Firefly Hollow

by Haddix, T. L.

  Owen, clad in a waterproof coat of his own, just smiled. “I don’t mind a little rain. I’m glad to see you. I was starting to worry something had happened.” He took the bag of food with one hand and held out his other. Sarah took it and let him pull her close for a kiss.

  “I missed you last night,” she said. “It was good to see Jack, but I kept wishing you were there.”

  “They do say absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he teased. “I missed you, too. So, since it’s raining, what do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. I brought food, as you can see. We could go back to the house. No one’s there.”

  Owen narrowed his eyes. “We could. Or we could go to the top of the mountain. There’s no one there, either.”

  Sarah was surprised. “Really? I thought you said if you ever took me to your house, you wouldn’t let me back off the mountain.”

  His slow, wicked smile turned her heart upside down. “I did say that. But we could go to my parents’ house.”

  They’d been slowly walking up the trail toward the pool, but at that puzzling statement, Sarah pulled him to a stop. “Your parents’ house? I thought that’s where you lived.”

  “No. Not for some time now.” A considering frown furrowed the space between his brows. “It’s… complicated. If you’d rather go back to your house, that’s fine. I thought I’d offer.”

  “You throw that sort of mystery out to me and expect me not to hot-foot it up to the top of the mountain? Think again, buddy.” She waggled a finger at him playfully.

  “Come on, then. As good as this coat is at keeping out the wet, I’m starting to feel a little like a dog that’s been left outside in the cold.”

  They went up the mountain, which felt like a private haven, shrouded as it was in fog. The branch of water that fed the pool was swollen, running slightly muddy as a result of the rain, and Owen helped her cross at a narrow spot. Having never been past that point, Sarah gazed around her with avid curiosity. The climb grew steeper after they passed the pool, and aside from Owen pointing out a landmark here or a particularly stunning cluster of wildflowers there, they didn’t converse much.

  “How much farther is it?” Sarah asked ten minutes after they’d crossed the branch.

  “Not much. We’re almost there.”

  Not a minute later, they reached a flat bench of land that ran parallel to the ridgeline, and he led her to some wide steps that had been set into the mountain. When they reached the top of the steps, Sarah gasped.

  Spread out in front of them, an open expanse of land spanned the ridge. It was a meadow, situated on the very peak, with the mountain falling away on all sides. The white, two-story farmhouse in the middle of the field had a wraparound porch. To the far left was a barn, and to the right, behind the kitchen garden, was a newer-looking building. The additional structure was also two stories and blended into the landscape of the mountain as though it had been carved there.

  “Owen, this is beautiful. I’ll bet you can see forever from up here when it isn’t foggy.”

  He looked around the clearing, and Sarah could see a sort of peace steal over him. “You can. If you don’t have plans for Independence Day, you should come up here. You can see every fireworks display in every town around here for thirty miles.”

  “It’s a date, then. How many acres do you have here?” Perhaps the most surprising aspect of the view was how flat and open the grassy pasture was. In a region where the majority of the flat land was spread across river bottoms and where homesteads were carved out of craggy rocks and forests, to find a meadow of any size was a treat. The grass created a soft-looking carpet, one Sarah thought she would be happy to get lost in someday if the occasion arose.

  “About eight in the clearing and about five hundred total.”

  “Five hundred? I thought you all only had about three hundred.”

  “My father did. After he died, I started adding to the property.”

  “So where do you live, exactly?”

  Owen pointed at the newer structure. “Over there. I built it a couple of years ago. I’d show it to you, but you know the rules.”

  Sarah shook her head. “Silly man. One of these days, I may show up on your doorstep and hold you to that rule. What will you do then?”

  “Why don’t you try it, and we’ll find out?”

  She leaned against him, nudging him a step to the side. “Let’s get you out of the rain before you melt.”

  He led her up to the front door of the farmhouse and opened it. “After you.”

  Stepping inside, Sarah was full of curiosity. The house was older, but well maintained. Hardwood floors stretched throughout the rooms she could see from where she stood in the open door. The living room was on her left, the dining room on the right. Straight ahead, stairs led up to the second floor, and a hall on the left vanished into the back of the house.

  He took her poncho and hung it up, then did the same with his coat.

  “It’s lovely. Give me the nickel tour?” she asked.

  “Of course. Let’s start upstairs, shall we?”

  Walking up the staircase, Sarah let her hand trail along the polished oak bannister. “I’ll bet you never slid down this growing up.”

  Owen sent her a grin over his shoulder. “Oh, never. I was a perfect little angel.”

  Sarah snorted and tried to ignore the image of a little Owen that ran through her head. She sternly pushed aside the voice in her head that wondered what a child of theirs might look like.

  When Owen showed her which of the four bedrooms had been his, she frowned. “How long ago did you move out, exactly? This room doesn’t look like you stayed in here since you were much younger.”

  A fine tension visibly settled across his features. “I wondered if you’d pick up on that. Remember the part about my not living in this house being complicated?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, that’s part of the story. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait until we’re finished with the tour to tell you about it.”

  Sarah clasped his hand. “Whatever you want.”

  Back downstairs, he showed her through the rest of the house. When they reached the hall leading to the back, Sarah noticed the pictures on the wall. Owen tried to keep her moving, but she dug in her heels.

  “Is this your family?” she asked, pointing to a formal portrait of two adults and two little boys. “It has to be. You do look like your father.”

  He sent her a quizzical look. “It is. How did you know I look like him?”

  Sarah tucked her arm into his, her eyes only leaving the picture long enough to glance up at him. “Mama told me. How old were you here?” She touched the picture with a gentle finger, tracing the curve of younger Owen’s cheek.

  “Four or so.”

  “You were adorable. I could just squeeze those little cheeks. Oh, Owen.”

  Embarrassed by her gushing, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Moving on, let’s see the kitchen next.” He started walking down the hall, but Sarah didn’t move.

  “I’m going to finish looking at these pictures, if you don’t mind,” she teased. “I’ve seen kitchens before; I’ve not seen your baby pictures.”

  “Oh, geez. What is it with women and baby pictures? My aunt Amy’s the same way. You go ahead and look to your heart’s content. I’m going to grab the Cokes I stashed over here earlier.”

  Sarah put her hands on her hips. “Well, wasn’t that confident of you. How’d you know I’d agree to come back here with you?” When he shrugged without answering, she realized how uncomfortable he was. “Owen?”

  He waved away the question in her voice. “I’m fine. It’s this house. Makes me… edgy. I’ll get the Cokes.”

  Feeling as though she was on the verge of learning some of h
is secrets, Sarah wrapped her arms around herself as she finished perusing the pictures on the walls. Seeing the progression of Owen’s life as he went from toddler to young man, she could clearly see a divide. He went from being a happy, smiling young boy to a solemn, guarded teenager. Something had clearly happened to him, and it dawned on Sarah that whatever had occurred probably accounted for his solitary life as an adult.

  The last frame didn’t hold a picture, but a family tree. It was old and faded, with the names written in a neat, feminine hand. She traced Owen’s name and date of birth, reading the information out loud. “Henry Owen Campbell, born July fourteenth, nineteen-thirty-three. Son of Henry Duncan Campbell and Lucretia McLemore Wells. Lucretia McLemore…”

  Sarah’s voice trailed off, and she stood there, staring dumbly at the framed parchment. “No. No, it can’t be. He wouldn’t… Henry Owen. H.O. McLemore. It has to be a coincidence.” Even as she denied the evidence in front of her, she remembered Owen’s vigorous defense of the reclusive writer, how he’d often show up with ink stains on his hands, his mysterious research into genealogy and regional folklore.

  “The Coke’s cold,” Owen said, coming down the hall with two bottles in hand. “Why don’t we go—”

  Even from several feet away, Sarah heard him swallow. If she hadn’t been so surprised by the unexpected discovery, she would have laughed at the expression on his face. “Owen?”

  He glanced from her to the family tree and back. She watched the guarded expression he’d worn when they first met come over his face, and she felt a pang in her heart.

  “I guess we need to talk,” he finally said.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  WHEN HE’D INVITED SARAH TO the house, Owen had acknowledged in the back of his mind that he might have to discuss sensitive topics. When she picked up on the state of his old room, he hadn’t been that surprised. After all, her intelligence and empathy were part of what had drawn him to her in the first place. But he’d forgotten about the family tree.

  So when he came out of the kitchen to find Sarah with her mouth open in shock, he was flummoxed. He knew he was staring at her like an idiot, but he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t ready to tell her about his life as H. O. McLemore. Whether he was ready or not, though, went out the window.

  “I guess we need to talk.” Edging closer, he gestured with the icy cold bottles. “Why don’t we go to the side porch? It’s screened in.”

  “That’s probably a good idea.” She preceded him through the living room and out the door. Knowing he’d eventually be bringing her to the house, Owen had cleaned the porch in preparation. He’d even gone so far as to purchase new cushions for the swing, and as they sat down, he wondered if that effort had been for nothing.

  He handed her a Coke and set his own bottle aside. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands together between his knees. “I guess you have questions.”

  “You could say that, yes. I have no idea where to start, I have so many questions. I guess I’ll start with the obvious. You’re H. O. McLemore, aren’t you?”

  He’d guarded the secret for so long, Owen had to struggle to make himself answer. “Yes. I am.”

  Sarah didn’t respond, and he glanced at her. She was staring down into her drink, a deep, pensive frown on her face. Owen couldn’t tell what she was thinking, if she was angry, hurt, sad, or some combination of the three.

  “Were you ever going to tell me?” she asked quietly.

  He sighed. “Yes.”

  She tilted her head and looked at him, and Owen could see that she was both angry and hurt. He couldn’t blame her.

  “When?”

  “Soon, I promise.” He struggled for words. “There aren’t that many people who know, Sarah. My uncle and his wife, my agent, and my publisher. My mother knew, also. I swore everyone to secrecy. I didn’t want the rest of the world to know about my writing. I wanted to tell you, was going to tell you, but it’s not something I find easy to talk about.”

  She turned away, looking out over the foggy landscape. Her hands were tight around the bottle, and Owen felt a pang of guilt.

  “Please, talk to me,” he begged.

  “I don’t know what to say. Why wouldn’t you want people to know that you’re H. O. McLemore? Do you have any idea how wonderful your books are? That’s something you should be proud of, not ashamed.”

  “I’m not ashamed. I’ve never been ashamed. But I don’t want public acclaim. I don’t want people traipsing all over my land, trying to get a look at the mysterious writer. I don’t want the community speculating about whether or not I write stories about them, or how much money I make off my writing. That’s not why I do what I do.”

  “When I asked you what you did for a living, and you told me all those things—the genealogy, the folklore research—was that just your cover story?”

  He got up and stood at the screen door that led into the yard. Bracing his hands on the doorframe, he leaned in and let his arms carry his weight. “Not exactly. It’s something I tell people to keep them from wondering too much, yes. But it’s also the truth. I do all those things. I’ve never lied to you, Sarah.”

  “But you haven’t exactly told me the truth, either, have you?”

  The sadness in her voice tore him apart inside, and Owen closed his eyes. “No, I haven’t.”

  She didn’t speak, and after a minute, Owen took a chance and looked at her. She studied him as though she’d never seen him before. Drawing in a deep breath, he walked to the swing. He hunkered down and placed a hand on either side of her, leaning close.

  “I promise you, swear to you on my life, Sarah, I was going to tell you. Please believe me.”

  A lock of hair fell into his eyes, and he impatiently pushed it back, only to have it fall right back down. Before he could move it again, Sarah brushed it back, her hand lingering on his face for a bare second before falling back into her lap.

  “You said your mother knew. What about your father, your brother? Didn’t they know?”

  “No.” He sat back and moved to lean against the house, legs stretched out in front of him. Picking up his Coke, he took a long swig, holding the cold, sweet liquid in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. “No, I never told them. My brother, well, Harlan wasn’t much of a reader, and I knew he’d never leave me alone about being a writer if I told him.”

  “And your father?”

  Owen felt the bitterness rise in his throat and knew it was reflected in the smile he sent her. “Yeah, we weren’t close. I wasn’t his favorite son.” He gave a small shrug, attempting to disregard how much the memory hurt, but from the look Sarah sent him, he didn’t think he’d fooled her in the least. When she moved down from the swing to sit beside him on the floor, he hid his relief by taking another drink.

  “Tell me why you don’t live in this house.”

  He let the nearly empty bottle dangle from his fingers. “I told you I dropped out of school when I was in the eighth grade. Well, that disappointed the old man pretty badly. That year at Christmas, Harlan and I got into an awful fight. Harlan was only twelve, not quite two years younger than me, but he was big for his age. It didn’t matter, though. We didn’t stop until Hank stepped in and separated us. We both had black eyes and bloody noses. Hank was livid. He said some things that I think he regretted as soon as they came out, but he never apologized, never took them back.” He finished off the Coke and set the bottle aside.

  “You call your father ‘Hank’?”

  “Yeah. I haven’t called him ‘Dad’ since that Christmas.”

  Sarah handed him her soda and wrapped her arms around his left one. “What happened?”

  “After the fight—we’d pretty much torn the living room apart, including Mom’s Christmas tree, by the way—I decided I’d be better off in the barn. We’d added on a nice room
that Mom was going to use as a chicken coop, but we hadn’t moved the chickens out there yet. I commandeered it. I never slept in this house again, not until after my father died.”

  He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t bear to see the pity on her face. Her gasp had been bad enough, as were the tears he could feel dampening his arm where her face rested against him.

  “The chicken coop? Oh, dear God, Owen. How was it that your mother let that happen?”

  “She couldn’t stop me. My mind was set. And I didn’t stay in the chicken coop. Hank built me a room in the barn loft, complete with a small bathroom. It was actually pretty cozy. I was happier after I moved out there.”

  “I very much doubt that. What was it that he said, that made you go that far?”

  Owen really didn’t want to tell her. It was too close to the truth that he was a shifter. That secret was not something he was close to being ready to share. Still, he had to explain as best he could. “He called me a monster, an animal. Said I was no son of his, that blood didn’t matter.”

  He hadn’t spoken to anyone about what his father had said since it had happened. Stopping to clear his throat, he told Sarah what he’d never told another person. “I never forgave Hank for that. Never forgave him for letting me go so easily. For not fighting for me. I refused to live in his house until after he was long dead and buried and my mother needed me here. As soon as she was gone, I went back to the barn. I’d have rather been tortured than let him know about my writing. He didn’t deserve that sort of consideration, in my eyes.”

  She moved her arms so that they were wrapped around his body and not just his arm. He returned the embrace, pulling her closer. Looking down, he saw that she was crying, silently, and he wiped the wetness away with his thumb.

  “Shh, Sarah. I’m okay. It was a long time ago. I’ve moved past it.”