The Girl in the Mist: A Misted Pines Novel

by Ashley, Kristen

  “Then,” I continued, “we clean up the seeds, spread them on a tray, salt them, roast them and consume all the good things we want for ourselves for the next year. While the seeds are roasting, we take the pieces to the yard, dig a hole and put the bad things in the ground. Bury them. We do this to literally bury them, but we also do it to turn them positive. Change them. Because that happens when you return something of the earth to the earth. It nourishes it.”

  I looked among them.

  “Does that make sense?” I asked. “Are you okay to do that?”

  “I’m in,” Jason said gamely.

  Jess looked down at his pumpkin, and it was quiet when he said, “I’m in too.”

  “Totes!” Celeste chirped.

  Bohannan’s answer was picking up his knife.

  I grinned to myself.

  We stabbed and cut and carved and scooped. There were times of quiet. There were more times of conversation and ribbing. Jess had some chops with carving. Jace’s attempt was terrifying. Bohannan’s pumpkin looked exactly like a winking emoji…with eyebrows. Celeste’s had bow lips and eyelashes carved into the flesh. Mine was traditional with three teeth.

  When we were ready to rumble, Bohannan ordered, “You girls get those seeds ready. We’ll go get the shovels and figure out where to dig.”

  Clearly, this fixed gender allocation of roles should be addressed.

  Except I didn’t know where the shovels were, it wasn’t my property we were digging on, and bonus to having men around during this ritual, I didn’t have to dig any holes like had been my job in the past because neither of my girls liked digging either, though I will admit, digging a hole wasn’t hard.

  We’ll just say I selected acting and writing as my career trajectory for many reasons.

  Therefore, I didn’t argue.

  Before the men took off, though, Bohannan slid his arm around my shoulders, pulled me into him and gave me unofficial first kiss number two (which, as you can tell from my use of the word “unofficial,” I also wasn’t counting), he pressed his lips to the side of my head.

  He then whispered in my ear, “Don’t put them in the oven yet.”

  He pulled away just enough to catch my eyes and my confused but affirming nod, since dumping the stuff in the ground didn’t take that long at all.

  Celeste and I cleaned the seeds, spread them on the tray, salted them and set the oven to preheat.

  We then gathered the pieces of pumpkin at each station in newspaper, keeping track of whose was whose.

  We went out and found the men leaning into shovels about twenty yards away from the pier, still in the clearing, but just. You could reach out and touch the first tree.

  An excellent spot.

  It wasn’t as much as normal, but mist was on the water again, even if the moon was bright, the sky was cloudless, and the weather was for once warm-ish.

  Celeste and I handed out the parcels.

  “Any words of wisdom?” Bohannan prompted.

  “Just do you,” I said. “You want to say a few words, out loud or in your head, go for it. As for me…”

  I stepped forward and dumped my bundle in the rather deep hole (another bonus to men around, I’d never put the effort into digging that deep of a hole, and what I had to bury this year needed to go down deep).

  And there went Bob Fucking Welsh.

  I knew, of course, he wasn’t gone. What he did wasn’t gone.

  But I’d learned over the years there was strength and power in rituals like these, and this wasn’t the only one I participated in (it was just the only one I did with others).

  And somehow, in my head, doing this lessened his hold on me.

  Celeste went next, and she also dumped.

  Bohannan went next, the same.

  Jace dumped his, saying “Sayonara, bullshit.”

  It was then, we turned to Jesse.

  And it was then that I knew what Bohannan knew before we even walked out there.

  I hadn’t taken it further.

  He always did.

  Jesse was frozen, staring into the hole.

  “Son,” Bohannan murmured, starting to move to his boy.

  He stopped when Jess took a step back but only to freeze again and continue to stare at the hole.

  Everyone was silent.

  Jesse broke it.

  “I don’t want Alice in that hole.”

  Celeste made a move, but I caught her hand. When I did, she stilled but held on so tight, my fingers hurt.

  Jesse looked to his dad.

  “I can’t bury her in with all that.”

  “We’ll take her to the pier,” Bohannan said quietly. “We’ll give her to the fishes.”

  “I don’t wanna let her go.”

  Celeste made a moaning noise.

  Jace was done and went to his brother, crowding him but not touching him.

  Bohannan reached to his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, flipped it open and tugged something out I couldn’t see.

  He showed it to Jesse.

  “Movie stub. Her name was Laura. She was fifteen. I swiped it from her bedroom. I’ve carried it in my wallet every day for fourteen years.”

  Oh my God.

  Jesse stared at his father.

  “Dad,” he said.

  No one moved, except Bohannan, who was swiftly tucking the movie stub back into his wallet.

  He’d just returned it to his pocket when Jess spoke again.

  “Dad.”

  That cracked in the middle.

  That was when Bohannan caught Jesse on both sides of his neck and pulled him almost violently into his body.

  Jesse’s frame heaved.

  Bohannan wrapped his arms around him, and Jason moved to stand behind him. He then rested his forehead on Jesse’s back.

  Jesse made an animalistic noise that punched right through me.

  Okay, there was something that night that was official.

  I’d fallen in love with this family.

  “Let’s go,” I whispered to Celeste, starting to tug her around toward the house, thinking that Jess might not want her or me to see his emotion.

  “No,” she replied, holding fast to my hand and not moving.

  It might be good she was there, but I wasn’t sure I should be there.

  The instant I had that thought, Bohannan turned his head and pinned me with his gaze.

  Well, that answered that, though I didn’t know if it was a You’re one of us now or a You got us into this mess, you’re seeing it through.

  I also didn’t know which one of those was scarier, considering I hadn’t even had an official kiss from the patriarch of this crew.

  “Weak,” Jesse grunted.

  “Strong,” Bohannan contradicted.

  “I’m never gonna let her go.”

  “She’s counting on that.”

  Jesse’s head came up.

  Jason stepped away, but not too far.

  “What?” Jess asked his dad.

  “You know,” Bohannan answered.

  Bohannan’s back was to me, but I could see father and son did not lose eye contact for several, very long beats.

  Jesse nodded and moved out of his father’s embrace.

  Bohannan turned to Celeste and me.

  Jace came to his brother’s side.

  Jesse looked at me.

  “Who needs therapy when they can go out and buy a pumpkin?”

  Oh no!

  Disaster!

  “No, I didn’t mean—”

  “Chill, Delly,” Jesse said softly. “I’ll tell her about this my next go. She needs to incorporate this shit into her regime.”

  “Her” must be his therapist.

  My smile was tentative.

  So was his.

  “Are the seeds burning?” Jace asked, and not for the first time I wondered if he was a medical miracle, and his brain could be found in his stomach.

  “We didn’t put them in yet,” Celeste told him.

  Tha
t made me look at Bohannan.

  Jesse came and claimed his sister, and by that, I mean claimed. Her scream was fake and shrill when, even though he had his bundle of pumpkin bits tucked under one arm like a football, he tossed her over his other shoulder.

  Because, obviously, after crying in his dad’s arms, he had to do something manly.

  I’d give him that play.

  Celeste gave it too.

  They headed up to the house, sister hanging down brother’s back.

  Bohannan came and claimed me with an arm around my shoulders and aimed us to the house.

  “So, we gonna have a conversation as a family, you know, like pumpkin-carving extreme therapy, where you two announce you’re an item and what that means to all us kids?” Jason ribbed as he sauntered at our sides. “You know, Dad, like, how you still love us and we’re very important, but you might not be around as much because you’re getting it on with a super famous TV star.”

  I thought for certain Bohannan would shut this down with a tonally significant grunt.

  He didn’t.

  He said, “Something like that.”

  Jason barked out a laugh.

  I stared at Bohannan’s profile and spied suspicious movement around his beard.

  But I definitely didn’t miss his arm tightening around my shoulders.

  “Though, I don’t think the family meeting is necessary,” Bohannan finished.

  I moved my stare to Jace.

  He was watching me.

  And his expression was so far from teasing, my breath caught.

  “Nope,” he agreed. “Don’t suppose we do.”

  Twenty-Three

  Bigfoot

  I sat at my desk, staring at the empty Word document on my computer, not thinking about the fact my deadline had been put in limbo while Bob Welsh put me in limbo, but now that Bob Welsh was in his own limbo, my deadline would contractually be taken out of its.

  I also wasn’t thinking about how fabulous my office now was.

  The desk was perfect with the lamps I’d bought, the rug I’d bought, and the Eames leather lounge chair tucked into the corner with its ottoman and gold, swooped-arm, globe-shaded standing lamp hanging over it.

  And the paint color I’d chosen to cover the walls above the wood wainscotting was inspired.

  My desk was set between the windows so my desktop monitor didn’t obstruct the view on either side of it, and I could look out at the lake.

  The décor of the room was a mix of mid-century modern, old-school tradition, girlie, with unusual pops of color (for instance, a distressed turquoise table in a corner, which had no purpose but to hold a beautiful vase of dried flowers).

  I loved it.

  It was no Cade Bohannan Bedroom (and there was a reason the Bohannan clan picked that stretch of land to build that particular house, because my view was tranquil and stunning, albeit narrow and restricted in parts by pines, so it kind of felt, especially upstairs, like it was in a treehouse—but the expansiveness of their view was dazzling).

  No, I wasn’t thinking of that either.

  I was thinking that Bohannan had not thrown himself with gusto into finding Alice’s killer because he was keeping me safe.

  Now that he wasn’t keeping me safe, he was throwing himself with gusto into finding Alice’s killer.

  I knew this because, for the last four days, we’d texted, and once, he’d swung through his house to give his daughter’s forehead a kiss, mine as well (and I wasn’t counting that one either) while she and I were camped out on the sectional in their TV room in their basement (that had, Celeste shared, at one time been the boys’ domain, as their bedrooms had also been down there, but now it had been reclaimed). And then he’d swung right back out.

  She and I were watching Russ’s comedy drama (I’d forgotten how good it was).

  Bohannan had seemed distracted in the twenty seconds he was with us.

  And then he was vapor.

  So I guessed that warning he’d laid on me during his back-to-back “Relationships Are Feelings” and “I’m A Fan” speeches, which I took as an indication he was going to jump me when he no longer had to look after me, was a false alarm.

  I knew that finding the man who did what he did to Alice was a priority level so high, there was no word yet created to describe it.

  I still yearned to connect with Cade.

  The thing was, I was celibate, and I had been since my second not-so-fun, not-very-long-lasting relationship after Angelo.

  I did not hate men (as some claimed).

  I very much enjoyed them in many senses. Their company. Their attention. Their penises (if they knew how to use them).

  I’d just learned that I didn’t need them.

  This was a thing that had been one of the controversies of We Pluck the Cord.

  My heroine didn’t need men either.

  Women were aghast (mostly conservatives), because…values. This idea could obviously not be borne because it might lead to breakdowns in traditions they held sacred. Namely marriage, and the insidious subtext therein of what they thought was a woman’s place in society.

  Men were aghast (mostly all of them), because…well, honestly, it was rare I ever met a man who hadn’t had ingrained in him how crucial he was to just about everything, especially women, from practically birth.

  I’ll repeat, I did not hate men. They couldn’t help the role they were cast in in the drama of life, and a large number of them understood that was bullshit.

  Of course, in the end, my heroine finding love—with a man—but on unusual terms set by (Lord God, no) her, was ignored.

  The fact she loved him but understood she could live without him, now that, somehow, was sacrilege.

  Though, I will say the uproar was awesome for sales.

  You write what you know, or at least you should, a reader won’t believe it if you don’t.

  I wrote what I knew.

  But as with my heroine, I always knew, even if I didn’t need a man, that didn’t mean I didn’t want one.

  It didn’t mean I didn’t want company, I didn’t want attention, I didn’t want someone to share my time and life with.

  It didn’t mean I didn’t want someone to love.

  I loved loving people, and as far as I was concerned, the more people to love (who were worthy of my love), the better.

  I just didn’t want to put up with the bullshit of a not-the-right-one.

  I hadn’t known him that long.

  But I sensed that Bohannan was the right one.

  It didn’t matter if I wasn’t yet sure, though.

  Because I wanted to find out.

  I had a lot of strong evidence to many facets of his character with how he was with his kids, his job, me.

  Not to be crass or anything, and not simply because it had been a very long time.

  But I felt the time was nigh.

  I wanted to know if he knew how to use his dick.

  His hands.

  At the very least his lips and tongue.

  I did not have that.

  Any of it.

  Even after he walked me home after pumpkin carving, he kissed me on the forehead then shoved me in my house, closed the door for me, pointed toward the security panel, then waited outside until I locked said door and signaled off (my arrival) and on (secure windows and doors) to the alarm.

  I knew, obviously, it’d be all kinds of bratty to demand he pause his hunt for a kid killer to come over and fuck me senseless (if that was in his sexual repertoire).

  But that didn’t mean I wasn’t tempted to do it.

  I stared at the blank Word document, willing myself to bring up the outline I’d written months ago so I could get the juices flowing, hearing David working in the kitchen—he was scraping off the backsplash (the cabinets would remain, but we’d ordered new countertops, new tile was going up, a new sink would be there in a week, the new faucet was in the garage, and new appliances would be placed as and when in the project).
<
br />   We both felt this was a good way to go considering the next big projects, the bathrooms, were going to be complete overhauls and that would take time.

  Needless to say, David was breathing easy (at least in one part of his life). His wife was due in five months. We both figured he’d finish his last project for me (all-over-the-house floor refurbishing, or perhaps the boathouse) a couple of months after that.

  And David was delightful. I was not only glad I was getting this house as I wanted it, I was glad I was giving him some peace of mind.

  On this thought, my phone rang.

  I looked to it, hoping for one name, dreading the idea that it might be two others (I had eventually touched base with Warren and Angelo just to let them know I was okay, but was now avoiding them because this event had disastrously triggered some base protective instinct in both and they were driving me batty), and getting the name I expected.

  Camille.

  She’d called every day since Welsh was caught.

  I knew her ploy.

  Before he was caught, she’d mostly left me alone, a subtle communication that all was well, I was safe and alive and should live my life with normal sporadic, but relatively frequent, communication with my grown daughter.

  Now that the situation was resolved, the threat behind bars, but the women entering a new period of hell—that being the journey they’d be taking to find themselves, whoever that self ended up being after he’d shifted their life’s trajectory so drastically—Camille knew I’d obsess about that and was all over me like a rash.

  I should have worn sunglasses a lot more with her too, that’s all I’m saying.

  “Hello, lovely,” I greeted.

  “Hey, what’s happening?” she replied.

  “It’s raining. And…surprise! There’s fog on the lake. Last, my kitchen tile is being chipped away.”

  “Okay, this is good, right here, an immediate segue because I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.”

  “About my kitchen tile?”

  “About the fact that Fenn and Joan and I all think it’s weird you didn’t do what Alicia and Russ did. Get out of town, rent someplace safe and far away, so after this was done, you could come home. Instead, you dug through all that stuff you kept in storage from the Montana house, stuff you should have sold, so we kinda already knew, and bought and furnished an all-new house.” Pause, then loaded and heavy she went on, “Mom, we all feel you should understand that you have a real estate addiction.”