Coming Home to You

FROM THE AUTHOR

"Coming Home to You is a romance, but it also features family dynamics inspired by my relationship with my sisters. The four of us had bounced around ideas for the plot and subplots when I first considered writing this book. We laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks talking through some of our ideas–they weren’t all winners to be honest, but we sure had fun.

One thing we would talk about in those days when we were all together was how lucky we were to have the bond we shared as sisters. A connection that allowed us to “get” each other’s sense of humor without ever having to explain the joke. That allowed us to predict what one of the others were going to say even before the words came out of their mouth. A bond so strong that we all knew the other’s secrets and still loved one another dearly anyway–maybe even more so because of them.

While I was writing this book my youngest sister passed away. Honoring the joy we’d found creating the story of the Dickenson sisters felt more important to me than ever. This became a true book of my heart. While it is entirely fictional, I wanted to tell a story that included a group of sisters like us. Because that bond is not something that was lost or weakened when the youngest of us passed. It binds us together forever and keeps her in our hearts always."

—Cheri Ritz

Fisher’s Creek High School

1993

Three final exams done and only two to go. It was the last week of high school for the Fisher’s Creek senior class. Nic was almost there. Almost free.

Grabbing the books she would need to study at home, she paused to admire the Polaroid taped to the inside of her locker door. Her best friend smiling and squinting into the sun. She was especially cute in her cheerleading uniform. Her long, lush brown hair—that smelled like lavender—was especially shiny in the early evening light. The picture was taken before the first pep rally of the fall and had hung there in the locker all year, right next to the strip of pictures of the two of them in the photo booth at the Fisher’s Creek Strawberry Festival.

It’s been a hell of a year, but in one week we get that diploma.

Summer had always been Nic’s favorite season, and she was excited to kick this one off. Their last summer before they both went off to college. She didn’t know how she would bear it when they had to go their separate ways at the end of August. No. She quickly pushed that thought out of her mind. They had almost three whole months of nonstop fun ahead of them, and she wasn’t about to waste a moment of it stuck in her sad feelings.

She touched her fingertips to the image, wishing she could apply that gentle caress to that gorgeous jawline in real life. But in their sleepy little hometown, that was not a risk she was willing to take.

Nic had figured out she was gay sometime during her seventh-grade year, but she didn’t tell a soul. That was the same year that a young gay man had been beaten and left for dead just over the county line. She still remembered her mother’s frightened whispers to her father when she thought the kids weren’t listening. Even though she hadn’t come out to her parents, Nic wondered if they somehow just knew, and if her mother’s hushed tone was because she was scared for her. Right out of the gate for Nic it was clear Fisher’s Creek hadn’t exactly embraced the Free To Be… You And Me mindset. She continued wearing the mask of who everyone expected her to be. It was just easier that way.

Even if fear for her personal safety wasn’t holding her back, Nic was much too afraid of losing her best friend altogether if she admitted her true feelings for her. A powerful yearning in her heart was all this would ever be. Yes, leaving Fisher’s Creek would be so freeing for Nic—she could finally be her true self, but it would also be bittersweet because it meant leaving Roxy. The one bright spot in her Fisher’s Creek life.

“Oh my God. Nicola Dickenson is so in love with Roxy Fitzpatrick!”

“She practically just kissed that picture of her!”

Nic slammed her locker shut and spun around just in time to catch a glimpse of the giggling eleventh-grade girls who went scurrying down the hallway. She didn’t realize there was anyone else standing nearby—at least not anyone who was paying her any attention. Classes had ended nearly thirty minutes ago and most of the students had cleared out. Hell, she would’ve been long gone too if she hadn’t stayed to help Mrs. Barnes clean up the classroom after a particularly rowdy game of Grammar Jeopardy in her eighth period Honors English class.

She’d been careless and let her guard down in public. A mistake. Her cheeks flushed with heat as she slung her backpack over her shoulder and put her head down to try to duck out of the school without seeing anyone else. But the second she turned the corner, that plan went up in smoke. She nearly ran a stunned-looking Roxy Fitzpatrick over on her way to the exit. Had she been standing right there the whole time?

“Was what those girls said true? Are you in love with me?”

Apparently, she had.

Nic would never forget that look of shock and confusion on Roxy’s face. It only took a second to burn it into her memory before she pushed past her and ran for the door. She’d left Roxy there alone with her unanswered question.

Nic never looked back.

Chapter One

Nic Dickenson rolled into Fisher’s Creek on Sunday afternoon in her sleek, solid black Tesla Model 3. The car was expensive, and sophisticated, and cool, and…she hated the ostentatious thing.

The Tesla was her wife’s—nope, her ex-wife’s—car. It was one of maybe three things Nic had actually gotten in the divorce thanks to an airtight prenup. A consolation prize. But screw that. Whatever. Dana had moved on, and Nic was doing that too. She smiled to herself thinking how pissed off Dana would be if she saw the amount of dust and dirt that had kicked up on the car while traveling on the old country roads en route to Fisher’s Creek, Pennsylvania. This last stretch was particularly rough. The road had been paved, although how long ago that paving occurred was questionable. Years of Pennsylvania winter weather, topped with a hearty helping of neglect had left the surface warped and covered in fissures. Chunks of road were dislodged or altogether gone. Patches of dirt had been washed across the asphalt by heavy rains, filling in where pavement once belonged. It didn’t make for the smoothest ride, nor the cleanest. Dana was always so damn obsessed about the car being clean. Whatever. Moving on. Nic had other things to worry about.

The actual reason she was returning to the town she grew up in, for one. She’d missed Great-Aunt Aggie’s funeral two months earlier, which Nic didn’t think was a big deal since she barely knew the old lady. But it turned out she’d been left something in Aunt Aggie’s will. Something Nic’s mother insisted she had to come back to Fisher’s Creek to retrieve. It was probably just her mother’s way of guilting her into coming back for a visit, but curiosity on top of a longing to see her sisters convinced her to make the trip. Thank God her sister Maggie had offered Nic the empty guesthouse on the back of her property for her three-night stay. She could visit with family but still retreat to her own space when she needed respite. If she was going to return to Fisher’s Creek, this was the way to do it. Get in, get out. Three days and she would be good to go. Back to New York, where she belonged.

Back in New York writing her book, God willing. Was she the author of a New York Times best-selling novel that had been chosen for Reese’s Book Club and acclaimed by reviewers and readers across the country? Yes. Would she be able to replicate that success with her sophomore release? Possibly not, since the first two-chapter deadline she’d already extended twice since she’d signed the contract for the book was rapidly approaching and she was totally stuck. No story. No chapters. She’d totally forgotten how to string words together. She hadn’t had a dry spell like this one in over thirty years. The last was back in high school when she’d been asked to write a “What Senior Year Meant To Me” article to be published in the yearbook. She’d agreed to the assignment figuring it would be a breeze, before her breezy high school life had lost all the wind in its sails because…well, whatever. The thing was, her publisher was expecting chapters, and since she’d already spent a sizable amount of her advance on divorce lawyers and sorting out her personal life, she had to produce something—and fast.

Maybe the change of scenery from New York City to her hometown in the middle of nowhere would help jar something out of her brain.

Lost in her deep thoughts, Nic didn’t see the pit in the road until it was too late, and the front right tire of the Tesla made a heart-dropping pop, quickly followed by a gut-clenching grind and rattle as the vehicle lurched from left to right following the impact. Nic struggled to get the jerking car under control then eased over to the side of the road to assess the damage. At least she would be out of the way of passing traffic. Right. Okay, there was no passing traffic. She was stranded on a lonely old country road. The nearly three-mile stretch of road that shot off Route 15 was the only vein into Fisher’s Creek. It was lined on both sides with full-bodied greenery that smelled to Nic like summer camp. In the winter, through the bare trees, there was nothing but woods to the left and the right as far as the eye could see. All snow and sticks. Just as lonely, only colder. In either season, help wasn’t likely to stumble upon her. Of all the dumb, fucking luck.

She climbed out of the car and slowly circled it to get a full assessment. The front tire on the passenger side was definitely flat. Beyond that, it was hard for her amateur eye to determine what else was wrong much less put a name to it. One thing was sure: She would need assistance—the Tesla didn’t have a spare, so the tire would have to be addressed by a professional. Luckily, it was a mild May in this part of Pennsylvania. Cloudy but dry, and not too hot to stand outside and wait. She sighed and pulled her phone out of her back pocket to make the call.

Less than thirty minutes later, Peter “Peewee” Palone stood with his hands balled on his hips, squinting at the dusty Tesla while he chewed on a toothpick. The toothpick thing always made Nic nervous. Wasn’t that a choking hazard? What if the pointy end jabbed you in the gums? Peewee wasn’t concerned. “Yeah, I’m gonna have to tow it in and take a good look underneath. Might’ve bashed up the undercarriage good, you know? Gotta be real careful driving cars like this on back roads like these. Luxury vehicles can be real delicate.”

He pronounced it like dell-ee-cut. And was bashed up a technical mechanic term? She knew the car was ridiculous. He didn’t need to rub it in.

She and Peewee had graduated from Fisher’s Creek High the same year. He played offensive guard for the Fisher’s Creek Smiling Crawfish back then, and while he still had the same hulking size that had earned him his ironic nickname, his shape had shifted some in the thirty-ish years since then, now a little less buff shoulders and a lot more beer belly. Same thick neck, though. His dirty tan Fisher’s Creek Garage uniform had a patch on the shirt with his name on it and the red cap he wore backward pressed a ridge into the meaty flesh above his sweaty brow.

“Thanks, Peewee. I appreciate the heads-up on that.”

Nic blew out a sigh. It wasn’t Peewee’s fault she drove a stupid, dell-ee-cut car, and he’d been nothing but friendly since he pulled up in his rusty old tow truck. She could at least dial back the sarcasm.

God, it wouldn’t be long before the constant reminders to keep her attitude in check would be flowing freely from her mother’s lips: Small towns don’t work the same as your big city life in New York. You’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Momilies. They would be starting up in exactly two and a half hours, when Nic stepped into her parents’ house for the Dickenson family’s traditional Sunday supper: Welcome Home, Nic Edition.

“Nic?” Peewee waved a meaty hand in front of her face like he was trying to wake her from a trance. He’d said something to her. She’d missed it.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

“Do you mean, yeah, you’ll call someone, or yeah, you need a lift?” He scratched at the back of his beefy neck.

She could call Maggie to pick her up, but that would mean her sister would have to leave work at the family practice where she was a nurse practitioner to drive all the way out to the edge of town. She’d texted earlier and informed Nic she’d been called into the office on an emergency. Calling her other sisters, Bella and Janie, would disrupt their weekend routines with their husbands and kids. And calling her parents to come rescue her? Absolutely not. It was too soon into reentry to face them. Plus, that would lead to extra hours at their house without her siblings. She wasn’t quite ready for that. “I’ll take that lift. You can just drop me at Zachroll’s.”

Zachroll’s Watering Hole was a little dive bar near the edge of town, just far enough out not to be a nuisance to the main drag, but not so distant that you couldn’t take a long, drunken stumble back home if necessary. The Dickenson sisters had spent plenty of nights over college breaks wasting time, shooting pool, and singing karaoke in that bar. Some of those times they’d needed to sneak an underage Janie in with them, but Zachroll’s wasn’t the kind of place that paid much attention. It was dark and smoky, and possibly the only place in Fisher’s Creek where people kept their head down and minded their own business. If you kicked up too much of a ruckus, Old Man Zachroll would throw you out on your ass, no questions asked. Other than that, if you didn’t give him a reason to look up from the newspaper as he sat on his barstool perch in the corner, he didn’t. Old Man Zachroll. Hell, Nic hadn’t thought about him in years. He’d seemed ancient as dirt back then, he had to be pushing one hundred by now. Was Zachroll’s Watering Hole even still there?

“Zachroll’s it is,” Peewee grunted as he hooked the Tesla up to the chains of the tow. “Anything you want to get out of the car before I lift it?”

Although the Tesla had one of the more well-sized trunks among vehicles of its caliber, it still wasn’t what she would call expansive. Somehow she’d still managed to squeeze in two suitcases, a duffel bag of linens, and two boxes filled mostly with books she intended to pass along to her sisters before the car was stuffed to the gills.

“Me and Maggie will swing by the garage later to get it.”

The ride to the bar passed quickly with the two old school chums catching up. Peewee ended up marrying his high school sweetheart, Cathy Christopher, and they had two sons who were both now in college. Peewee boasted about the little boutique in town that Cathy owned, which tracked with what Nic remembered about her. Cathy was always into fashion and the latest trends, even back in school. Although, Nic always pictured her ending up in New York City, or LA, or somewhere much more fabulous than their hometown. That was what Fisher’s Creek did to people—it held them tightly in its clutches. Some people just never escaped.

That wasn’t Nic, though. This visit home was exactly that. A visit. She would check in with her parents, pick up her inheritance, spend a little time with her sisters, and recharge. Three days and she would blow that popsicle stand and head right back to New York. It was a solid plan.

Peewee slowly pulled the truck into the gravel parking lot of Zachroll’s and slipped the gear shift into park, letting the engine idle while Nic gathered her purse and the zip hoodie she’d brought along in case the weather turned.

“You sure I can’t drop you at your folks’, Nic?” He squinted past her out the passenger side window at the nearly empty lot. Only two cars sat parked, one dirty as the other was rusty, and other than a flickering neon Open sign in the front window, the place looked abandoned.

Nic didn’t care. Desperate times and all that. “I’ll be fine. I’m just going to sit a moment and call my sister. She’ll come get me. Thanks again, and tell Cathy I said hello.”

She hopped out of the truck and gave Peewee one last wave before he pulled away. She gave the bar a once-over as she headed toward the entrance. Not much about the exterior of the place had changed in the seven years since she’d been back in town for a quick Christmas weekend, but the door had been painted a fresh coat of turquoise to match the lettering on the Zachroll’s sign, which appeared to have been touched up as well. There was a four-foot-tall wooden bear carved from a tree trunk that she didn’t recall, but other than that, it was almost like time there had been standing still. Par for the course in Fisher’s Creek.

She pushed through the heavy door that still stuck against the jamb like she remembered, whether from a warped frame or the general coating of beer slop on everything in a dive bar she did not know, and blinked hard as her eyes adjusted from trading sunlight for the dim bar lighting. High-backed vinyl booths lined one wall—that was new—and the old, tattered beer ad posters on the walls had been replaced with actual framed prints of vintage advertisements and photographs of the town. Even the floor was new, although still sticky to the step, but improvements had been made for sure.

Old man Zachroll was no longer seated at the front corner, but the two locals in the joint hunched over the bar nursing whiskeys, eating complimentary peanuts from a bowl, and staring at the baseball game on the one television might have been sitting in those seats the last time Nic stopped in. Just two nondescript old white guys in well-worn jeans, flannel shirts, and trucker’s caps.

“Be right with you,” the woman behind bar taking inventory called over her shoulder.

Nic hummed along to the Hendrix song playing as she settled herself on a barstool and assessed the brunette bartender. She was a couple inches taller than Nic, which put her at five seven or eight, but it was hard to tell for sure with her hair all piled up in a poofy bun on top of her head. Plus, the way she stretched and reached as she checked the bottles of liquor kept her in constant motion. That same motion emphasized the cut of muscles in her long, shapely legs extending from the frayed edge of her denim cutoffs with the bar towel hanging out of the back pocket. Even from behind, Nic could tell this woman had curves in all the right places. She was an improvement to Zachroll’s as well.

A warm flush rushed Nic’s chest and she felt her lips slide up into a pleasant grin, ready to charm the barkeep. Old habit. Easy, Nic. This is Fisher’s Creek, not New York City. There’s likely one lesbian in town, and you’re it.

The woman finally turned to take her order, and Nic immediately realized she needn’t have admonished herself at all. There’d be no pickup lines spit today. Staring back at her from behind the bar, looking just as surprised as Nic felt, was the very reason she’d gotten the hell out of Fisher’s Creek in the first place all those years ago.

Fiona S.
Coming Home to You is a beautiful return-to-hometown, second chance story full of family love, long held family secrets, and a solid dose of family craziness. ...If you’re looking for a relatively low-angst romance, full of community connection and a good dash of humour, Coming Home to You is a great place to start.