Milo's Journey Read online

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  Milo’s Journey

  Finding Home Mystery Series

  Book Three

  Barbara Howard

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Barbara Howard

  All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  First edition December 2020

  For more information:

  www.barbarahowardmedia.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Author Bio

  Dedication

  I AM –

  Grateful for the ancestral seeds of inspiration that awaken at the moment of my arrival to the place of knowing, and whisper a gentle welcome of remembrance.

  “Not all heroes wear capes.” - I dedicate this book to all the healthcare workers, first responders, and civil servants, public and private, known and unknown, who dedicate their lives to safeguarding our way of life. Forgive us for any time that we took for granted your daily sacrifice. We are forever in your debt.

  Acknowledgements

  I WANT TO EXTEND A special thank you to the following individuals. You inspire me to continue this journey of building worlds with words and sharing my story of discovery with others.

  To Cynthia Colston and Jennifer Taylor for your insights and encouragement along the way. It means so much to me.

  To Patricia Lynne, author and illustrator, for being there in the clutch, and always generous and professional with your time and talent.

  And to my sister, Diana Bogan for always making sure that I have warm socks. Great is your reward.

  xoxo,

  Barbara

  Chapter One

  Traci

  “TRACINDA, STOP CRYING and tell me what's wrong,” Randall said and sighed. It was their third video chat in less than an hour.

  Traci wiped her eyes and straightened the curls that were stuck to her cheeks and tried again. "Nothing, just calling to ask how your day is going," she lied.

  “What's happening?” He rubbed his eyes and focused back on the screen. “Tell me what's going on.”

  “He won't latch, Randall. I've tried everything Candace told me to do and nothing's working. He just keeps refusing. I don’t understand. It shouldn't be this hard. Why is it so hard?”

  “It's going to be okay, angel.” he said with his usual calm reassurance that she found very irritating today.

  “No, it's not. It's like he doesn't know that I'm his mother.”

  “He knows, believe me. I watched you give birth and I'm sure he could never forget that experience. I know I can't.” He shook his head and chuckled.

  That was another thing. Why was Randall always so sarcastic these days? He never took her seriously when she explained the problems she was having with the baby. And the times he actually listened to her, it seemed like he just dismissed whatever she said like it was nothing. She shifted the fussy infant to her other arm and lapped another circle around the room while holding the phone with two fingers. She found the pacifier dangling from a ribbon around her neck and deftly inserted it into little Remy’s mouth.

  Although she welcomed the silence, it underscored her heartache once again. She felt like a failure. No matter what she did, it was wrong. She wanted Randall to understand what it was like to watch all the other new mothers serenely breastfeeding their babies and when she tried, her son looked at her like she was a total stranger. A stranger. Every day she tried with him. And every day she felt sore and lonely and disheartened and ... all the things she could not put into words. She wanted to make Randall see her side of things but all she could do was cry.

  “See? Everything’s alright now,” he said, clueless again.

  “But, Randall ...”

  “Put him on the phone.” He took a deep breath, swept his hand across the top of his head and blinked his eyes to refocus.

  She knew that look. He was losing his patience with her, but she didn’t care. “What do you mean? Don't be ridiculous. You’re just making fun of me.”

  “Put him on the phone. Go ahead.”

  Traci lifted Remy’s face to the side and placed the phone in front of him.

  “Remy James, this is your father. Listen up.”

  Traci watched the baby’s eyes brighten and search toward the sound. “He's looking right at you.”

  “Of course he is.” Randall grinned, his dimples popped, matching the cheeks of his son. “Stop giving your mother a hard time. And, do the thing ... what's it?”

  “Latch.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Get to it, boy.”

  “I don't know if that will help but he definitely heard you.” She couldn’t help but laugh. Those two were so cute together and she missed Randall desperately when he wasn’t home.

  A security alert sounded on Traci’s phone. She placed the baby against her chest and swiped the screen with her thumb. The video showed a tall dark-skinned woman with long twisted locs wearing a bright floral tunic bent over and removing her sandals at the front door. Traci swiped the screen back to Randall. “Candace is here, gotta go.”

  She ended the call and rushed to the door, picking up and straightening blankets, cushions and tossing toys into the bin as she went. Remy grew irritated again as she jostled him about and was in a full-throated wail by the time Traci opened the door. When she looked into the kind face of the doula, her eyes welled over and she poured herself into the waiting arms.

  “Ahh, tears flowing,” the woman said softly. Her Jamaican accent was more expressive than usual as a result of her recent visit “back home to breathe the island air” and was music to Traci’s ears. Candace carried the peaceful aura of a confident professional “baby wrangler” as Brad called her.

  “Nothing's working, Candace. Why am I so terrible?”

  “You are not terrible. You're a new mum.” She held Traci by both shoulders and looked into her eyes. “It takes time. Let me have our little Prince Remy and you make us some tea. The one that I brought you on my last visit, do you remember?” She scooped up the infant and cradled him in her arms. “Ahh, yes, such a sassy baby boy you are. Yes, yes, yes.” She stroked his cheeks and drummed her fingers delicately on his stomach.

  “Why does he laugh when other people hold him but when I do it, he cries? Traci whispered, “I don't think he likes me, at all.”

  “Hush, hush that. Make the tea while I measure and weigh him and update my records.”

  “How is he?” Traci asked as she sorted through the tea blends in the kitchen cabinet. She adjusted her clothing and tried to wipe off the rainbow of stains from her sweatshirt, then glanced at the hamper of dirty laundry overflowing in the corner. The newly installed washer and dryer sat untouched. When would she have the time?

  “He's perfect. He is perfect in every way. Don’t you worry n
ow. If there was a problem, I would tell you. And, there is no trouble with this one here.” Candace joined her as the kettle began to gain steam and whistle. She placed Remy in the baby carrier on the kitchen table.

  Another security alert pinged Traci’s phone. This time it was a courier in the familiar neon green and red Dependable Flyers uniform arriving to drop off a packet of documents for her. She greeted the messenger and offered a bottle of water which was received with a grateful smile.

  Traci remembered those days as a Flyer when breaks were limited and the sun scorching down so hot that you thought the bicycle tires would melt into the asphalt. She untied the cord on the packet from Dewey Station, fished through the folders and placed the most urgent items onto the table. She would take the rest upstairs to her small desk in the corner of their bedroom after the doula’s visit. But she wanted to respond to the most important issues immediately. It was a blessing that Mr. Kinsey let her continue to work from home and she didn’t want to slack up and risk losing the privilege.

  A breeze lofted through the window and brought the sweet smell of honeysuckle mixed with the earthy scent of compost. They had installed a small vegetable garden for her in the side yard, but she barely had time to attend to it. She closed her eyes for a moment and her mind escaped to the fields of Bent Willow and beyond. She walked over to the window and looked at the vacant house next door. She didn’t even have a neighbor to visit when she felt lonely. She turned back and joined Candace at the table.

  “I miss working. I mean, I'm still working but I mean ...” She paused searching for a way to express her desires without sounding ungrateful. “I miss being out there where the people are and going around to the different places and ... but I love being here with my son. And, I don't want to miss a moment with him. I just ... sometimes, I really miss it. I wonder if maybe I should’ve ... “

  She shook her head and changed the subject. “Randall doesn't understand what it's like. He's got the business to take care of and meeting all those new clients and ...”

  “You are both making adjustments and it’s not easy.” Candace said and patted her hand. “You know that he would prefer to be here at home with his son and lovely wife. It's not a competition between the two of you.”

  Candace filled the infuser with the loose organic papaya, chamomile, safflower and mango blend of dried blossoms and leaves, placed it in the Hazelton House souvenir teacup and covered it with boiling water from the kettle. She placed the cup before Traci, brushed the stray curls back from her forehead and lifted her chin. “And all of those people you're worried about, do you think they’re missing you much? Huh? They’re too busy worrying about themselves, eh? They'll all be there when it's time for you to go back. Right now, treasure these moments that you have. They go by so very quickly, you know. And, you'll never get them back once they are gone. It’s your time to bond with little Remy.”

  “Yes, I understand. You’re right. I want that time, but ... I’m good at my job. As a mother, I’m not ... I can’t seem to ... I’m really struggling to get things right, Candace. Will it always be like this?” She felt her eyes spilling over again as Brad and Milo sauntered in from the back yard.

  Every time Traci saw Milo, he seemed to have grown another two inches. Sure, she was probably exaggerating and had just seen him a week ago at his high school graduation. But it warmed her heart to see him again. He now matched Brad’s height but still had not lost his baby face. Both were smiling and a surprise visit from them was just what she needed.

  “Hey sis,” Brad interrupted on his way to the fridge to search for a beer but came up empty. “Let Randall know we got the measurements and we'll pick up all the materials. So, he needs to start digging if he plans to get finished this weekend.”

  “Plans? Materials? For what?” Traci asked with a furrowed brow.

  “The firepit,” Brad glanced at Milo who looked away quickly. He faced Traci again and grimaced. “In the backyard. “

  “I didn't know about that.”

  “Sure you did.” Brad tried to wave away her concern, but it agitated her even more.

  “No. Nobody told me about that. I would’ve remembered it.”

  “He probably told you when you were handling your work stuff, or changing the baby, or feeding the baby or ... Maybe he was ...”

  “Afraid,” Milo whispered with a smirk.

  Brad gave Milo a side-eye glance. “Umm, he probably didn't want to bother you about it. No big deal.”

  “I feel like I don't know half of what's happening anymore.” Traci tossed the folders onto the table and raked her fingers through her hair.

  “Do you like the idea, though?” Brad offered.

  “What idea? Building a firepit? Well, yeah, but ...”

  “Well, there ya go. Don't sweat the small stuff. We'll take care of it.” Brad grabbed his hoodie from the rim of the laundry basket. “Let's go Milo, I've got the tools back at my place and a cold beer waiting for me over there, too.” The two men hurried back outside and slammed the screen door behind them.

  “I feel like my life is out of control.” Traci picked up the baby. He started to cry and so did she. She patted Remy’s back softly and placed him against her shoulder. “See?” She looked at Candace and whined. “He doesn't like me at all.”

  “You are letting little things create stress for you.” Candace patted Traci’s back and took the baby from her. “Of course, your son loves you. And, you will learn to calm him, but you must first learn to calm yourself. Have a seat and we’ll practice some techniques ...”

  “Okay, but first I have to call Randall back and let him know how I feel about that pit thing he didn't tell me about.”

  Candace lowered her head and exhaled a long sigh.

  Chapter Two

  Randall

  RANDALL PAUSED AT THE stop sign and checked the GPS for the address of his next client. He nodded to Mr. Churchill who was waving at him from a plastic chair in front of his barbershop.

  “C’mon in, I’ve got a seat for ya!” The older gentleman lifted himself slowly from the chair, straightened his clothes and pulled a small black comb from his coat pocket.

  “Aww, I think it’s too late for that.” Randall rubbed his hand over his smooth scalp and laughed.

  “I’ll trim up that moustache. You looking raggedy.” The barber joked as he beckoned to Randall and stepped inside the shop.

  Randall parked the car at the corner, dropped a quarter in the meter and set the alarm. It would be nice to take a break and shoot the breeze with the man everyone called Uncle Church.

  The shop had been in business as far back as he could remember. They always offered free haircuts for the children at the start of the school year and anyone headed to a job interview. Easy going and always smiling, Mr. Churchill offered the fellas a warm place to land at the end of a long week, a big screen T.V. mounted near the ceiling to catchup on the scores, and the worst coffee in town. Randall accepted a cup and took a stroll along the back wall of the shop examining each piece of baseball memorabilia.

  “What’s the season looking like, Uncle Church?”

  “I think we got a chance for the playoffs. This gonna be our year.”

  “You say that every year, man.”

  “Yeah, well, this is the year, though. Mark my word.” They laughed as they both knew the Ragin’ Reds would never make it out of regular season with their ace pitcher on the disabled list awaiting rotator cup surgery. Randall took a seat and lifted his chin as Uncle Church swirled the cape around his neck and draped it across his chest.

  “Don’t mind me if I fall asleep. I haven’t been getting much of that at home lately,” Randall said as he settled down and got comfortable. How many naps had he taken in this chair?

  “Sure, understandable. How’s the little man?”

  “He’s doing great. Giving his mother a hard time. Stubborn.”

  “Wonder where he gets that from.” Uncle Church grinned.

  “Well,
maybe from me a little bit.” Randall pulled out his phone and showed him a picture of the baby with Traci at his christening.

  “Oh yeah, that’s definitely your boy,” he said squinting at the screen.” You know my oldest girl was a preemie. She outgrew all my other kids but that first year was rough.”

  “It was touch and go with R.J. for a minute, but the doctors say he’s meeting all the benchmarks and there’s nothing to worry about. He fought like a tiger in the NICU. I think the nurses were happy to see him go.”

  He laughed but reliving the memories of baby Remy in the hospital for weeks after his birth on this side of the struggle reminded him that it was more than a relief. It was a miracle. “Naw, they did an outstanding job. I owe them a debt of gratitude, no doubt. But my boy showed ‘em what he’s made of.” He put his phone away. “Like my Pops used to say, Wells men don’t quit.”

  “So, why did you?” Uncle Church raised his eyebrow and tapped the embroidered Wells Security logo on the arm of Randall’s navy polo shirt, then got to work lining up the edge of his moustache.

  The question was like a jolt of electricity hitting Randall’s spine. It wasn’t as if he had never heard it before. As a matter of fact, he had grown accustomed to answering it and had a twenty second response that he recited on cue each time. But this time it was different. This time it was from someone he respected like a father. It was as if he could hear Pops’ voice inside the chest of this man. And it stung.

  The barber gently pushed Randall’s chin to the side, angled the trimmer above his lip and continued the delicate strokes. Randall pulled his face away slowly and looked up at Uncle Church. Eye contact, like a man. No. Like a son.

  “It was time,” Randall said and straightened his back against the seat. “I wanted to build something of my own.” He looked away. “For my future.”

  He recalled how Traci always complained and paced the floor each time the local news headline would pop up about Keeferton Municipal Police actions in the community. “Guns everywhere,” she would say, and she wasn’t wrong.