When they drew apart, Darcy asked, “Is there any news?” During their last phone call at four a.m., Latrice had mentioned the granola wrapper found in the Varanos’ hayloft. Why Emerson was hanging around Nella’s barn Darcy couldn’t imagine. Obviously, he didn’t know his grandmother loathed her next-door neighbor. The reason for Rosalind’s deep and abiding hatred of Nella was a mystery not even Latrice could unravel. And not for lack of trying.
“We haven’t heard anything else. The granola wrapper is a good sign, though. If Emerson made it through one night, he can make it through two.”
“How did my mother take the news?”
“I’d call her reaction mixed. She was glad they’d found something of Emerson’s. The news that it was found in Nella’s barn made her livid. The way she was stomping around the house, I thought she’d call the police back to demand they arrest Nella. Heaven above. That would’ve been something—slapping your neighbor in jail for feeding granola to your grandson.”
A niggling sensation warned there was more to the story. “You’re implying Emerson stopped by, and Nella gave him a snack?”
“Anything’s possible.”
It was a crazy theory. Nella wouldn’t risk outright war.
“Emerson probably heard the police searching the woods and wanted to avoid them,” she decided. “That doesn’t mean Nella fed him snacks while he was on the run.”
“Maybe.” Latrice shrugged. She seemed about to add something else. Instead, she swiveled her meaty shoulders toward the passenger-side window. She watched the sunlight creeping down the driveway.
The niggling sensation increased, leaving Darcy at a loss. No question about it—Latrice was leaving something out. A fact, or an unsavory detail to illuminate why Emerson was snacking on granola in Nella’s barn. Something she felt Darcy wouldn’t take well.
Why doesn’t Latrice simply explain? There’s no obvious reason why she couldn’t.
Given Darcy’s unfamiliarity with her nephew’s behavior, she felt clueless.
What if this latest disappearance represents the tip of the iceberg? Just another example of a boy’s delinquent behavior?
A remote possibility, all things considered. As the grandson of a well-respected judge, Emerson surely had received countless lessons on ethical behavior. Darcy recalled her own childhood, when Rosalind droned on about the rule of law or mind-numbing topics like the Magna Carta. As a jurist, her devotion to ethics and rules was absolute.
“Question.” She waited as Latrice turned from the window. “About my nephew.”
“What?”
“I hate to ask, but . . . does Emerson get into trouble? Does he steal things, anything like that?”
“Now hold on. You’re jumping to conclusions. Your nephew didn’t steal granola from Nella’s house.”
“Forget the granola,” Darcy snapped. “I’m trying to understand his motivation for hiding out for two days straight. He took off because of the anniversary, right? If marking the date when we lost Elizabeth and my father upset him too much, maybe he did something bad. Broke one of my mother’s precious figurines, or lifted cash from her wallet. Kids act out when they can’t process more volatile emotions. Might explain why he’s laying low.”
“Good job, Darcy. You’ve come up with the dumbest theory in all creation.”
“I’m merely speculating.”
“Listen up. Your nephew has goodness bred to the bone. It’s one of the reasons he gets bullied at the hoity-toity school Rosalind makes him attend.”
“Why do the other kids pick on him?”
“Lots of reasons.”
“Name one.”
“Last month, right before he finished third grade, he caught one of his classmates working from a cheat sheet during the math test.”
“Emerson called another kid out during a test?”
“He told the boy cheating wasn’t a good strategy for a successful academic career.” Pity crossed Latrice’s face. “Recess was rough that day.”
The story troubled Darcy. “Those were his exact words? ‘A good strategy for a successful academic career’?”
“You’re surprised?” Latrice cocked her chin. “You aren’t the only one who worries about coming up with good strategies. Your nephew does too.”
A compliment lay hidden in the remark, one Darcy refused to accept. “Actually, it sounds like something my mother would say.”
“She’s raising him, isn’t she?”
“Is she raising him, or molding him in her diabolical image?” Darcy shuddered. “There’s something weird about a boy imitating an elderly judge. Especially a judge who’s wound too tight. No wonder Emerson hasn’t won the popularity contest at school.”
Latrice rubbed her belly. “I knew there was a reason my tummy’s bothering me this morning. I’d forgotten how you like to spout off about your mother. This is turning into an interesting day.”
Darcy glanced at the house. “Is she awake?”
“She’s been pacing in her bedroom all night.”
“She hasn’t slept at all?”
“Not that I could tell. In between chatting with Samson, I did catch a few hours of sleep—thanks for asking. Your mother won’t rest until the police bring Emerson home.”
Pity took a swipe at Darcy. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“There is something. Strap on your big-girl attitude and drive up to the house.”
An obvious solution, yet Darcy hesitated. In the back seat, a soft snoring commenced. She envied Samson’s ability to sleep through a treacherous dawn she’d much rather skip.
“How am I supposed to waltz into the house after eight years? What’s my opening line?”
“Stop fretting. You’ll come up with something.”
“Yeah. Right.” Snatching up the bottled water, she fiddled with the cap. When it refused to come loose in her nervous fingers, she plunked the bottle down.
Putting the Honda into reverse was out of the question. After coming this far, she wasn’t driving away. Dealing with her mother promised to be difficult, but there was Emerson to consider. Once he turned up, she at least wanted to meet him. No matter how the rest of the events played out, she’d assure her nephew that, going forward, she would become an active presence in his life.
“Okay, fine. I’m going up to the house.” A tangy kick of adrenaline tensed her muscles. She felt like a sprinter in the starting blocks, unsure if cheers or catcalls would follow her down the track. “Name your poison, Latrice. Do you want to stay in the car or flee?”
The passenger door creaked open. Apprehension tripped through the housekeeper’s David Bowie eyes. “I’ll give you a few minutes alone with Rosalind before I walk back to the house.”
“Jeez, Latrice. I thought you had some courage.”
“Not today.” She trotted to the edge of the driveway. Then she flapped her arms. “Go on, now. There’s coffee brewing in the kitchen. It’s sure to lure your mother downstairs. Stay on your best behavior. Everything will work out fine.”
Having issued the dubious advice, the housekeeper planted her feet. She looked absurd, standing there in her grubby boots with the breeze flapping her sexy robe.
With a salute, Darcy hit the accelerator and sped off.
Brushing the sleep from her eyes, Nella left her bedroom. Whispered conversation floated down the hallway from her mother’s suite. Which made no sense.
Tippi didn’t entertain guests at dawn’s first light.
Outside the suite, Nella hesitated. She pressed her ear to the door. Inside, a heavy silence fell.
Drawing back, she stifled the urge to knock. Footfalls padded near the door, a soft pacing that went on for a good ten seconds. Then more silence.
Was Tippi rooted on the other side, offended by the surveillance? Nella’s higher angels gave a nod in the affirmative.
Count on it.
Dismissing her curiosity, she went downstairs. No doubt Tippi was embarking on another litany of prayer or
lighting more candles for Emerson’s safe return.
Leaving her alone was prudent. Tippi no longer slept much, and she guarded her suite of rooms like a feisty terrier. This territorial posture softened only when she summoned Nella’s weekly cleaning service to spruce up the place or she deigned Nella worthy to pop inside for afternoon tea. On those rare days, Nella drank Earl Grey with a disapproving eye as Tippi splashed brandy into her own cup.
Last night, while Nella made clam linguine, Tippi briefly appeared in the kitchen. Too hungry to wait for dinner, she swiped the fruit bowl from the kitchen table and stuffed napkins into the pockets of her roomy black dress. Without a word of explanation, she had plodded back upstairs.
With luck, she’d stop hiding like a hermit crab once Emerson turned up.
In the kitchen, the coffee was already made. Morning light cascaded through the windows. Filling a cup, Nella went outside.
On the patio, Michael sat nursing a cup of coffee. Fatigue rimmed his eyes. Yesterday he’d been confident no harm would befall Emerson. Now a fog of unease surrounded him.
Nella pulled a chair close. “Taking another day off?” He’d begun scouting for a building to expand his carpentry business. Secretly she hoped the search didn’t prove fruitful too quickly. Once he found the right building, he’d look for an apartment nearby.
“I was scheduled for an install in Chagrin Falls. Already canceled. The couple understands why I can’t make it in.”
“Are the police widening the search?”
Michael was good friends with several officers in the Hunting Valley Police Department. He’d also built new bathroom cabinetry for the police chief in Chagrin Falls.
“I haven’t called our PD yet for an update.” Setting his coffee aside, Michael studied the daylight cresting above the forest. “I’m sure they’re expanding the search. They’ll ignore Rosalind and all her demands about keeping a tight lid on this.”
“Michael, she does want her grandson found. She covets her privacy, that’s all.”
“She told the PD this is nothing more than Emerson’s latest stunt, another camping trip without her permission. She believes they’re perfect idiots if they can’t locate a boy out fishing for trout.”
“She didn’t call them idiots, did she?”
“Perfect idiots. Her exact words.”
“Diplomacy never was her strong suit.”
Michael lifted his coffee mug, took a swig. “Her opinion no longer matters.” He set the mug down. “It’s been too long. The PD will assume Emerson is injured and can’t get home, or that Rosalind is off base about why he disappeared. They’ll notify the media and bring in more officers from surrounding jurisdictions.”
“But he took off voluntarily. Latrice said his camping gear is missing, and we found the granola wrapper in the loft. He’s nearby. If Rosalind wants to wait before going public, the police should respect her wishes.”
Michael glanced at her with disbelief. “You’re defending her? If the situation were reversed, she wouldn’t return the favor.”
“I don’t care. People call her Ohio’s hanging judge, but she is human.”
“Then she’d do better to stop issuing edicts from on high. The police know how to do their jobs.”
His lack of compassion was stunning. A levelheaded man, he wasn’t usually this harsh.
“You must understand why she wants to avoid media coverage,” Nella said. “After Jack and Elizabeth were killed, the media treated the story like cheap entertainment. The press followed Rosalind to the courthouse every day and harassed Latrice whenever she went into Chagrin Falls to shop. Losing Jack was hard enough, but what happened to Elizabeth . . .”
The reminder washed the criticism from Michael’s strong features. “I get it, Mom.”
“Do you? Once the media is put on notice, half the journalists in Ohio will tie Emerson’s disappearance to the anniversary of the accident. They’ll dredge up old photos of Elizabeth and Jack and rehash the awful details. In print and on TV.”
Looking away, Nella studied her lap with dismay. As a widow, she understood the bottomless grief Rosalind had endured when she lost her husband. Yet the heartbreak of losing a beloved child—especially in the hideous way Elizabeth had died—was unimaginable.
An indecipherable brew of emotion gathered in Michael’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom. What happened to Dr. Jack—and Elizabeth most of all—it was a tragedy. But don’t ask me to sympathize with Rosalind. I can’t. She doesn’t deserve my compassion. I’ve seen the results of her cruelty. Do you expect me to forgive everything she’s done to Darcy?”
At the startling question, Nella lifted her head. Her son hadn’t spoken to Darcy since the accident that destroyed the Goodridge family. Nearly a decade ago. Not once in all the intervening years had he mentioned her.
His closest childhood friend, the girl he’d rediscovered when fate brought her back into his life a few precious months before Jack and Elizabeth died.
Losing Darcy twice had surely left scars her son deftly hid. Michael had stepped past the worst months of his youth with built-in common sense and a pragmatic streak to guide him. Through marriage, divorce, and the reinvention of his career, he never seemed anything less than content. And now he’d brought Emerson into his life—a child who resembled Darcy so closely, his frequent visits surely brought memories of her to the surface.
But Nella understood the reliable compass of Michael’s emotions. If he savored memories of Darcy, surely he focused on the happy childhood friendship that had molded them both—not the brief love affair that came later.
Does he still care for her?
Regret clouded his features. It was enough to make Nella wonder if the wild-hearted girl who’d dominated his youth still laid claim to his devotion.
Inside the house, glass shattered with a crash. Nella’s head snapped up.
Swiveling in his chair, Michael frowned. “Did Tippi come downstairs?”
“She’s dropped something.” Given Tippi’s arthritis, the simplest tasks were treacherous.
Nella sprinted to the kitchen.
Clumps of last night’s linguine were scattered across the floor. The broken container lay in sharp chunks. Tippi stepped over them in a determined path for the door. In her arms, a jug of milk wobbled and a bottle of chocolate syrup nearly slipped free as she strove for a level of stealth her arthritic bones would not allow.
Leaning against the doorjamb, Nella tried to make sense of the heist unfolding before her.
“Mama, what are you doing?”
Tippi swung around. Guilt raced across her wrinkles.
She lunged for the hallway. In her haste, the cap popped off the bottle. Chocolate spurted wildly across the floor. With a shriek, she flung the bottle down.
“Mama—wait!”
Nella reached for her. A rash move. She skidded through the pool of chocolate like a car losing traction on ice. Unable to right herself, she went down with a bang. Pain sparked in her hip, but she hardly noticed.
Lying prone in the chocolatey mess, she watched in disbelief as her mother shuffled into the hallway in a slow attempt at a fast getaway.
Michael stormed inside. Unaware of the mess on the floor, he began sliding. He was a tall man, a tower of muscle. With a howl of warning, Nella shielded her face. If he plowed into her, she was toast.
He righted himself a skinny inch before he nailed her shoulder. On a growl, he demanded, “What’s going on in here?”
Chapter 6
Leaving Samson asleep in the car, Darcy waded through the retreating shadows and ascended the front steps of the stately brick mansion. Her pulse jumping, she stepped back into the world she’d once known.
The elegant oval foyer rested in silence. The staircase curving to the mansion’s second floor stood empty in the shadowy gloom. Was Rosalind still upstairs? If so, there was no harm in looking around. Taking the risk, Darcy tiptoed into the dining room.
Everything was the same, from the gleaming He
nredon table to the satin drapes festooning the bay window. The formal living room and the library with its towering walls of books both seemed unchanged. The porcelain figurines scattered on end tables appeared recently dusted. The designer pillows on the Queen Anne chairs and the sleek couches were arranged as Darcy remembered. Only the office adjacent to the library escaped a quick inspection. The door, tightly shut, warned her not to enter.
In the rustic family room, she walked past the wall of photos with her gaze averted.
Adrift, Darcy circled back to the foyer. After eight years, she’d expected some changes. New paint on the walls, or a replacement for her father’s lumpy recliner in the family room. Even the watercolor Elizabeth had painted during her pregnancy, an amateurish rendering of rain-streaked tulips, still hung above the living room mantel.
A heaviness accompanied her through the darkened corridor that led to the kitchen. Echoes from the past called out. Elizabeth, chasing after her in this very corridor. A Christmas morning—from so long ago, the image was hard to grasp—pedaling a tricycle out of the kitchen with chubby-cheeked Elizabeth chortling from the red wagon hitched on in back. Hiding in the corridor in junior high, sharing lip gloss and secrets. The brilliant day in May, Elizabeth’s last of high school, her eyes dancing as Darcy adjusted the silky folds of her graduation gown. The images were pure and good. Darcy clung to them for strength before letting them go.
A long island occupied the center of the kitchen. At the opposite end, a jungle of plants framed the windows behind the oak table. Deep-green ivy and delicate ferns, the plants were Latrice’s contribution to a home otherwise more formal than nurturing.
Numb from sensory overload, Darcy found her favorite mug in the cupboard, the one she’d bought at Ohio University right before graduation. Time again coasted backward as she poured the hot black brew, revealing more difficult memories: an infant bawling in her sister’s arms as she trudged bleary-eyed to the table; Darcy speaking in hushed whispers to Michael Varano on her phone as Latrice, sighing with dismay, flipped pancakes at the stove. Lost in the memories, Darcy lifted the coffee to her lips. The last time she’d stood here, she’d been a brokenhearted girl.
The Road She Left Behind Page 7