Nina dared to come a few steps closer, trying to peek at the papers. She was surprised by how high the stack was. “What’s it about?”
He leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Well, just a story about my life. The hard stuff I’ve been through and opening the restaurant and everything in between. I just think that maybe it could help other people, you know? Inspire them. There’s some advice in there, too. Some ideas I have about how to live. How to succeed and be a good man. The kind of stuff your father and I are always talking about, you know?”
Nina nodded. And she felt the blood rushing up her own neck, so she said the words before she could talk herself out of them. “I’m pretty good with commas, you know.”
He tipped his head back to look at her, a grin spreading slowly over his face, and her knees turned to jelly.
“Are you offering to help me, Nina May?”
She blushed even harder when he used her middle name and felt her own face fall. He’d always called her that when she was little—he was making fun of her. Too embarrassed to say anything else, she turned to walk out of the Watering Hole.
And then he followed her and grabbed her hand, and she stopped short.
“Hey,” he said, voice and eyes softening. Her hand was entirely swallowed by his, big and warm.
“I would actually really appreciate your help. Your dad keeps telling me how well you do in school. Said you won the English award the last four years in a row. He let me read one of your essays—the one about Flannery O’Connor.” He laughed. “I wouldn’t tell him at the time, but I had to look up three of the words you used when I got home.”
He’d hurt her feelings, but he turned the tide with a few words, and warmth pulsed through Nina’s blood. She smiled so wide, it made her self-conscious, and she looked down at her shoes to hide how pleased the comment made her.
“I’m—well, I’m not ready to tell anybody about it just yet,” he went on. “And I figure—” He stole a glance at her face through his long, gold eyelashes. “I think I can trust you with a secret.”
He paused, and she stared back at him with her lips parted.
“Please don’t tell your dad. It’s been real nice of him to take such an interest in my path, but I don’t think being a pastor is for me. It doesn’t feel quite right, you know? I feel like I can be more useful this way.” He nodded at the stack of papers.
“I won’t tell,” Nina said.
He squeezed her hand before he let it go.
“I won’t be able to pay you much right now,” he said. “All the money is going back into the restaurant while we’re getting it off the ground.”
She was about to say he didn’t need to pay her when he snapped his fingers. “I could teach you to play piano. You told me you’ve always wanted to learn.”
She had to rack her memory for a moment—she’d said that once as an excuse for standing so close to him onstage at Sunday services while he played the closing hymn and she sang, sometimes getting so mesmerized by the deft movement of his long fingers over the keys that she forgot the words.
“I would like that,” she said.
“It’ll be a nice skill to pair with that voice of yours. And I’ll scare Jameson off whenever you want me to,” he added.
Nina tucked the heavy stack of papers under her arm, next to her sketchbook. “You know, I can be scary all by myself.”
Ellis laughed. “I hate to be the one to tell you, Nina, but that pretty little face of yours isn’t going to scare anyone.”
Nina jumped when the bell over the door chimed behind her. Jill Bowman’s auburn curls were tied back into a bun, and there were two toddlers—one on each of her hips—trying to grab it.
Even with the extra weight and the sticky hands waving in her eyes, she managed to lean down and nibble her husband’s shoulder.
“We might actually make a profit this year if you start getting the ingredients in the food instead of on your apron,” she said, nodding at the stains all over him that Nina hadn’t noticed.
She gave Nina a kiss on the forehead, too, and little Neily squeezed Nina’s cheek with his chubby, sticky hand while he and his sister giggled.
“What have you got there?” Jill asked, nodding at Ellis’s manuscript tucked under her arm.
Nina glanced at Ellis. He gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head, and she realized that he hadn’t told his wife about the book yet either.
“Just some extra sketch paper,” she said.
Because Ellis was right—she could keep a secret.
Chapter 12
THERE’S A KNOCK ON my door at seven o’clock the next morning.
I got up at first light to search the woods and came up empty. No blood or footprints. No sign that Mom had ever been there at all. So I climbed back in through the window and tried to get more sleep, but I’d been lying awake for almost an hour, staring at the ceiling.
Neil lets himself into the room, fully dressed and smiling. Bright and fresh as a sunflower. I sit up and automatically smile back—as I’m quickly learning, he’s got that effect on people.
“Morning. I just wanted to make sure Melody thought to give you something you could wear to church. I was going to ask her, but—well—” He lowers his voice to a whisper, like he’s afraid of waking a sleeping beast. “She’s not very nice in the mornings.”
“And she’s sweet as honey the rest of the day?” I whisper back hopefully.
He laughs that warm, room-filling laugh. “Absolutely not.”
I look him up and down. He’s already dressed in black pants and a white button-up shirt, tucked in. He’s even got a tie.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I mean—sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have assumed you’d be going. And you don’t have to dress up if you don’t want to. It’s just that my family always does. I thought you might want to fit in, you know?”
He looks down, tapping the toe of his sock against the carpet. And all at once, I have the urge to say whatever will make him happy. It’s got to have something to do with that sheepish look. I’ll have to start paying attention to that so I can learn to use it myself.
I’m about to tell Neil in the nicest way I can that I’m never going to feel like I fit in inside a church when I remember what I’m here for. Blowing my cover in the woods threw me off, but getting the chance to spend time with Ellis’s family has to be better than gleaning secondhand information about him from people in town. I should take advantage of every opportunity.
And if I find information that’s good enough, maybe Mom will forgive me for almost ruining everything.
“I’ll go,” I say.
Neil’s whole face splits into a ridiculous grin.
“When do we leave?” I ask.
“I’m going in early to help with some things. But everyone else is leaving in a couple of hours, so you can ride with them.”
I nod. Then I look down at my lap and back up through my eyelashes, somber as I can muster, and I say, “My grandmother emailed me a few months ago with some old family recipes, and I want to make sure I haven’t lost them. Would you mind if I borrowed your computer?”
I’m eager to do a little research. Maybe figure out what accident Melody was alluding to last night.
He winces. “Mine’s broken right now. Spilled coffee all over the keyboard last week. Dad’s using his at the moment, and Mom usually takes hers to the restaurant with her. But”—he raises his eyebrows, like he’s daring me—“you could always ask Mel.”
I chew on my lip for a second, weighing the risks and rewards. I decide, “I’d rather not.”
“Good call,” Neil says.
“I could use a library computer, if you’ve got a card I could borrow.”
He shakes his head again. “Library is closed on Sundays.”
Dammit. I hope the disappointment doesn’t show on my face when I smile and say, “No worries. It can wait.”
The problem is, it can’t. I can’t. I need to find something to report
to Mom. Something good enough that maybe she won’t hate me for my royal screwup last night.
-
I’m wearing one of Melody’s dresses when I climb out the guest room window. The skirt probably hits her just above her knees, but it comes about halfway up my thighs. Maybe I’ll drop a quarter in church so I can give the people of Jasper Hollow something to talk about for a few weeks.
The only shoes I have are the heavy, black boots I came in, but I’m sure as hell not about to ask Melody for a pair of flats. The boots are better for trekking down Clara Mountain anyway.
The church service starts in a couple of hours, but I’m not just going to cool my heels until then. I’ve got a job to do. Besides, if I think about it too long, being in Ellis’s house makes me feel like I’ve got my hand in the open jaws of a wolf—at his mercy.
It takes me about an hour to make it back to the roundabout on foot, which Jill told me last night the locals call the Circle. There are already plenty of people out—opening up shops and walking their dogs around Harriet’s Oak before the heat gets to be unbearable.
And then there’s Ellis and Jill’s restaurant, the Watering Hole, with the silhouette of a golden elephant glittering in the early sunlight above the tall glass doors. The breakfast rush has already started, and Jill is right in the thick of it, a tray balanced on her palm, her skirt dancing around her ankles, her auburn hair tied back.
She comes outside to serve the tables on the patio, and I duck through the closest door before she can see me.
The bell jangles overhead. I see the long counter with the display window, which shows off neat rows of those sweet delectables I will probably see in my dreams for the rest of my life. I’m in Sugar House Bakery again, where I met Neil yesterday.
Tim, the owner, stands behind the counter and smiles through his gray, neatly trimmed beard, his plaid shirt buttoned up to his neck and a pale-blue apron tied around him.
I know from reading Ellis’s book that before he and Jill opened the Watering Hole, they both worked for Tim. Talking to his old boss seems like a good place to start piecing together his story—his real story. Not the one he tells about himself.
I approach the counter, pretending to mull over the selection. But as much as I want one of everything, I don’t actually have any money.
I see Tim give me the once-over. I took a long shower last night, and I’ve got Melody’s pretty dress on, but I know I still don’t stand up to close inspection with my DIY haircut and ragged boots and crooked teeth. His smile wavers.
“Good to see you again,” I say, to remind him of how nice he was to me in front of Neil yesterday and that I’m expecting that same treatment this time.
He nods. “What can I get for you?”
“Hmm,” I say. “Still thinking.”
I keep perusing. He doesn’t volunteer any more conversation.
I look back up at him with surprise, like I just remembered to mention, “The Bowmans are such a nice family!”
He nods, the suspicious lines in his face smoothing just a little. “You don’t need to tell me. Known Ellis and Jill since they were tots, and the twins, too.”
“They offered to let me stay with them. Just out of the kindness of their hearts. You just don’t see that kind of thing anymore.”
I can see him becoming more animated, little by little. “Exactly. That’s what sets them apart. Old-fashioned manners and hospitality have gone to hell, but that doesn’t stop them.”
“Right,” I say, nodding, smiling. Then I lower my voice, glancing around before I say, “I was a little embarrassed to admit that I’d never heard of Ellis or his books before.”
I get a conspiratorial wink from Tim. “I’m sure he didn’t mind. He doesn’t do it for the fame, you know. But he’s already well-known in a lot of circles, anyhow. He’s well on his way to becoming a household name. Right on the cusp of things.”
“And yet he’s still so kind.” I shake my head in wonder. “Even . . . well, even after everything that happened.” I press my lips together. “He told me about the accident.”
It’s a risk, alluding to it when I have absolutely no idea what happened. But I’m hoping that Tim’s reaction might give me an indication of what Melody was talking about last night.
His grin fades instantly when I mention it, the sudden frown on his face made even more somber by his heavy mustache. “Yes. It devastated him. The whole family. The whole town. And what’s worse is how the damn papers tried to run with it and turn it into something that it wasn’t.”
My mouth falls open. “No. Really?”
He leans in closer. “Tried to make it sound like he was being careless.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say, mirroring what’s plainly written on Tim’s face.
“My thoughts exactly! It’s complete horseshit. It was dark and rainy out, and I’ve been saying for years that the Circle doesn’t have enough streetlights. The boy shouldn’t have been out so late. Ellis did everything he could to save him, but the kid was dead on impact.”
The shock on my face is real this time. It feels like all the blood has drained from my body in a rush.
The kid was dead on impact.
“Did—” I swallow. “Did the papers say outright that Ellis did something wrong?”
“Not outright, no. I just didn’t like their tone. They don’t know, because they weren’t there. But I was. I was cleaning up shop after we closed. I was busy sweeping, so I didn’t see the impact, but I heard it. Right out there.” He pointed over her shoulder, toward the Circle. “I ran out to see what had happened, and . . . I’ll just say it wasn’t pretty. I’ve never seen a man so upset. Ellis sold the car not long after. Couldn’t stand the sight of it.”
“Understandable,” I say. Then I look back down at the display case, pretending to peruse again as I process the information.
Ellis hit and killed someone with his car. A child.
Before I can press Tim for more, the bell over the door jingles and a group of women bustle in. They’re all holding copies of Ellis’s books. They immediately go to a corner with a bulletin board that I’m just noticing. I wander closer to see what they came to see.
The bulletin board is covered with photos of Ellis and his family. Ellis eating a cookie at the counter when he was little, his legs dangling from a stool. Standing behind the counter with a pale-blue apron tied on and a Cincinnati Reds cap pushing back his curls. Him and Neil jamming massive chocolate cupcakes into their mouths. Him and his wife and son, grinning while they crush Melody in a group hug, candles on a birthday cake lighting up her resolutely unamused face.
Below the bulletin board, there’s a little round table with no chairs. A shiny, golden plaque declares, The original manuscript of Ellis’s first book, At Our Table. And in the middle of the table, enclosed in an actual, honest-to-God glass case, is a stack of papers.
The women fawn over the pictures and take turns snapping photos of themselves with the manuscript. All I can do is watch, mesmerized.
Tim comes up beside me, crossing his arms over his chest and smiling with satisfaction. “Ellis gave it to me as a gift. He said Sugar House was such a big part of recovering from his parents’ deaths that he owed something to me. I put it on display a few years ago, and he told me no one would be interested in seeing it. But he’s always been too humble.”
The women chatter like birds back and forth. “Oh, he’s such a family man. I’ve always loved how he’s such a family man.”
“He just seems so genuine, you know?”
“Do you think we’ll get to see him while we’re here?”
“I hear he still hangs out at the restaurant sometimes. Just sits and does his writing there like a regular old person.”
“He’s so down-to-earth! I love how he hasn’t let it all go to his head.”
“We’ll check the restaurant next. But I want dessert first.”
They all crowd around the counter to pick out what they want. Before Tim g
oes to take their orders, he leans toward me to whisper, “His books have convinced hundreds of people to come see Jasper Hollow. He makes it sound like a little slice of heaven. And it is, now that he’s brought the money back to it. He saved this place. And just like I told the reporters—anyone who wants to talk badly about him or his family isn’t welcome here.”
When he leaves me alone, I drift out of the bakery in a stunned daze.
It can’t be true, that Ellis saved this place. The tourism business just picked up. All these people wouldn’t have come just because Ellis Bowman lives here. I know he talks about Jasper Hollow a lot in his books—about it being the perfect place for slowing down and reflecting, finding community, and raising a family. But there’s no way he’s fooled people thoroughly enough to make them come to this little pocket of nowhere.
But then I remember the way I felt when I looked at the cover of At Our Table for the first time, before I even opened it. How bright and happy his house and his family looked. How badly I wanted to climb through it like a window just to be where they were, to feel that warmth. And I’m sure I wasn’t the only one.
And then I look up and realize just how thoroughly everyone in this town has been fooled. Because the sign reads Bowman Avenue. I’m standing on a street named after him.
Chapter 13
WHEN I PUSH THROUGH the trees and into the clearing on Pearl Mountain, I blink against the flood of sunlight, and the cabin and the pond come into focus. But the van isn’t here.
Which is nothing to panic about. Absolutely nothing to panic about.
Everything looks the same as when I left yesterday. A strong breeze whistles through the holes in the cabin roof and kicks up ashes from last night’s fire. No sign of a struggle, so she wasn’t attacked by anything. Or anyone.
I keep telling myself that for a while, sitting calmly by the water, going back over what Tim told me.
After a half hour, I start pacing.
She probably just went to find food. Or maybe she’s doing her own work for the plan somehow—some part of it she didn’t tell me about. She’ll be back soon.
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