but I quickly dismiss it. The hit was taken on the passenger side and the front bumper presses into the wheel well. There’s no driving it out without cutting the tire. I circle the tree and take a seat on the hood next to the large bubble the impact caused. Putting my phone away, I turn my gaze upward. The sticky air causes beads of sweat to prick at my neck even at this late hour. The darkness is so thick it’s suffocating. I let it grab me, let the tears I’ve been holding break free.

God, I’ve been angry at you lately and I know I turned my back, but we’re going to have to come to some sort of agreement. I need your help, I begin, letting my sobs come freely. "I couldn’t stay there. You have to understand that. It was too painful. I know we have work to do on my heart and I promise I’ll do my part from now on. Can you help me out a little? I need a sign. I’m desperate for one."

I slap a mosquito on my arm. The sound is almost deafening against the quiet of the ditch we’re in. The occasional semi traveling on the interstate is the only noise, as if the crickets and frogs in the pond are too scared of the dark to make their music. "I shouldn’t have been driving this late. My dad taught me better and I should’ve listened. I’m too far away to be this alone. Please help."

As I finish my prayer, I remember the Triple A card my dad insisted I sign up for before we left Indiana. I scramble to my purse. My eyes squint into the fresh brightness of the dome light. After pinpointing our location, I punch the numbers on the keypad and wait while it rings. I jump and twist around when a car door slams behind us. Charlotte dives into the front seat. High beams blind us from the rear as a tall figure makes his way toward our vehicle. This is how scary movies start, I remind myself, reaching into the glove compartment for my pistol. Old coupons and dozens of road maps I’ve collected spill out as I scramble for the handle. I tuck the weapon under my thigh as a thundering boom raps against the window. I lower the window only an inch.

’Evening, miss. I saw your lights as I came off the ramp. Thought I’d check to make sure everyone is okay. He wrinkles his nose at the smell wafting from the vehicle.

We’re fine. I position my hand on Charlotte’s thigh and keep my eyes glued to his. Had a little mishap with some perfume.

His tanned forehead presses against the glass as he peers over me to check Charlotte’s condition. That explains why it smells like my grandma in there. He waves his hand across his nose.

Turns out, if you snort it, you’ll drive like a grandma right off the road.

He laughs. My grandma could smoke a cigarette, cake on that colored eye crap women like, and hold a beer—all while driving with her knee. I don’t know about yours. Fingers stained with black scratch at a beard I assume he’s been growing since church on Sunday.

I smile at the stranger. Mine could barely walk and chew gum.

He returns my amusement with a tired smile. Have you called for help?

Yeah— I search my lap for the phone, finding it between the seat and console. —But I guess they hung up.

Since you’re a long way from home, I could make the call to get an officer out here to fill out the report. My finger flies to the button to roll the window up. Did I lock the doors? I slide my finger to the door button, hovering over it, wondering if he’ll hear me engage the lock. My heart slams into my ribcage. Your license plate says you’re from Indiana…unless you’ve stolen this car. Either way, we’ll need an officer out here.

It’s my car.

Would you like me to get my buddy out here? My face freezes in sheer terror. I fumble for the keys in the ignition while keeping my eyes glued to him. He’s a police officer.

I scratch the newest bug bite on my arm. That would be great.

He pulls out his phone and heads to the front of the car to inspect the damage. Carefully watching him, I make my call for a tow truck as he completely circles my vehicle.

He stands with his arms crossed at my window. There’s a problem. I tug at the short ends of my hair, pulling a lock to my chin. You’re an Elliott fan, he says, pointing to the back bumper where a sticker reveals the number for my favorite NASCAR driver.

A sigh of relief blows the hair on my shoulder. But you still have to help because you have Southern hospitality, right?

Well crap. You know about that, he says with a sly smirk. I guess I’m committed then.

I bite the corner of my lip. Wouldn’t want to tarnish your reputation.

He removes the ball cap he’s wearing, runs a hand through his hair, and replaces it. There should be an officer here soon, but I’ll wait in my truck until he gets here.

That isn’t necessary. Thank you for making the call, though.

The rules of Southern hospitality clearly state that, in this situation, I must wait until help arrives.

A flutter tickles my stomach as I smile up at him. I didn’t realize there were rules.

Yes, ma’am. He dips his chin. I’ll just be in my truck then.

Thank you.

Charlotte whimpers in the seat next to me. I just wanted to smell like Grandma.

I know. This never would’ve happened if I hadn’t dragged you down here. Maybe we should go back home.

I liked it better when Daddy was there, she whispers.

Me too. I kiss her forehead. Me too.

Besides, I like our little adventure. She nuzzles into my shoulder. But I’m ready to settle down any time you are.

I guess it’s time to get serious about that, isn’t it?

I flip the dome light off so she can’t see the sadness overtake me. This wild goose chase to find a new place has been more like the vacation that wouldn’t end than a search for home. My dad had told me before we pulled out of the drive that home wasn’t where you lived, but who you lived with. I feel more foolish than ever for leaving what family we have left. They all said they understood, but it felt more like something they had to say than words they actually meant. And now we’ve spent months searching and have nothing to show for it. But that’s still easier than facing my fears of creating a home that doesn’t involve Trent.

I’m tired of wearing the same clothes. She pulls her tank top away from her body. I’ve worn this like sixty-seven times.

Exaggerate much? I think of our belongings in a Pod waiting for a delivery destination. I’m tired of living out of a suitcase, too, but can’t seem to decide where to settle.

Look, Mom. Uh oh, her serious voice. We’ve been to the mountains, the beach, racetracks, and all those towns with funny names. Just pick one already.

I don’t care where we live. I just want you to be happy.

I’ll be happier in my own bed.

I tousle her thick, unruly mane. We’ll know when we’ve found the right place. God will tell us.

I thought you were mad at Him. She acts like she’s afraid to say the words.

Guilt seeps into the deepest parts of me. We should’ve kept going to church, but it was just so hard to constantly be reminded that I needed to ‘lean on God in my time of need,’ count the many blessings I still had and, most of all, learn to forgive. It was those sermons that drove me away more than anything, but it’s time to get past that now. We’re making peace.

Does that mean I can be friends with Him again too? A bowling ball sized lump replaces my stomach. How could I have done this to her?

I pull her chin up so her eyes meet mine. I never meant for you to stop being friends with Him. Now, you listen to me, and listen carefully. Don’t you ever let anyone—and that includes me—let you think you should turn away from God. It was foolish for me to do it and I don’t want you to make the same mistake.

She motions for me to come closer so she can whisper in my ear. I’ve been praying for you, Mommy.

Fresh tears fall as we slip into a silence that’s oddly comforting in the still night.

Twenty minutes later, help arrives. I slip away from Charlotte, who drifted into an uneasy sleep, and step into the prickly grass. The long blades tickle my feet as I use the dancing red, blue, and yellow lights from the police car and tow truck to guide my way. The stranger talks to the officer at his vehicle. I approach, thank the Samaritan, and turn my attention to the officer.

Good evening. The officer’s uniform is crisp, but his five o’clock shadow says he’s had a long day. What happened?

I recant the story and wait for a lecture that doesn’t come.

Indiana, he says, inspecting my license plate. What are you doing in Georgia?

I’m not sure we have time for that story, I say, immediately regretting it. That’s not something you say to an officer. ‘Sparrow,’ his name tag offers, so I try to make up for my misplaced words. I’m sorry, Officer Sparrow, it’s been a long day—long couple months, years, actually. It was just time for a change in scenery is all. My daughter and I are looking to relocate.

He scratches his head and grins. This ditch is not the place for that.

I point. Beats that pond.

Very true. We keep alligators in our ponds down here.

I was afraid of that.

He shines his light into the back seat and quickly switches it off upon finding Charlotte curled up on the passenger side. Do you have family here?

No.

Do you have a place to stay in Darien or were you planning on driving the rest of the night?

We’re heading to Savannah. I wanted to stop and get gas before we made the last leg of the trip.

He takes three long strides around the front of the car and announces, You’re not going to make it there tonight. He yawns, the dancing lights revealing how tired he is. Ray will get your car hooked up and I can take you and your daughter to town after I get some information.

I haven’t made a reservation anywhere. I guess I should’ve been doing that while I was waiting. I bite the stub of a fingernail.

He pulls out his phone. No worries. I can have you a room in a minute.

I pull my own phone out to check the time. It’s nearly eleven. He holds up his finger and slips toward his car while I give my information to Ray, an overweight man with a cigarette dangling from his lips. His shirt is visibly stained, even in the dim lighting. The smell of body odor and smoke circle the air as he scribbles my name on his clipboard.

Done, Officer Sparrow announces. He glares at Ray when he flips his cigarette into the grass. Take it to Nick’s. I’ll see that she has directions to the shop.

I, uh, thank you, I fumble. Who’s Nick?

The guy you want to fix your vehicle. Ray nods, running a thick finger underneath his nose. Of course, he could always get it in driving condition, and you can find some crook in Savannah to charge you double.

Nick will be fine.

He pulls out a notepad and heads to my car. Let me get your information and we’ll be on our way.

Scrambling for my purse under Charlotte’s limp body, I pass him my ID and wait for the usual comment. Instead of the normal remark about having a ‘boy’s name,’ he smiles and returns it.

He puts his pad away and rubs his hands together. Do you have suitcases you’d like me to grab?

I glide past him and open the trunk. These two will be enough. I point to the larger suitcases buried beneath a cluster of disorganized bags.

He opens the door for me to place a sleeping Charlotte in the backseat. Where is Zionsville?

I wait for him to load the luggage in the trunk before answering, Indianapolis.

Ah. You’ve been to the 500 then?

Indy 500? Nah. I laugh. NASCAR fan.

I know. I was just making sure you weren’t one of those that went both ways. You’re either open wheel or you’re stock car. Not both.

I relax and smile as he makes a right turn at the end of the exit. I couldn’t agree more.

So, you’re an Elliott fan? A female voice erupts from the walkie talkie on his shoulder. He speaks into it and turns to me. I saw your bumper sticker.

And my ID, I reply with a chuckle. My dad is a die-hard Bill Elliott fan.

Awesome Bill from Dawsonville. He smiles and nods in approval. I guess you’re lucky he didn’t like Earnhardt.

I draw my hand over my heart in mock terror. Oh no. Dale Earnhardt was the enemy my entire childhood. In fact, I’m still holding a grudge from the 80’s over one of Dale’s infamous moves.

He laughs a little too loud and glances in the backseat to find Charlotte undisturbed. I can relate. He flips his turn signal on and makes a turn past the gas station I was headed for. You must be excited to see Chase on the track then.

I love watching Bill’s son just as much as I loved watching Bill when I was growing up.

When I was a kid I used to go outside and try to hear the Si-reen when Bill won.

I laugh. You actually thought you could hear a tornado siren from Dawsonville? That’s like an hour north of Atlanta. Did you fail geography? Or science?

Laugh all you want, but if you try hard enough, you can faintly hear it…if you’re an eight-year-old boy. He chuckles. Did you see Chase’s first win?

The mention of Chase Elliott’s first win brings a pain of sadness with the happiness I felt the day it happened. I nod. "My dad and I always watched the races together. If it weren’t for my stupid ‘find a new home’ thing,