First Crush

by Ashley Ludwig

  “Kastleheimer used to be quite a label in the valley. One of the oldest,” his dad added.

  “Kastle-who?”

  “The Kastleheimers. A German family who owned the land before the Valences.” His dad twirled a tendril back into place. “They came down from Canada or some crazy thing after leaving Berlin at the end of World War II. The father barely spoke a word of English, but he knew what and where to plant. Made a heck of a Gewürztraminer, I recall.”

  He dusted off his hands, parked them at his belt. “Matter of fact, that first crush came up at the winegrowers just last week.”

  Nick picked up a fallen piece of split-rail fence and anchored it back into place as his father continued.

  “He harvested and bottled his first Cab Franc during a comet year.”

  Nick nodded, knowing the story of that first harvest year in the valley. Perfect weather and humidity, just the right amount of rain and sunshine … But the year was more often remembered for the comet that painted the summer night sky.

  His father grabbed another rail and helped him lock it in place. “Lucky son of a gun. He may have claimed it was the stars, but it was the vines. He got the prime lot, the best stock Napa sent down for planting when this region was set up. His timing was blessed, really, with the vines. About the only thing that ever happened to them that was.”

  Lee scratched his head and spat in the sand before he continued. “When the bottles were ready, the first wine sales funded the building of that ridiculous place. A German castle in the heart of southern California.” His father stared to the building, the castle top just visible from where they stood. “If you could find a case or two of the wine, it’d be worth a small fortune. But don’t think I haven’t looked. Just about everyone who knows Long Valley history has searched for it.”

  “What happened to the Kastleheimers?”

  “He was a gambler as well as a winegrower. The story is, he lost the property and the half-finished estate to Valence in a card game. Mr. Valence kept him on as winegrower and vineyard manager until Kastleheimer died.

  “A few years later, Mr. V. died in that barrel room fire.” He shook his head. “That was some explosion. Took out his whole stock—full cases of that rich, comet vintage.”

  The breeze made music of the rows of grapes, the leaves rustling to a background of bird calls.

  His father dragged a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped it across his neck. “That property’s cursed, boy.”

  Nick blasted a laugh. “You’re not superstitious, Dad.”

  Ignoring the statement, his father trudged across the split-rail fence to the Hardaway land. He cupped a ripe bunch from his own vines while Nick caught up with him.

  “Since when do you believe in the supernatural?”

  “Not saying I do, not saying I don’t.” His father’s poker face still worked. “Just be careful with tying yourself to that family.”

  Nick planted a foot on the rail. He saw things differently and was ready to say so for the first time. “Natalie’s got nothing to do with them. She has a whole other family that loves her.”

  “Blood is blood.”

  “I have to watch out for Natalie, Dad.”

  His father’s eyes were wide, grave, and the same lapis blue as Nick’s. “Bad things happen over there, Son. Just watch yourself.”

  Hoofing it back to the house, Nick’s thoughts were full of Natalie. He found her in one of the porch rockers, watching hummingbirds dive-bomb the feeder and chase each other away from the sweet nectar prize.

  “Sleep well?”

  She nodded, her blonde curls up off her neck in a knot. “I just checked in at the hospital. Marie’s resting comfortably.”

  “I’m on my way over there. Philip … he’s not faring well.”

  “I’ve been thinking of him and his wife. It must be so hard.”

  Nick sat down, propped a foot on the porch rail. “My dad bought these rockers for Mom. He said they’d spend their retirement rocking together, watching the grandkids play.”

  “So, what? They don’t rock out here?”

  “No, they do. They just never retired. And dreams of grandkids … well, Becky’s gone. Dalton had his heart broken once, and I don’t know if he’ll ever be ready to risk falling in love again. It seems like he’s determined to be an eternal bachelor. And me …”

  “And you.”

  He slid a gaze to Natalie. He cleared his throat. “Philip and Melissa have six kids. Two are adopted.”

  “All that love under one roof.” She hugged her arms around her waist. “I love stories like that.”

  “Yeah, and talk about stair-stepped kids. Two boys. Two girls. Then, they adopted fraternal twins from Guatemala.”

  “Boy and girl?”

  “Gotta keep the score even. They’re good kids. I coached the boys in Little League when I was younger. Before.”

  She nodded, not needing him to define what he meant. She understood that life following Rebecca’s murder was one long, empty after.

  “So, how do you feel about it?” At her blank expression, he added, “Kids.”

  She paused—mid-rock—feet firm on the porch. “Mine? Or someone else’s?”

  “Funny.” He grinned, enjoying watching the panic, confusion, and wonder douse her face. “Yours.”

  “I’m all for them in the abstract.” She stared off as if she could see them. “My mom and dad were great at the parenting thing. They made it all look easy.”

  “Why can’t it be easy?”

  “I suppose it could be. With the right partner.”

  “Like a perfect pairing.” He pressed a smile.

  “My parents tried just about everything to have kids of their own, but nothing worked for them. Adoption, that came easy.” She hesitated a beat. “There are so many unknowns that come with adopting. I’m not just a Turner. I’m a Valence too. I’m still wrapping my mind around that one.

  “Corie knows about her birth family; so does Aaron. I never wanted to. I prided myself on not searching them out, actually. But God had other plans for me, I guess.

  “Aaron and Corie grew up on these beautiful, tragic love stories of bio-moms giving them better lives, a better chance. Learning their histories was healing for both of them in different ways. Then, there’s my crazy story. Until that day I met you, I’d basically written my bio-family off as nonexistent.”

  She turned her face sunward, toward the property of her birth family. “Accepting the Valence side means dealing with death, loss, and heartbreak. For some reason, I never wanted to know about them. Never wanted to face the reason behind it either.”

  “And now?”

  “It was always a joke. That I was a princess, my father a king of some hidden country … Aaron said I loved to be served as a child. Maybe I did, but now I love to serve other people. I think that’s why I went into hospitality.”

  His eyes held her gaze, waited for her to spill the real reason behind her reticence. At last, she spoke her heart.

  “I guess the truth is that I found the mystery intriguing. I didn’t know where I came from, so I really could have been anyone. I knew it was silly to think I could be royalty, but … I did end up with a castle.”

  Her laugh was infectious. Nick wrapped a hand over hers. “Do you want to learn more about them? Or are you avoiding the question?”

  “Not avoiding. I’ve done that far too long. Just …” She turned to him with a fading laugh. “After everything I’ve learned so far? I just feel kind of cursed, you know? And blessed. All at the same time. Maybe that’s enough.”

  He stood, hand out, and drew her to him. He wrapped her in a long, sweet embrace. Her name on his lips, he pressed a kiss at her neck.

  When he looked to her, her tears struck deep. He wanted to stop them from falling, still the waters streaming down her cheeks. Nick thumbed the warm waterfall away, hands cupping her face, and stemmed the tide of her emotions with a kiss.

  He prayed for the words to reac
h her. To let her know she wasn’t alone. Her brow was furrowed, distraught. He kissed her forehead, slow and achingly sweet, willing peace that passed understanding to flow into her.

  When she sighed in shaking release, he dipped his forehead to hers, his eyes shut tight. Warmth and love passed between them with words left unspoken.

  “Let’s focus on the blessing, Natalie. I don’t believe in curses,” he said, thinking back to his conversation with his dad.

  “I don’t … I can’t …” Her voice ripened with emotion.

  “Children are just on loan to their parents, whoever they are. Look at Rebecca.” His voice dragged with the hurt. “She was here just seventeen years. Forever young. Forever beautiful.”

  It burned how much he missed his sister’s smile. Her sweet face. His heart rate kicked up, and his palms started to sweat.

  Breathe. Natalie needs you.

  He called up a memory of Rebecca, smiling, kicking a ball, laughing.

  “I know I’ll see her again someday. But you’re here right now.” Nick looked deep into her eyes, willing her to see the earnestness in his heart.

  She nodded. At her sigh, he inhaled her essence like fine wine. She smelled of lavender, sage, and something distinctly, totally Natalie.

  He took her by the hand, and she walked with him to his car. He didn’t want to leave, but he knew she’d be safe here with his family.

  “Go to Philip.” She shut the car door after him and leaned into his open window. “Say goodbye for now. You’ll see him again someday.”

  Natalie waved goodbye as he watched her through the rearview. There was so much more he wanted to say to her, but at least he’d made a start. The words love, honor, and commitment still lodged in his throat every time he tried to dredge them out.

  He’d known her a handful of days; it felt a little early to be admitting his feelings for her. She was smart, sassy, fun, and beautiful—the whole package. But who knew how long real love took to root, to grow in one’s soul?

  This wasn’t like before, and the worry that it was, well, he’d just have to get over that. Nick massaged the back of his neck at the stop sign. It was time to get past the stumbling block of his past mistakes—when saying “I love you” was a means to an end.

  He was losing his best friend, but was he gaining the wife he longed for in Natalie?

  If that last morning with Rebecca taught him anything, it was to never wait to tell someone you loved them when you really meant it.

  Next time, he wouldn’t falter.

  Chapter 21

  “Be there in ten.” Dalton hung up his phone and ran a hand over his sleep-mashed hair. He’d have to do something about that. He looked, and smelled, like something dragged out of a cave.

  The medical examiner’s office had news on the latest victim as well as a cold case. If this lead from the ME panned out, he might finally be able make his case with the chief. Prove that his obsession with Rebecca’s murderer was more than a personal vendetta.

  He glanced at his bulletin board. The map of Long Valley was studded with pins and covered in Sharpie marks. The pins and marker were most concentrated around the lake. Even though he faced the board away from the main floor, everyone in the police department knew about it. Some of the guys were actually interested in his theories, but most of them thought he was a fool. Even the chief had said, “You look for something long enough and hard enough, you’re bound to fill in the gaps with something. Just be sure it’s the truth.”

  Truth.

  It would take a lot of proof to convince the guys that his theories were more than abstract thoughts conjured from endless hours staring at that map. His mind was consumed with solving the puzzle. He’d never felt so close to solving it.

  Unable to sleep at home, he’d driven to the station before dawn and worked at his desk until his eyes drooped. Last night’s stay on the couch in his office had left him smelly and rumpled, and Dalton knew better than to show up at the examiner’s office without cleaning up a bit.

  When he dreamed, it was of Corie. Her smile shone through white moonlight, making her look like an angel. She’d whispered his name, her full lips parting into a seductive smile … before she’d lashed him to pieces with her words.

  Standing at his cheap mirror, his razor hummed to life. He thought about last night while he erased the shadowy stubble.

  He’d taken the girl home first and let the father get a good look at the boy who’d dragged his baby off ghost hunting.

  Taking Tommy home was another story. The boy had barfed all over the front porch before his old man shuttled him inside. Gratefulness, disbelief, and anger mixed with a healthy dose of relief in the man’s eyes as Dalton promised he’d be watching Tommy.

  Even as he spoke the words, they lodged in his throat. They were the same ones that had been scrawled on Natalie’s mirror at the hotel.

  Tommy’s father had nodded, said he owed him one, and shut the door.

  Dalton’s skin numbed as he ran concentric circles over his cheek, jaw, and neck. When his face was smooth, he rifled through his emergency drawer for a quick change of clothes. He swiped on deodorant, rinsed with mouthwash, spat into an old coffee cup, and scrubbed his hair to order with a splash of bottled water. A quick glance in the mirror proved his appearance acceptable.

  Well, maybe just passing, he thought, clipping his shield to his belt. But it was good enough to meet with Emma and see what she’d come up with on the missing girl.

  Fanning through the files on his desk for the right one, he eventually came across the crime scene photos of the skeletal remains of a Caucasian woman, estimated age twenty to twenty-five. It was the oldest unsolved case on his books.

  And that’s all he was certain of. The rest? Gut. Instinct. Pure will. But if the ME had really found something, that meant there was a lead on the original case.

  It could be the missing link.

  If he believed in God, like Nick, he would have begged for a break. Then again, if this lead panned out, maybe he’d consider the possibility that there was a higher power at work after all.

  Dalton shoved his way through the double metal doors to the medical examiner’s office. Bright fluorescents hummed, reflecting glossy, mint-green wall tiles. The gray cement floor had drains every so often to wash away things he didn’t care to think about.

  Popping a strong mint, he did his best to ignore the aromas that permeated the place. Formaldehyde, liquid nitrogen, and decay all blended with the sharp sting of bleach that was meant to eradicate the stench of death.

  He passed Emma’s office, balking at the displays of sunflowers. A twinge in the back of his mind, his spider sense, started to jangle.

  He ran a hand across the tiled walls, wondering if every medical examiner’s office looked like this.

  “Back here.”

  Dalton followed her rasping smoker’s voice to the back room.

  One wall was covered with body coolers: the small chrome doors hid sliding horrors. Victims of drowning, accident, medical malpractice, suicide, murder … All were in this aging woman’s domain.

  Emma stood with her back to him. She was wearing her green scrubs, and her hair was pulled back in a severe twist. She looked every bit as thin as the skeletal remains she worked with. Cancer was waging a battle against her. It was hard to tell which was winning: body or chemo.

  He tore his eyes from Emma to the twin silver tables under alien-like spotlights where the latest unidentified victims lay, waiting to be interred. Decomposition came on fast in the summer desert. Unless he did something, made some drastic move, these women would go to unmarked graves—like so many before.

  He’d used his last favor with the judge to get warrants for the cemetery crew. This was his best bet, his last hope before they put these two in the ground.

  “Find what you were looking for?”

  “Depends.” She looked up and lifted her magnifying lenses to her creased forehead. “Dental records came back on this one.” Noddi
ng to the body recovered from the lakeshore, she pulled the file. “Lydia Phoenix. Runaway. Rap sheet a mile long. Could’ve been picked up anywhere.”

  “No ID on the other?”

  She shook her head. “We do have cause of death per my colleague, Dr. Birk. Human osteologist.”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “We studied together a million years ago.” Her mouth moved into the smallest, saddest smile. “He owed me a favor.”

  Dalton fought to keep his expression neutral. By her body posture and the wistful look in her eyes, they had done much more than study together.

  “I’ve read about him. Didn’t he help identify VICs after 9/11?”

  “Countless victims. He invented ways to separate pulverized bone, to disseminate DNA from dust …” She ticked off the man’s resume. “Plus, he’s written papers on ancient Roman infanticide—”

  “And he was practically retired,” Dalton finished for her, allowing a knowing smile to cross his lips. “You finally called him in?”

  “We can’t all live on our laurels. Besides”—she slid off the lenses and rubbed her temples—“this poor girl needs to rest.”

  She palmed the thick file and handed it over. “Might not be what you wanted to read. Different MO than the others, but …”

  He thumbed through the file, skimming the medical jargon.

  “Am I reading this right?”

  “Cause of death could be accidental. Self-inflicted, even.” She rolled her shoulders. “It’s a bit anticlimactic, really.”

  “But someone buried her out there. That was purposeful.”

  “Your Jane Doe was found within feet of the grave discovered last week. A miracle, really, that her bones were stumbled upon.”

  “So, based upon the timeline …”

  “She’s the first Slayer victim. Has to be. Time of death estimated at twenty-five years ago.”

  “Longer than we thought.”