The Shadow of Your Smile

by Susan May Warren

  The reason you don’t want to go home has less to do with the tragedies in Deep Haven and more to do with the failures here.

  Oh, Carrie had a knack for words that reminded Emma of Kelsey. Both girls could always pinpoint exactly what Emma was thinking but didn’t have the courage—or poetry—to express.

  Indeed Carrie might have looked into her soul and seen the truth because driving along the shore, drawing closer and closer to Deep Haven, didn’t stir up the dread Emma had expected.

  The town turned magical in the grip of winter. The lake sparkled under the sun where skaters glided over the clear ice in the harbor, and curly smoke rose from the coffeehouse. She’d expected a stab of pain as she passed the convenience store, but only the memory of her and Kelsey rolling their eyes over one of George Whitehall’s jokes surfaced. He came in every Saturday morning for a coffee and a banana muffin.

  Why can’t a blonde dial 911? She can’t find the eleven!

  Oh, Kelsey had been such a good sport.

  When Emma passed Artist’s Point, she heard the waves churning through her memory. She and Kelsey must’ve come here a hundred times to put together a new song, try out lyrics while tucked into a pocket of rocky shoreline.

  She spied a customer emerging from World’s Best Donuts and heard her father ordering two glazed raised. They’d eat them together at the picnic table, watching the lake, even in winter. She could almost see his laughter, crystallized in the crisp air as she read aloud the crazy police reports from the weekly paper.

  Yet somehow she passed through Deep Haven without tearing open old scars.

  If only she could manage not to see Kyle Hueston, she might escape with her brain—and her heart—intact. He had no right to linger in her mind after a week. Oh, she hoped Nicole hadn’t lined him up to play drums.

  She didn’t want to see him; she didn’t want to see him. Maybe if she kept saying it, she’d find herself believing it.

  Who was she kidding? She longed to catch a glimpse of him. More than a glimpse. She kept thinking about that kiss, the way his smile could turn her to syrup. Indeed, feeling as she did right now, he just might have the power to make her change her mind.

  Return to Deep Haven.

  Okay, right now, she didn’t know what she wanted.

  She pulled into her driveway, glad Derek had kept up with the shoveling. His car, however, wasn’t there. As she climbed out, she drank in the smell of home. Woodsmoke, the scent of pine in the air.

  Why had she been so afraid?

  She walked up to her house, pushed open the door. “Mom? I’m home.”

  “Emma?”

  She stomped her feet, slid her coat off, hung it on the hook. Her mother had risen from the recliner, but Emma hardly recognized her or the house. Laundry lay unfolded on the family room floor, dishes scattered on the counter. Lee came toward her, no makeup, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She wore sweatpants that dragged on the floor and an old Deep Haven sweatshirt.

  “Mom, are you okay?”

  Her mother hooked her arm around Emma’s neck, pulling her close. “I’m fine.” But as she moved back, she didn’t look fine. Lines edged her eyes, and they appeared reddened. And she held her arm close to her chest. “I slipped a disk in my neck about a week ago. It flared up again.”

  Emma dropped her bag on the floor. “Oh, Mom, why didn’t you tell me? I could have come home.”

  “You’re so busy, Emma.” Her mother touched her cheek, smiled into her eyes. “You’ve lost weight.”

  “Just a little.”

  “I’m sorry; we ate the last of the venison stew, but I think there is lasagna in the freezer.”

  “Actually, I’m on my way to rehearsal up at Caribou Ridges. The rehearsal dinner is tonight, the wedding tomorrow.”

  Her mother wandered back to the recliner. Her tiny moan wasn’t lost on Emma.

  “How about if I make you a sandwich before I go.”

  Her mother lifted her good arm. “I’m fine, honey. So you’re playing for Nicole’s wedding?”

  “Yes. She roped me into it. Where’s Derek?”

  “Basketball practice. He’ll be home later.”

  Emma picked up the laundry, put it into the basket. “He should fold these.”

  “I needed a clean pair of pants and didn’t want to drag this upstairs to fold.”

  “How long have you been like this?”

  “Just a week. Really, I’m okay.” But she sighed, and the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

  Emma picked up the poker and opened the fire curtain, prodded the fire to life, then added a log. She closed the curtain, replaced the poker. “What aren’t you telling me, Mom?”

  Her mother shook her head. “It’s nothing. I’m just so glad you’re moving on with your life, Emma. I really hope to get down to the Cities and hear you play. And I can’t wait for Derek to get his scholarship, move down to the Cities, too.”

  “What about you?”

  That empty smile again. “I’ll move too. I’m tired of living in Deep Haven.”

  The words froze Emma, cut through her. “I don’t understand. You love it here. It’s your home—our home. Dad built you this house. Your friends are here; your life is here. You can’t leave.”

  Her mother raised an eyebrow, gave a chortle. “It’s time I stopped living a life that’s over. I need to start new. Away from Deep Haven. Like you.”

  Emma stared at her, the way she curled into herself on the recliner. Yeah, like her. “I’ll be back after rehearsal, Mom. It might be late.”

  “Don’t worry about me, honey. Have fun, and stay out of trouble.” She winked but it looked more like a wince than her usual cheery good-bye.

  If he could, Kyle would rewind his week back to the sight of his mother in Kelsey’s bed and relive it without the eerie feeling that dogged him until he’d finally found someone home today at the rutted junkyard of the Nickel place. Just being inside the cabin had turned his stomach, from the putrid odor of a septic tank backing up somewhere, to the mangy dog eyeing him from where he chewed a deer leg in the middle of the dirty linoleum in the kitchen, to the sense that mice might be living in the ratty sofa that held down the shag carpet.

  He had stopped home to shower before dressing up for the rehearsal this afternoon.

  Still, his conversation with Billy Nickel ran through his head as he drove to Caribou Ridges.

  Ryan hadn’t been home, but on the sofa sat a beanpole of a boy, greasy blond hair hanging tangled out of an orange hunting hat. He wore a pair of jeans smudged with grease, a flannel shirt. His hand rode the knee of a girl who nearly snarled at Kyle as he’d knocked on the door. Or perhaps it just looked like she snarled with the two tiny spikes protruding from her bottom lip, her shocking red hair, tied in two low pigtails, adding to the surly effect. She got up, propped the door open with her foot, and folded her arms over her chest.

  Kyle flashed his badge. “I just need to talk to Ryan.”

  “He doesn’t live here. That’s his brother, Billy.” She jerked her head to the rail on the sofa.

  Billy looked stoned even as he lolled his head toward Kyle. “Hey.”

  Kyle shot a look at the Dodge Dart parked in the snow and noticed a taillight had been smashed. Maybe from the skid into the ditch. With the blue paint job, the State Champions wording now flecking off the side, a giant helmet painted on the window, Kyle figured he’d tracked down the right vehicle. “That your car?”

  “It’s my brother’s.”

  “Are you driving it?”

  Billy lifted a shoulder. “When it runs.”

  “Were you driving it the other night, during the storm?” He tried to keep his voice friendly, no big deal. He looked at the girl for permission, and she pursed her lips as she stepped aside. He stood in the tiny kitchen, a grimy green sweatshirt jacket hanging over a chair at the round kitchen table. It reeked of fish and woodsmoke.

  Billy sat up. Reached for a cigarette. Kyle pegged him at nineteen at the mos
t. “Why?”

  “A week ago, there was a shooting at the Harbor City Mocha Moose. Someone was killed.”

  He watched the kid for a reaction, and there it was, the narrowing of the eyes, the way Billy looked away from him.

  “There weren’t many cars on the highway that night, and Jason Backlund mentioned you were pushing yours out of the ditch.”

  Billy blew out a stream of smoke. “Uh-huh. Real slippery.”

  “Who was with you?”

  His gaze shifted to his girlfriend and back. “No one.”

  “Really? Because Jason said there were two—one at the wheel, someone else pushing.” He glanced at the girl. “Was it you?”

  For a second, something like fear flashed across her face. Then she shook her head.

  “Relax, Yvonne.” Billy crushed out his cigarette. Stood. “It was just a friend of mine, okay? What is this, a federal investigation?”

  Kyle held up his hands. “No problem. I just wanted to know if you two might have seen anything as you passed through Harbor City. Maybe a car driving too fast up the highway—”

  “I didn’t see nothing, okay?” He came up behind Yvonne and slipped grimy hands over her shoulders. He wore a class ring, bulky on his skinny finger, a ruby in the center. A ring that could hurt someone, leave a welt, or more. Fury boiled up inside Kyle, and he had to take a breath as Billy responded. “I was with my girl all day. I wasn’t even down in Harbor City. Right, babe?”

  Babe glanced at him, back at Kyle, nodded.

  Billy pulled Yvonne away from the door. “I think you should leave.”

  Kyle kept his cool smile. “Thanks for your time. By the way, you’d better get the taillight fixed. You drive that around in town, you might get a ticket.”

  Billy shut the door behind Kyle with more force than necessary.

  As he climbed into his cruiser, a van drove up. Big man at the wheel, maybe in his late twenties. He wore a beard, his hair a chin-length mop. He got out of his vehicle, a white, dented Caravan that looked as if it might have been used off-road, and stared at Kyle as he rounded the back end and headed to the house.

  Kyle drove away, watching him in the rearview mirror, the fine hairs rising on the back of his neck.

  He couldn’t dislodge the pair from his brain, nor the feeling that they knew something.

  He’d spent the rest of the day serving papers, although he’d answered one call for a disturbance and found Duane Hoglund breaking in to his own house after his wife locked the door.

  “You should carry a key,” Kyle had said.

  “No one carries a key in Deep Haven.”

  Which, of course, might have been true for other families.

  He stopped in at World’s Best, said hello to Joe and Jerry, who were exchanging football draft opinions with the new coach, Caleb Knight. He spotted Seb, one of the former Husky all-stars and current basketball coach, serving up red velvet cupcakes and nearly fell over when Lucy flashed him a ring.

  Look at that—Lucy Maguire, tying the knot.

  See, this was the town for happily ever after.

  Which was exactly what he hoped to convince Emma Nelson, Miss I Hate Deep Haven, of this weekend.

  Although perhaps he should have thought a bit harder about saying yes to playing an instrument he hadn’t touched in six years. He set up the drum kit in the reception hall of Caribou Ridges, a room with a view of the lake and a crackling fireplace. Jason and Nicole had clearly planned an intimate wedding, with only six round tables and a head table at the front of the room, adorned with pine boughs, red roses, and a hurricane candle. Twinkle lights hung on the pine tree decor and wound around the windows, and a nest of lights curled over the mantel, mixed in with more greens, more red roses.

  Romantic.

  He warmed up with flat flams, then paradiddles, then a number of sticking exercises he’d developed back when he was serious. He followed with single stroke rolls. In between he stretched his hands, arms, then his feet, working first with his heel down, then rolls, and finally in more vigorous toe-up positions.

  He could easily break a sweat and more while drumming.

  Long ago he’d learned how to read sheet music and chart out his own drum parts from the lead sheet notation. If Emma had a list of songs, he’d download them tonight and chart those out. He’d also learned a few of the standards and warmed up on a couple, his iPod playing in his ear.

  He didn’t hear her come in, wrapped up in John Cougar Mellencamp’s “Hurts So Good,” the split track on his iPod allowing him to play the drums without competition.

  Emma set her gear on a chair, propped her guitar on the table, and stood with her hands on her hips, not smiling.

  He removed his earbuds. “Aw, c’mon. You have to be a little happy to see me.”

  “What part of ‘I don’t think we should see each other’ did you not get?”

  He did a drumroll. “I can tell when a girl is bluffing. I’m a cop—I know these things.”

  She pinched her mouth a little at the edges as if trying not to smile, and it set off all sorts of crazy explosions inside his chest.

  She looked good, too, in a pair of skinny jeans, a button-down shirt, a patterned pink-and-blue scarf around her neck. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders, under a knit hat with an appliquéd pink flower on the side, her eyes so blue they had the power to make him forget his name.

  He twirled a stick between his fingers. “Admit it—you’re glad to see me. You can’t get me off your mind. Your heart did a jig when you saw me.”

  She rolled her eyes, but more of that smile appeared.

  “In fact, you might even admit that you’re glad you’re back in Deep Haven.”

  “Near Deep Haven, and let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “C’mon, we’re at a wedding, in a terribly romantic pocket of the earth. You have to admit that this is fate.”

  “Fate? Fate would have been you noticing me years ago when I wore a ‘Vote for Kyle’ shirt for three days to get you elected homecoming king. This is not fate; it’s an ambush.”

  “You really wore a ‘Vote for Kyle’ shirt?”

  “Kelsey made me. And I should have never told you that.”

  “But you did. Which means I owe you for your vote.”

  “Absolutely. At the very least a sandwich.” She unzipped her guitar case. “Do you know anything about playing the drums, or are you just here to look cute?”

  “You think I’m cute?”

  “Listen, Your Highness, I need a real drum player.”

  “I can play. Give me the lead sheets and I’ll chart them out. I promise.”

  She raised an eyebrow. Then her smile vanished and she came near him, all tease gone. “Kyle Hueston, this gig means serious money for me. And maybe references later, so if you mess this up for me—”

  He held up his hands. “Emma. Seriously. Protect and serve, right?”

  There was that smile again.

  “Okay, Deputy, let’s see what you got.”

  Drummers are so hot. Emma heard Kelsey’s voice in her head even as Kyle donned a pair of oven mitts and opened his oven to grab the pizza he’d made from scratch. He wore a pair of Levi’s, but he’d slid out of his boots and socks and was walking around barefoot in his cabin nestled in the woods. And it didn’t help that his thermal long-sleeved shirt outlined perfectly all those basketball muscles she remembered. Actually, he looked better than high school, his shoulders broader and confidence rather than swagger in his walk.

  And he had drumming chops. She could hardly stop the swirl of joy inside when he’d charted out his beat to the songs she’d picked for the wedding reception, almost without effort. She’d handle the ceremony, located at the tiny harbor chapel, but his rhythm would add a festive vibe to the reception.

  They’d ended with a jam session, something that had her wanting to sing, if she only knew the words. Kelsey would have made up something on the spot, taken the mic and added her bluesy voice in between their
riffs.

  Emma had so much fun, she forgot to be angry. And she even agreed to a late-night pizza at his place. Just this once.

  She liked his house. Small, with one bedroom and a sparse amount of furniture, it had two Palladian windows—one in the bedroom, one in the family room—that overlooked the hamlet of Deep Haven. The pine floors appeared recently refinished, the smell of linden seed oil rising from their shiny surface. The kitchen looked like it’d been remodeled also—stainless steel oven and fridge, black granite counters.

  She could live here. Sure, it needed a girl’s touch, but she could stand forever at the picture window, overlooking the night, with the starlight trickling onto the lake, the pine trees laden with snow.

  “I love your cabin.”

  He put the stone with the pizza on the counter, took a roller, and began to cut it into squares. The smell of garlic and chicken, the sweet scent of fresh basil, rose to make her stomach do curlicues. “Thanks. I bought it from Noah and Anne Standing Bear. They were hanging on to it in hopes they’d move back after Anne’s residency, but apparently they needed the cash for one of Noah’s inner-city initiatives. He’s setting up a youth center in Duluth. I know the cabin is small, but I loved it even back when Noah was building it. I was about twelve when he moved here and started the summer camp. I helped him roof the place and always secretly wanted it.”

  She slid onto a rustic stool, made from stripped birch, and hooked her stocking feet around the bottom rung. “I can’t believe you made me homemade pizza.”

  He slid a piece onto a plate. “Is this better than the sandwich I owe you?”

  “Maybe.” She picked up the piece. The crust crunched in her mouth, the garlic and basil a perfect mix in the white sauce. He always fed her so well. “What about Pierre’s?”

  “They don’t deliver. And they don’t make a decent thin crust.”

  She caught a string of mozzarella cheese on her chin. “I used to go to Pierre’s every Wednesday for their lunch buffet. A bunch of us would pile into Kelsey’s car—”

  “My car. I bequeathed it to her.”