Still Waters

by Misha Crews

  Copyright

  Still Waters

  Misha Crews

  Copyright 2012 Misha Crews

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights reserved under copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Published by CWC Publishing

  Because good books are essential for a happy life.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9857167-0-7

  eBook designed by MC Writing

  To the Reader

  Dear Reader,

  The events and people in Still Waters are fictional. You know how it goes: any resemblance to persons living or dead (or undead!) is purely coincidental yada yada yada. But I’d like to share with you a few elements to this story which make it uniquely personal for me:

  The house in which Jenna and Christopher are living is based on the house that I lived in as a child. It’s in a pretty little part of Virginia known as Arlington Forest, a development built in the late 1930s. At the time, the houses sold for about $6000 (garage and fireplace extra, of course!). I don’t have much memory of the place, since we moved from there when I was around six. But the memories that I do have are warm and happy.

  The house belonging to Jenna’s in-laws, Bill and Kitty Appleton, is the house owned by my grandparents in the late 1940s and early 1950s. It’s still there, in a very old section of Burke, Virginia. I’ve never been inside, but its existence and the time that my family lived there is an integral part of our family lore.

  The house that Adam builds is part of a real-life subdivision called Hollin Hills. Although I have no direct connection to this place, it’s not far from where I live now, and it’s every bit as magical as I’ve described.

  Jenna’s dog is named Fritz, which is the name of the dog that we had when we lived in Arlington Forest. Our Fritz was a black-and-tan collie, while Jenna’s Fritz is a German Sheppard. The thing I remember most about Fritz is how much I loved him, and that affection is now Christopher’s love for his own beloved pet.

  Still Waters has always felt like home to me, and now you know why! I hope that you’ll grow to love the characters – and the places in which they dwell – as much as I do.

  Thanks and happy reading,

  Misha

  P.S. I’d love to hear from you! The best way to get in touch with me is through my website: www.MishaCrews.com. Don’t be shy!

  Acknowledgements

  I owe a deep debt of gratitude to the friends who encouraged me and helped with the research for this book. In particular, I’d like to thank:

  Karen Cantwell, author of Take the Monkeys and Run, for constantly assuring me that this is a story worth telling. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know if I would have made it this far.

  My editor Misti Wolanski and my proofreaders at Red Adept, who lovingly raked this manuscript over the coals.

  The tireless and enthusiastic librarians in the Virginia Room at the Arlington County Public Library, who were as keen about this project as I was.

  Blaise deFranceaux and Sandi Poole, who helped me understand the history of Hollin Hills and gave yet another layer to its lovliness.

  My aunt Helen Collins and my uncle Jim McConkey, keepers of the family lore, preservers of photographs and memories. Thank you for keeping the past alive.

  Dedication

  For my father, who left us much too soon.

  For Phyllis and Charles, my second Mom and Dad.

  For Dave, the brother I never had a chance to know.

  And for David, Matthew and Amy,

  who bring the sunshine,

  even on the cloudiest days.

  Still Waters

  by

  Misha Crews

  PART ONE: DEATH

  “Under the wide and starry sky, dig the grave and let me lie.”

  — RUDYARD KIPLING

  PROLOGUE

  Summer 1984

  DRIVING HOME FROM HIS GRANDMOTHER’S FUNERAL, Chris Appleton felt a change coming. He tried to tell himself it was just the change of recent death: that lightning-strike chasm which forever marked the end of before and the beginning of after. But this was different. Something intangible was floating in the air. Apprehension had settled beside his grief and exhaustion: three black crows sitting side by side on his chest.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror, at his mother and stepfather in the back. They were silent, sitting at opposite ends of the comfortable Cadillac seat, each one looking out a different window. To a stranger’s eyes, they might seem to be experiencing the cold aftermath of a quarrel. But their hands, which touched lightly on the leather between them, told the true story of the closeness they shared.

  Chris directed his gaze back to the road. Outside the air-conditioned comfort of the automobile, the world rolled by in a haze of heat-drenched lawns and sun-hot sidewalks. It was the kind of day when Chris would have liked to forget he was a grown-up. There was an itchy feeling under his skin. He felt a powerful desire to pull the car over and jump out, go tearing down to the creek, and climb on the mossy green rocks, with the dark, round scent of summer blackberries in his nose.

  But this wasn’t a day for ditching his responsibilities, not that he made a big habit of that, anyway. Today was a day for family — it was a funeral day. And nobody liked funeral days.

  Chris had been five years old the first time he had seen Death. It had been a cold, clear afternoon when he had witnessed the twitching, staring void that marked the passing of a living creature. Like most human beings, he had found it terrifying, devastating. And fascinating. After the glory of a human life, death was a pitiful inevitability. And maybe that was why Chris had become a doctor.

  Of course, he hadn’t exactly gone from that one childhood incident directly into medical school. He had been born in 1951, the year of Catcher in the Rye, and started med school in 1973, the year of Gravity’s Rainbow. In between, a lot of stuff had happened, including the Sixties. Now here they were in 1984, the year that had so terrified him when he’d read Orwell’s book in junior high. The world was a very different place, and he was definitely not the same human being who had first come face to face with mortality.

  He turned the car onto Farley Street, drove around the traffic circle with its giant holly tree, and pulled into the short driveway in front of his house. He looked up at it for a minute before setting the brake.

  From the back seat came his mother’s voice, sad, but soothing. “I’m so glad we didn’t sell this place when we got married,” she said.

  His eyes once again flicked to the rearview mirror, in time to see Mother touching Dad delicately on the wrist. It was to Dad that she had been speaking. Then she turned her head and met Chris’s gaze. The severe summer daylight accentuated the wrinkles around the corners of her eyes and mouth, but that didn’t detract from her beauty.

  She spoke again. “It was such a pleasure to see you move back here when you started your practice, Christopher. I know it made your grandparents happy, too.” She paused, then asked, “Did Bess say she was coming over later?”

  “She and Kevin will meet us for dinner,” Chris answered. “Along with the others.”

  “Good.”

  Chris’s sister had flown in from Seattle for the funeral. After the wake, she and her husband had gone back to their room to rest. Mother and Dad had tried to convince her to stay with them, but Bess, who knew her own mind and who had always liked he
r privacy, had opted for a hotel.

  Chris got out of the car, watching as Dad crooked out his elbow and Mother took his arm. She looked over at Chris and smiled, her expression positive despite the tinge of sadness brought on by the passing of his beloved grandmother. There was a time, oh so long ago, when Mother had only given him that smile on special occasions. Although she’d tried to hide her melancholy, for the first part of his life, his mother had been a distant, beautiful mystery. Like the moon, she was luminous but lonely.

  But not anymore. Not for a long time.

  They crossed the lawn and walked up the steps to the porch. When they got inside, Christopher went to hang up his suit jacket.

  “Jenna, are you all right?” Dad asked softly.

  From the corner of his eye, Chris saw his mother nod. “Are you?”

  “I’m not really sure. Things will never be the same.” Dad’s voice was thick with grief.

  Chris turned his head slightly in time to see their arms slide around each other. He decided to give them a moment alone. He ducked into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. A few minutes later, he heard the click of his mother’s high heels on the hardwood floor, and he turned around. Mother looked elegant as always in her black mourning suit, but her face was tired, and her eyes were sad.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asked, suddenly feeling awkward. “I’ve got drinks, coffee… and that’s about it.”

  “Bachelor,” she said fondly. “Don’t you have any food in the house?”

  “Are you hungry?” he asked with concern. “I could go out and — ”

  “Coffee would be great,” she told him gently.

  Dad came around the corner. “I’ll make it,” he said.

  Chris tried to object, but Dad waved him away. “Go on, you two; get out of the kitchen and let me do my work.” He clapped Chris on the back, and their eyes locked for a moment. Christopher knew what his stepfather was trying to tell him: Go see to your mother.

  It was a job that only a child can do, but that no child wants to: comfort the parent after their parent has departed.

  Of course, Christopher’s grandmother hadn’t been Mom’s biological mother. But Kitty Appleton, who had relished the name of Grandma, had a way of collecting children. Anybody who needed a mother had found one in Kitty. And all of them had lost something with her passing.

  Chris followed his mother into the small dining room, half of which was taken up by painting supplies. Brushes, tubes of oil paint, canvases — no matter how neatly he stored everything, it still looked a mess. Well, he liked a little bit of artistic clutter, so it didn’t really bother him, but he had a feeling that there was a motherly comment coming — Mom would say something about picking up after himself. But she surprised him yet again.

  “I’m so glad you’ve kept up with your painting,” she murmured. “You always had a good eye for art. You really always seemed to enjoy it when I would take you to museums.”

  “I did,” he said softly. Actually, what he had enjoyed was the feeling that he was making his mother happy. His love of art had come later. But it wasn’t the time to be particular about things like that. “And besides, painting is a great stress reliever.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Good for the body and soul, you know?”

  Although Mom nodded gently, he wasn’t at all sure that she’d heard him. She seemed far away, lost in the wooly fog of memory.

  “Let’s go sit down,” he suggested. “Dad’s bringing the coffee.”

  But on the way to the sofa, she paused at a shelf loaded with family photos. Chris studied the pictures with her, scanning the images, taking in all different kinds of facial features. Eyes, noses, mouths — all the same basic components that made up any human face, and yet the variety never ceased to amaze. And regardless of their differences, they had one thing in common: they were family.

  Mother picked up a small silver frame. “Oh, I haven’t seen this one in a long time,” she said softly.

  Chris looked more closely. It was a picture of the two of them at the beach. She was holding him. The sun shone down, and the ocean waves lapped the sand behind them. The colors in the snapshot were faded, but the image was clear. Mom was looking at the camera, and Chris was looking at her. And both of them were beaming.

  “That was taken the summer before Bess was born, wasn’t it? I remember that day,” Chris said.

  “How could you? That was almost thirty years ago!”

  He answered simply. “Because that was the happiest I had ever seen you.” He looked down at his mother, remembering well the days when he used to look up at her.

  Then Chris turned his attention back to the photograph. “That would have been 1957. A lot’s happened since then,” he said, voicing the thought he’d had in the car. “I’ve sometimes wondered what it was that made you so happy that day.”

  Mother replaced the photo on the shelf, carefully sliding it in among the others. “If you’ve wondered, why didn’t you ask me?”

  “I guess I thought it wasn’t my business. Or maybe I thought that you’d tell me someday, if you ever wanted to.”

  Suddenly he realized his mother was looking at him with a loving expression in her wide gray eyes. “You’ve turned into a fine man, Christopher Appleton.”

  He felt the hot prickle of a blush invade his cheeks. Compliments had always made him uncomfortable. “Well thanks, Mom. You’re pretty awesome yourself.”

  Her gaze drifted back to the picture. “I haven’t always taken an easy path in life, and many times I’ve been afraid that you would suffer for my mistakes.”

  Then she smiled. “But either by good fortune or divine intervention, you turned out well, and so did Bess. Better than well. I think that one of the hardest things for any child to do is to look at his parents as if they were people — red-blooded human beings who make mistakes, tell lies, and keep secrets.” Again she looked up at him. “The fact is, you’re a grown man, who no doubt has secrets of his own.”

  Chris shifted, the beginnings of a protest bubbling on his lips. But Mom lifted her hand. “Don’t try to deny it, son, and don’t worry. This conversation isn’t about your private business.”

  “No?” That apprehension was creeping back. “Is it about yours?”

  “I think….” Jenna took a breath. She looked back at the shelf, at the cluster of images crowded together. “I think what it’s really about is that picture.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  July 1950

  A GUST OF WIND HIT THE Buick broadside, and Jenna tightened her grip on the steering wheel, determined to keep the car on the road. The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the pounding rain. She leaned forward, trying to see beyond the downpour, through the dark night to the road ahead.

  Her mouth compressed into a grim line, and her heart throbbed in her chest. She was angry at herself for getting caught in the storm. She’d known it was coming and had been determined to leave the wake in time to avoid it.

  Considering the summer heat, she’d expected most people to leave by then, anyway. But the mourners had been reluctant to leave Bill and Kitty’s big old house at the end of the road, with the tall trees giving much-needed shade and sending cool breezes through the high rooms.

  Jenna had stood on their front porch and watched the storm roll in across the valley below her, feeling like a prisoner in her drab black dress, the sweat gathering on her scalp. Eventually Bill had come out to find her, to check on her, and had guided her back inside.

  “It’s going to rain,” she had said.

  “Yes, I believe you’re right.” He had used his most gentle voice, the one that sounded like an amiable bear growling. But he had not looked at her.

  “People should leave soon so they don’t get caught in the storm,” she had added, trying to keep the urgency out of her voice. Urgency was so inappropriate at a time like this.

  “You don’t need to be worrying over that right now,” he had said kindly.

/>   She had glanced up into his face, seen the grief and compassion there, and had been hit by a blackened wave of guilt. It wasn’t fair of her to want to leave so early. It was ugly and ungrateful of her to be so desperate to escape. So she had allowed herself to be seated in a comfortable chair, to accept condolences while the sky grew steadily darker and the wind whipped the tree branches into a frenzy.

  And as the first fat drops began to fall from the sky, she had at last gotten away.

  In the downpour now, the drive from Burke to Arlington had never seemed so long. Side streets quickly became perilous rivers of streaming water. And even Linden Street, usually a flat, straight ribbon of highway bordered by the friendly faces of newly-built houses, had become a treacherous black snake in the rain. Streetlights flickered intermittently through the deluge, but they were as distant as stars, offering little illumination and no comfort.

  When Jenna finally spotted the sign for her turnoff, her entire body shimmered with relief. She downshifted, slowed to a near-stop, and turned the wheel left, hand-over-hand, guiding the car onto Farley Street. She navigated around the traffic circle and pulled slowly into their driveway.

  No, not their driveway. Her driveway, now. Just hers.

  She turned off the headlights and wipers, set the brake, and turned off the engine.

  She had made it. She was home.

  The rain pounded on the roof like jungle drums, a good match for the steamy heat filling the inside of the car. She peered through the rain-blurred windshield. The porch light was on, as was the lamp in the living room window. Jenna smiled faintly. Stella was always thinking of her.

  Jenna picked up her pocketbook and pushed open the car door, then locked and closed it carefully. The Buick was Bill’s new car, his pride and joy, and she wanted to treat it with all the gentleness it was due. Ignoring the downpour, she walked slowly through the gate and up the back stairs to the kitchen door.