by Lyla Payne
“That’s not very nice.”
He scoffs, spitting a thick wad of brown spit into the dirt. “That woman was a thief and a sneak, and a rat besides. I ain’t sorry.” He’s so close now there wouldn’t be the slightest point in running if I got the mind to try.
“I don’t know anything about your beef with Glinda, or your land, or whatever business you’re running. I’m just a librarian from Heron Creek trying to do the right thing.”
“Gracie?”
The voice brushes over my bare shoulders, as familiar as my own. Clete and I both look up to see my first love, William Gayle, at the back of the clearing.
I, however, seem to be the only one surprised at his appearance—or the sight of the shotgun hanging at his side.
Chapter Six
“Will?” I gasp, confusion making my brain feel like sausage gravy. Not the delicious kind. The kind that sits in your belly like paste.
“You know Gayle?” Clete asks. “Y’all part of a trespassers’ club?”
Will crosses to the porch at a pace that could almost be described as a run, standing close enough to me to make it obvious he’s willing to protect me against the scary moonshiner. Now that we’ve spent some quality time together I’m not sure Clete’s as scary as he wants me to believe, but there’s no need to go testing that theory.
I still don’t know that moonshining is involved at all, but Big Ern’s out there taking care of some kind of business, and I doubt Cletus is running a landscaping company. Maybe he sells squirrel stew.
It’s been a long time since Will and I have been in a tight spot together, but even though we’re rusty we’ve had practice. It is my first time looking at his face and feeling uncertain—as though we’re well and truly strangers. He’s tense, every muscle ready to spring, and his fingers grip the shotgun so tight they’re white at the knuckles. The expression on his face, one that communicates a ferocious promise to Clete that harming me isn’t an option, sweeps a chill over my skin.
I put a hand on his arm. “Will. What are you doing out here?”
“Surveying.”
I notice the bulging messenger bag slung over his shoulder, the strap running diagonally across his chest, and with it comes a bit of clarity. He’s a land surveyor, remember? My mind hisses the fact in an attempt to make sense of this entire situation.
“You two know each other?” I ask, still trying to make connections.
“Sure. Will and I are in ongoing disagreement about the government overreaching its boundaries and what constitutes trespassing in the great state of South Carolina.”
“There are several protected plants and species of waterbirds in my territory, which covers a chunk of Mr. Raynard’s land. He’s expressed his displeasure over my presence by sending his dogs on a human hunt and, on occasion, with warning shots.” Will’s teeth are clenched so tight I almost hear them grind together, and how he manages to speak at all baffles me. He turns his concerned blue gaze my way. “Why are you out here, Gracie? It’s dangerous.”
“You know, I was just asking her the same question, and she gave me some answer about needing to pick up something for the dead old bat’s granddaughter.”
“Glinda?”
“Can we talk about this later?” I say to Will, trying to convince my eyes to shrink back to a normal size.
Getting out of here, away from Cletus and, in general, men with guns who are wound tighter than ticks, ranks as my top priority.
“What? Oh, yeah. I was just finishing up when I thought I heard your voice.”
I’m glad he checked it out, and happy that my voice remains as familiar to him as his is to me, and so, so ready to get out of here. Since Will knows Clete and the gang, perhaps he’ll be able to fill in the blanks as far as Glinda’s alleged illegal side business, but something tells me he won’t support a stop to poke around her cabin on the way back to the car.
“Cletus, it was a pleasure to meet you.”
He glowers at me. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same. And now, this is just a hunch, but I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again.”
It’s a threat—clear in the snapping shine in his eyes and the way the air crackles between us. I hear it, and by the way Will tenses, it’s obvious he doesn’t miss it, either. We need to get out of here before things escalate to a level that neither my childhood friend nor I are capable of handling.
I cast a glance at Will—the hard lines of his face, the steeliness of his gaze—and wonder if that’s true. Maybe he’s capable of more than I ever guessed. More than I want to believe, really.
We walk through the trees for ten minutes before either of us says anything. Glinda’s husband’s cabin tempts me to stop and snoop, but there’s a prickly feeling between my shoulder blades that suggests that there are eyes following our trek back toward civilization.
Of course, I’m hoping Will knows which direction that is because I’m more lost than ever.
“Where’s your car?” he asks, breaking the silence but not the tension wrapped around us like a cloak made of electrodes.
“The old Exxon station out by the road.”
We’re there less than twenty minutes later, and by then my ex’s face has returned to something more familiar. Less angry. Less likely to rip someone’s face right off his skull.
Will stops next to the driver’s door of my beat-up Honda, blocking me from getting in, and pins me with the kind of exasperation he employed in response to my teenage ideas inspired by fire or feral cats. Or paint.
“What are you really doing out here, Gracie? That guy could have killed you, dumped your body in a river, and no one would have ever found you.”
“Jeez, dramatic much? I was fine. Clete and Big Ern and I were just getting to know one another.” He hadn’t even gotten this upset the time I tied firecrackers to the tail of his mom’s favorite cat. And I’d used a six-foot string.
His hand circles my forearm, squeezing hard enough to not only get my attention but to sting, and doesn’t relinquish it when I tug. “This isn’t a joke, Gracie. We’re not kids, and the worst thing that can happen out here isn’t getting tossed in the city jail for a few hours in your bare feet.”
The seriousness of his face tempers my annoyance at being treated like a daft child. It’s always endeared me to Will, the way he looks out for me, the way he’s the voice of reason in the back of my mind, and today isn’t any different.
It does, however, push my curiosity to the forefront. “How is it that you know enough about what goes on out here to assess the inadequate level of my concern?”
He sighs, then crosses his arms over his chest. Sweat sticks his white T-shirt to his pecs and shoulders, putting muscles on display underneath the businesslike exterior. It makes me realize what a perfect job this is for Will—he gets a steady paycheck but he’s not chained to a desk. “They’re hillbillies. Clete carries a shotgun like it’s an extension of his arm.”
“And they’re all about protecting their moonshining business from prying eyes?” I watch as his face pales, my eyebrows pinching together. “What, is that a secret?”
“Not exactly, no. But it’s not exactly common knowledge in Heron Creek, either—at least not where to find them. And I guarantee that’s what got Clete so upset. Hell, it’s why he doesn’t like me, even though I’ve never said a word about their little enterprise to my bosses.”
“That doesn’t sound like the straight and narrow Will I know.”
That earns a frown. “I have a family to think about, and my job is to survey the land, not tattle on grown men. They’re not hurting anyone.”
“They don’t seem to have much faith in your philosophy.”
“That’s what I’m saying, Gracie. They forgot how to trust outsiders six generations ago, and the feud with Merle Davis goes back half that long.” He squints at me, then sighs at the expression on my face, which is probably a bit stubborn with a smidgen of skeptical.
Will moves aside and opens my car door
, resting a hand on the roof and leaning down to force his face in front of mine. “Be careful.”
I give him a halfhearted smile, one that tells him I remember every single time he’s asked that of me and how every single time I ignored him. Some of the instances worked out fine, some didn’t, but none of them felt like this: as though it could cost me something I’m not willing to lose.
Like my head or my heartbeat.
My fingers twist the key in the ignition, and the car gives a sputtering cough and rattle but doesn’t rumble to life. After a couple more tries I give up and pop the hood, then join Will in staring at the engine. It’s not overheating, but other than checking the oil or jumping the battery, I have no idea how to decipher its innards.
Will pokes around, grunting a few times before ducking out from under the hood. He wipes his fingers on his clean khakis, then fixes me with his I told you so stare. I know it almost as well as his I wash my hands of you if you do this look.
“What?”
“Your distributor cap is missing,” he replies, looking almost smug.
It takes a few seconds for my brain to retrieve the information, but it clicks into place. “I guess you’re giving me a ride back to town, then.”
That makes his eyebrows go up. “You know what a distributor cap does?”
“Duh. This happened to Nancy Drew all the time.” It also usually meant Nancy was in deep shit, but she had her loyal sidekicks to rush to her aide. I’ve got Beau and Amelia, but something tells me neither one of them will be too interested in playing Bess or George.
Beau’s way too sexy to play poor, castrated Ned Nickerson.
“Come on. My car’s just up the road.”
I follow him, my lips curling toward a smile despite the bizarre nature of my morning and the fact that Big Ern or one of Clete’s other cronies had the bright idea of keeping me local. “Don’t act like you didn’t read my Nancy Drews. I caught you.”
“Yeah, before I realized she was never going to give Ned any. Then I just started praying you wouldn’t want to be like her in every respect.”
A laugh escapes me, throaty and surprising. “Lucky for you, I was more inspired by her willingness to flaunt the law when it suited her.”
“Yeah. Lucky for me,” he echoes dryly as we walk up to his decade-old SUV, waiting for me to grab my purse from the trunk of my car.
His Bronco is almost as old as my Honda and smells as suspect, too. The floorboards in front of Grant’s car seat are littered with half-eaten Cheetos, dirty sippy cups, ground-up cereal, discarded to-go bags, and heaven knows what else.
There’s just as much crap on the floor on the passenger side, but I manage to squeeze my legs and feet inside without crushing anything besides paper coffee cups from Westies.
“Sorry about the mess.” His cheeks turn pink. “I’m hoping things will settle down if the park renovations get approved. The state will want to survey the land for mineral resources, and it’ll be nice to have work in town.”
“Oh, yeah, I heard something about that …” The sight of Will’s car in disarray unsettles me. He’s always been one of the neatest neat freaks in the world. Borderline disorder.
He steers the car back toward Heron Creek, and we ride for a while in comfortable silence. The air conditioner blasts, relieving the humidity of the day for a while, then giving me a massive chill as sweat dries and crystallizes on my skin. I rub it off absentmindedly, brushing the balls of dead skin and salt onto the center console.
“Gross, Gracie. Stop.” Will frowns at me for a split second before returning his eyes to the road. “Well, are you going to make me ask you again? How did you end up chatting with Cletus Raynard this morning? Aren’t you supposed to be running the library or something?”
“Or something,” I mutter, then sigh. There’s no point in lying to Will, and besides, it’s time to start recruiting my gang of sidekicks. “I’m still seeing ghosts.”
The quick look he shoots me this time leans toward dubious. “You know, I actually believed you about Anne Bonny. It makes sense, in a weird sort of way, given that you’re her kin. And we grew up with stories about her ghost, so it’s easy to believe. But now … you’re saying what? She put out an all points bulletin to the not-crossed-over advertising your services in unraveling unresolved issues?”
Anger stirs in my gut. How dare he act so flippant, or as though any of this is my idea. “I really don’t know, Will, but that seems about as likely as any explanation. And honestly, do you think I want to see dead people? Do you think I threw a party when poor Glinda showed up in a bloody nightgown the other night, or this morning when she insisted we go for a little drive to the country?”
He doesn’t say anything, but his grip on the wheel tightens. The sound of the wind rushing past the windows on the freeway and the whir of the asphalt beneath the SUV’s tires are all the response I get.
“Fine. Think what you want, but given that no one even knew Glinda was married or to whom, go ahead and come up with another explanation for how I could have found her husband’s land on my own.”
Another long pause stretches between us, then his fingers relax on the steering wheel. “You’re not a liar. We all know that. This whole thing is pretty hard to wrap my head around, is all. Who else knows?”
“About Glinda?” I ask. “Just Beau. And only because I was with him when she showed up. Bit of a mood killer, dead people.”
It occurs to me when he grimaces that perhaps my current relationship is off-limits discussion for the two of us. Then again, he’s married, and the proof of his and Mel’s sex life is running around on chubby little toddler legs. Not to mention displayed in her growing belly. There’s no reason for a double standard here. Will’s married and happy, and I’m friends with his wife—if we’re all going to rekindle the friendships that got us through childhood, there can’t be taboo topics.
“I imagine so,” he manages after a couple of heartbeats, maybe coming to the same conclusion I had. “Why do you think Glinda brought you out to her country house?”
“Did you know it belonged to her? And about her bootlegging?”
He shrugs. “This has only been my territory for a few months, and I’ve never seen her around personally, but yeah. I hear rumors. And the feud between her and Clete’s no secret.”
“I can’t believe she’s been running a freaking moonshine business and no one knows. I mean, I’m a little disappointed in us, honestly.”
Will snorts. “She took over after Merle died, which was about ten years ago. Has a guy named Cooter who brews the stuff, and his lady friend Darlene runs it and handles the money. Glinda used her husband’s contacts to make the sales.”
“I can’t believe any of this is coming out of your mouth. How do you know all of this?”
He shrugs. “Clete’s not too fond of the government traipsing around his land, as you heard. It behooved me to learn everything I could about the other families in the moonshining business and anyone else I might run into up there—plus the county sheriff’s office is aware of pretty much everything that goes on. They helped me out, too.”
“The sheriff’s office knows these guys are moonshining or bootlegging or whatever the cool kids are calling it these days, but lets it happen? Where were county cops when I was a kid?”
“They have to catch them in the act. As you might guess, these families are old, they don’t trust the government in any form, they’re self-sufficient, deal in cash, and have arsenals of firearms. It’s not that they’re ignoring it, exactly, but …”
But they’re a bunch of pussies, I finish silently. That, or Clete and the other hillbillies are greasing palms with booze and dirty cash, which seems as likely as the first option. Maybe more so.
Will pulls onto Main Street and stops at the single traffic light in Heron Creek. “Where to? The library? You’re kind of a mess.”
“Well, people are pretty much used to that, but I wouldn’t mind a coffee. Westies?”
“Sure. I could use a cold drink before heading back to the office.”
It’s still before lunchtime, which means I should be able to find a table next to an outlet and charge my phone, too. Millie’s probably freaking out about me not showing up—not because she can’t handle the on-average five patrons who wander through the library every day but because she freaks out about everything these days. Not that anyone can blame her in the slightest.
He pulls into the parking lot and runs around to open my door. Memories flash before my eyes—all the times Will has opened a door for me, the way he used to tug me out and into his arms, as though he couldn’t wait another moment to hold me close. The way he used to smell, like the salt-encrusted grass growing along the edges of the marsh.
The place inside me that holds my feelings, my regrets, the loss that’s tangled with the memories of my first love cracks open and seeps pain into my chest. For the briefest moment I wish things could be different.
Then I remember that I’m the one who wanted something different back then, that Will moved on and is happy, that it’s my job to let him be that way.
But when his dusky blue eyes catch my green ones and hang on, darkening with all of the same emotions heightening my awareness of him, of me, of everything that was and how it’s changed, being friends again seems impossible.
We let it go. We let us go, but they say first loves never die. I’m guessing that applies even more so when we’re living in the same town of less than a thousand residents.
“Thanks,” I say softly, just to say something.
“For what?” His voice is quiet, too. Reflecting.
“Helping me out in the woods today. Bringing me back.” I pause. “Believing me about the whole Glinda thing.”
We both know I’m thanking him for more, but giving someone credit for making you the person you are, for bringing you back a hundred times, believing in you for years—for being the reason you still believe in love at all—isn’t a thing that can be distilled into words. Sometimes there aren’t any that do life justice, and it feels nice to be in one of those moments with someone who doesn’t need speech to understand.