He knew, too, that he’d pushed himself as far as he could go. His grandfather had warned him to stop before it was too late. Hank sensed that he’d narrowly escaped. What if he had died out there in the grove? What if he had left the woman he loved to raise their child alone?
“You are right.” He found the strength to turn to her and gazed into her heart-shaped face, seeing tears in her wide-set eyes. “I’m a farmer now, and that’s all I am.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“And just in time, too.” She sighed, fiercely clutching her arms around her belly.
He reached for her, his finger gliding along her cheek, marveling at the smoothness of her olive skin, without a single line. She looked more like his daughter than the mother of his baby. She would live for years and years beyond anything he would see, long enough to witness many walnut harvests. She would watch the farm prosper and their child grow as tall as the corn in the neighboring fields. No matter how weak he felt, Hank was determined to stick around for their first harvest and their child’s birth. Beyond that, he could offer no promises, not to Nadya or himself.
It took another month till Hank recovered some of his strength and most of his memories. He resumed a few daily chores, such as gathering eggs and milking the cow, but he was far slower than he’d been and much less agile.
Hank was thankful that Nadya stayed with him regardless of the fact that she’d fallen in love with a young man who had, in a few years, grown old. It made him all the more devoted.
Before the autumn harvest, they found an open-minded justice of the peace to marry them so none could call their child a bastard. When Lily arrived all doe-eyed and dark-haired like her mother, Hank wept with relief not to find a single birthmark on her body. He felt grateful that his child at least would live a normal life without the burdens he’d carried.
“You are blessed,” he whispered to the tiny infant as he cradled her in his arms. “You’re blessed to be just as you are. Because sometimes even the greatest gift can become a curse if you’re not careful.”
The Ghost
Of all the ghosts, the ghosts of our old loved ones are the worst.
—SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
Ten
April 2010
Gretchen hardly slept a wink that night, too afraid to leave the Man Who Might Be Sam alone on the parlor sofa. She was terrified of losing him quietly in his sleep to some internal injury before he could even wake up and recall his name. If there was just a one in a million shot that this flesh-and-blood ghost was Sam Winston, she would not let him slip through her fingers. She had already lost him once. Twice would be unbearable.
And if he wasn’t Sam, well, Gretchen believed there was still a reason she had found him in the grove. Some higher power had entrusted her with his well-being, and she wasn’t inclined to fail. She considered him another challenge in a string of challenges that had consumed her the past forty years. First, she had raised Abby, giving the child all the affection and attention that Annika had never given her; living every day solely to mother her baby until Abby had grown up, gone to college, and started her own life in Chicago. Her second task had been taking charge of Winston Walnuts once Lily and Cooper had passed, though that had never been much more than a sideline with no actual walnuts to sell. And she’d kept an eye on Bennie and Trudy, as she’d promised her parents she would, although her sisters managed fine on their own. Indeed, they often roped her into their projects, like volunteering at the Walnut Ridge Historical Society, where Gretchen ended up sorting through hundreds upon hundreds of old newspaper articles and photos, while the twins translated captions and stories into Braille for the archives.
Staying busy had kept Gretchen from dwelling on the one thing she didn’t have: namely, a hand to hold. Despite having been courted through the years by several perfectly decent men, she had never found love, not the soul-melding kind she’d felt for Sam—although she’d only realized years after Sam had gone how deeply she’d cared for him. She could still recall with blinding clarity a long-ago spring night in the cab of his pickup when he’d confessed that he loved her, and she’d shut him down with that kiss-of-death line about just being friends. No, it had taken losing Sam to understand that she needed him in the same way that fire needed air.
So was it wrong for her to assume that yesterday’s storm had happened for a reason? Was she crazy to think that this man with Sam’s eyes was meant to be here, if only to give her a chance at forgiveness, or to help her unravel one of her biggest mistakes? Something had caused him to appear out of nowhere—something had trapped him on the farm without a means of escape—and Gretchen felt compelled to find out what that something was.
Once she made sure that Abby had drunk her warm milk and gone to bed—her daughter so weary that she fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow—and Bennie and Trudy had retired to their rooms as well, Gretchen had donned nightgown and sweater, taking a seat in the chair across from where the man lay. Armed with a pitcher of water and a damp cloth, she mopped his brow whenever he groaned, placed the quilt back over him when he tossed it off. She strained to interpret his delirious mumbles, but she could make out only a word here and there, things that didn’t make sense: mutterings about water and flies and gorillas.
When the heat of his skin finally cooled and his twitching ceased, allowing him to peacefully rest, the barest hint of pale gray had just begun to permeate the darkness. Gretchen dared to close her eyes for but a minute and fell into an exhausted sleep.
When she awoke, the room was filled with light. Disoriented, she rubbed the crust from her eyes and got her bearings, seeking the fireplace across the room and the braided rug upon the floor before turning toward the Victorian sofa to find the injured man watching her with his silver-gray gaze. He sat silently, such intensity in his face, as though he were trying so hard to place her. Do I know you? his expression seemed to be asking. Why am I here? What is this place?
For a long moment, she simply stared back, sensing tiny prickles of awareness beneath her skin, wondering if he felt them too.
He was the one to break the ice. “Did you stay with me all night?”
“I did,” she said, the directness of his gaze unnerving. She cleared her throat, glancing at her rumpled nightgown and tugging it down past her knees. Deliberately, she closed her cardigan and tucked wayward hair behind her ears. “I’m glad you’re awake, Mr.”—she hesitated, floundering—“I wish I knew what to call you.”
“I’m not sure what to call myself,” he replied, reaching up to touch his brow, which appeared slightly less swollen and less colorful than the previous day. “How did I get here?” he asked. “Did you find a car? Did I have a wallet? Anything to explain who I am and how I arrived?”
“I’m sorry, no,” she told him, and he nodded despite his discomfort.
“Is it possible that I walked from somewhere?” He glanced down at the bare feet he’d settled on the rug. “My soles look so rough and scarred, and I’m missing my shoes and socks.”
Gretchen hated to see the anguish in his eyes, the desperate need to know. “I wish I had answers,” she replied, scooting to the edge of the chair. “But I can only guess that you got caught up in the storm and were swept onto the farm by a tornado. Whatever wasn’t firmly attached was lost.”
He pressed his fingers on either side of the bruise. “The only memory I have is a feeling of urgency, of desperately needing to be somewhere, but I don’t know why or where I was headed.”
Were you headed here? Gretchen nearly asked, thinking of Abby’s assertion that her wishes had brought him back. Were you desperate to come home and explain where you’ve been for forty years? Was it me you were looking for when the twister hit?
He got up and glanced around him, one hand braced on the arm of the divan. “Can you tell me where I am? You mentioned a farm. So I’m in the country?” he asked.
How could he not remember this house, if he
were Sam? Gretchen wondered. Sam had been born here, had let out his first cry within these walls. Was that something a man could forget?
“You’re on the Winston farm, although it belongs to me and my daughter now,” she said. “My name is Gretchen Brink, and I live here with my sisters.” She watched the way his silver eyes flickered, scanning the room and trying hard to make sense of things. “We’re about five miles outside of Walnut Ridge, Missouri. Does any of that ring a bell?”
“Should it?” the Man Who Might Be Sam replied, daring to let go of the couch. He walked unsteadily toward the stone fireplace, its rough-hewn mantel full of Gretchen’s framed photographs. He braced his hands on the slab of maple, peering at the pictures. “Should I know who these people are?”
“Only if they seem familiar,” Gretchen said, her eyes never leaving him. “You have to sort things out for yourself, or else how can you recognize the difference between your memories and something you’ve been told?”
“You’re right.” He nodded and pursed his lips, seeming to think for a minute. “Do you have a telephone?” he asked.
“Yes, but the line was dead last I checked.” She started to get up. “If you’d like to try it yourself—”
He made a frustrated noise and tapped the mantel with a fist. “Even if it’s working, I wouldn’t know who to call or what number to dial.”
“I’m sorry.” Gretchen didn’t know what else to say.
“It isn’t your fault,” he replied, turning away from the fireplace. He shakily made his way back to the sofa, grunting as he lowered himself to the cushions. “I feel like this has happened before, that it’s not the first time I’ve forgotten things.”
Did he have some kind of illness or dementia? Gretchen suddenly wondered, though he seemed coherent in all respects save for remembering his own past. “Are you sure you don’t want a doctor? There’s a tree blocking access to the main road, but I could walk into town and fetch—”
“No, no, I’m fine,” he assured her. “Just angry at myself.” He ran a hand over his face then through his long hair. He touched his beard and frowned.
Before he could inquire about where the rest of his beard had gone, Gretchen asked something else. “How did it feel,” she began, “to ride a twister?”
He gave up scratching his grizzled jaw and let out a dry laugh. His pale gray eyes looked right at her. “I don’t know about riding a twister,” he said and raised his hands, turning them so she could see his reddened palms. “Though I think I know how it feels to be struck by lightning. I seem to recall a lot of blinding light and heat.” He touched his forehead. “And one hell of a headache.”
“That would explain a few things,” Gretchen agreed.
“But not why I’m here,” he said, and the hint of a smile touched his lips. “Unless this is Oz, and my name’s really Dorothy.”
“You’re definitely not in Kansas,” Gretchen told him, surprised that he could joke, or that he could summon up a literary reference but not where he’d come from.
“You figure if I click my heels together, I’ll go home?”
Unless you already are home, she nearly said but bit her tongue. Instead, she replied, “Don’t you have to collect a scarecrow, a tin man, and a cowardly lion first?”
“Oh, yeah, that.” For an instant, the worry left his face, brightening his eyes and taking years away. And like the sun coming out on a cloudy day, shadows were lifted and Gretchen quite clearly saw Sam in there, in the set of his jaw, the reluctant curve of lips, in the dry humor of his voice. Or was she seeing what she wanted to see, the very thing she’d accused Abby of doing last evening?
Unnerved by confusion, she rose to her stocking feet, hugging the thick sweater around her. “You must be hungry,” she said, falling back on the old standby that if you fed everyone, they’d be all right. “Would you like something to eat? I could scramble some eggs. Would you prefer juice or coffee?”
He rubbed at his whiskers. “If you wouldn’t mind, could I use the bathroom first? I’d like to clean up. I think I’ve got dirt in my ears and God knows what other nooks and crannies.”
“Of course,” Gretchen said, horrified that she hadn’t offered. She motioned for him to remain sitting. “Please, stay here a moment, and I’ll fetch you a few things.”
“Just soap will do,” she heard him say as she scurried from the room and raced about, pulling towels from the linen closet, gathering a spare toothbrush and travel-sized toothpaste, a bar of Ivory, a fresh razor (though she hoped he didn’t mind that it was pink). The lot of it bundled in her arms, Gretchen took everything into the hall bath and left it there on the vanity. Then she stopped up the drain and caused the pipes to moan as she started the water, making sure it was neither too hot nor too cold.
Before she returned to the man, she dashed upstairs, peering into Abby’s room, relieved to find her daughter sound asleep, dark hair splayed across the pillow, softly snoring. Behind the closed doors to her sisters’ rooms, she heard them stirring, as if they’d just roused.
Down the stairs she raced, checking the tub and finding the bathwater midway up the sides. She shut off the faucet before hurrying to the parlor, where she found the Man Who Might Be Sam standing in front of the window, staring out.
“Are you ready?” she said, and he turned around.
Wordlessly, he took her arm.
She led him to the bathroom, making sure he had all the necessities—and telling him to holler should he need her—before she shut the door and left him to fend for himself.
For a few minutes, she hovered outside in the hallway, listening, afraid to go too far should he fall while climbing in. But all she detected was the creak of the floor and a few gentle splashes before quiet set in. As long as he didn’t pass out and drown he’d be fine, she thought, reassured enough to let him be and head into the kitchen to start some breakfast.
She’d barely pulled the skillet from the cabinet and set it on the burner when the noise of someone pounding a fist against the front door made her leap.
“Gretchen Brink!” She heard Sheriff Tilby’s muffled voice. “Are you in there? Are y’all all right? If you can hear me, open up!”
For heaven’s sake, the next farm could probably hear him, as loudly as he was shouting.
“Coming!” she replied and made sure her cardigan was good and buttoned over her flannel gown before she unlocked the door and opened up.
“Thank God,” he said when he saw her standing before him. He turned his hat round and round, clearing his throat before he explained. “I got a call bright and early from a cabbie in Washington who had a bad case of the guilts after dropping off a woman last night. From his description, I’m guessing it was Abby.” At Gretchen’s nod, he went on, “Fellow mentioned downed power lines and a big ol’ tree blocking the drive. I tried to call before I drove over but you haven’t got service. So are you and the girls okay?”
“We’re fine,” Gretchen assured him.
He ran his fingers across his slicked-back hair, lips pursed as he glanced over his shoulder, back toward the road half a mile away. “The rest of Walnut Ridge escaped with barely a drizzle. Nothing like what you saw here. It’s as though the storm took aim at the Winston farm and only the Winston farm. You tick off Mother Nature or something?”
“Not on purpose,” she said, feeling a familiar pull of tension; but there had always been such a strange tug of war between them. Once upon a time, they’d had what could only be described as a good old-fashioned flirtation, back when he’d been the cocky but charming son of the town sheriff and the star pitcher on the high school baseball team; back when she’d been too blind to see Sam Winston as anything more than her closest ally; well before she’d gotten pregnant with Abby and Frank had heard tell it was Sam’s baby, causing him to up and marry the mayor’s daughter, Millie, something for which Gretchen was now eternally grateful.
“Any leaks in your roof, or water in your basement?” Frank asked, tapping hat against bell
y and rocking back on his heels.
“Nope, we’re dry as a bone.” Gretchen knew that he was angling for her to invite him in, only she didn’t intend to do anything of the sort. The last thing she needed was for Frank Tilby to find out she had a man—a virtual stranger at that—staying at the house. So she just smiled and said, “Appreciate your checking in, but rest assured, we’re okay.” Then she attempted to close the door.
Only he put out his big paw, pushing the door wide again, and ambled past her like he owned the place.
“I’ve got two deputies coming out with chain saws to cut up the oak,” he told her as she followed him to the kitchen “and I’ve let the utility company know your electric cables got clipped. They should be around sometime today.”
“Thank you, Frank.”
He stopped as soon as he noticed the ceiling fixture was on. Except that the moment he stood beneath it, the lights flickered and dimmed, threatening to go off. “How is it that you’ve got juice?”
“Just lucky.” She shrugged, not about to tell him the truth—or the truth as she saw it, anyway: that it had to do with lightning and a man who had fallen from the sky and who may or may not have brought the rain. That was hardly something any rational soul would believe.
“You have a generator?”
“No.”
“Huh.” He pursed his lips. “Well, that’s quite a nifty trick.” The sheriff sniffed and set his hat down on the well-worn oak table. “Must be some kind of fluke,” he decided and put his hands on his gun-belted hips as he began to take a walk around.
Before he could say more, the creaking floor announced the arrival of Bennie and Trudy in pressed shifts, canvas shoes, and combed hair, looking far more presentable than Gretchen.
“Is that the sheriff I hear?” Trudy asked.
“Of course, it is, sister. Who else would barge in without warning before breakfast?” Bennie remarked and made her way straight to the stove to fetch the teakettle, which she began to fill with water at the sink.
The Truth About Love and Lightning Page 10