And he did.
Dodging a large cobweb, they entered the forest through a clearing behind the concrete well cover. Years earlier, Hannah had considered carving out a path from this spot down to the creek, but enough generations had crisscrossed Saponi Mountain with trails. Besides, she loved her daily game of never repeating a route into the forest, of knowing her destination but allowing the journey to be a surprise. If this were her first time in the forest, she would head straight, aim for the crest of the hill and the old trading path. Jacob had likely done the same. But if he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be. An experienced woodsman knew how to lose himself, but that was not a thought worth sharing.
She stopped and waited for Will to catch up. “You might want to consider this free service the local sheriff offers for tracking seniors with electronic bracelets. A couple of my clients use it with great success.”
He shot her another look, but this time the meaning was clear.
“Yeah, like he’s going to agree to that,” Will said.
“You know, it’s not the information that matters so much as the presentation.”
They started walking again.
A pileated woodpecker with a crown of red feathers scooted up a dead pine and began hammering. How long before the drought weakened the more vulnerable trees and brought them down? As if they hadn’t lost enough trees, thanks to the planned McMansions on the ridge. All spring she’d listened to logging trucks rumble up the private road leading to the land-for-sale sign, polluting with noise and fumes, aiding in the rape of the forest.
Hannah stepped onto a rotting log and paused, watching for copperheads. Will did the same.
“With a transmitter, he can have more freedom,” she said. “And we can have less worry.”
“You mean I can have less worry.”
“Why do you find it so hard to accept that Poppy and I like your dad?” she said.
“Frankly? He’s not that likable.”
“Oh, come on. He’s a sweet old guy. Surely he’s earned the right to live the remainder of his life with dignity?”
“You don’t think I treat him with dignity?” Will’s voice betrayed nothing.
“No. I’m saying Hawk’s Ridge didn’t. The second time around, you’ll get it right.”
“You’re an optimist, aren’t you?”
A branch snapped under his khaki-colored Converse.
“I’m a realist who assumes someone as smart as you is unlikely to repeat his mistakes.”
“How do you know I’m smart?”
“You wrote an international bestseller when you were, what—twenty-five?”
“Twenty-four. But that doesn’t mean squat.”
Was he insecure or fishing for compliments? Either way, she wasn’t arguing the point. “How’s the search for a retirement home coming?”
“Frustrating. I’ve found a decent place called Azalea Court, but I’m on the wait list. Basically I’m hoping some poor bastard croaks so an apartment opens up. In the meantime, I’m back to checking out facilities in New York.”
“Without visiting them?”
Will kicked at a small, mossy-covered outcrop that rose through the leaves. Another week and none of the stones on the path would be noticeable. Maybe he wasn’t smart enough to avoid repeating mistakes. Yes, Azalea Court was a decent retirement home. Flashy, but well kept. It was also close to the Durham county line, which, for Jacob, was as alien as New York.
They passed a huge root ball from Hurricane Fran and trudged onto the old trading path. The undergrowth rustled, and Hannah raised her face into a rain of falling leaves.
“I suppose,” Will said, “that now might be a good time to talk about Poppy’s plan.”
“What plan?”
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?” Hannah fanned her T-shirt against her chest. If not for the drought, she would consider it a two-shower day.
“Poppy and my dad want me to buy the cottage.”
“But it’s not for sale,” Hannah said. Although, for less than a second, the idea of Will staying...
“Don’t worry, the plan sucks balls.”
How eloquent.
“Poppy has no medical training and my dad needs to be in assisted living with the option to upgrade to hospice care.”
“Upgrade?”
“You know what I mean.” He scratched through his hair. Clearly he hadn’t combed it since he got up, but he wore the disheveled-writer look well. The phrase morning-after bed head slotted into Hannah’s mind, and she picked up her pace, marching toward the carpet of periwinkle up ahead. At some point there must have been a garden here, a woodland garden. Showy perennials that flashed fat, garish petals in the sun did nothing for her. Flowering shade plants, however, spoke of magic.
She grabbed a spindly dogwood tree and hauled herself up a bank.
“Just like Occoneechee Mountain, this is another big hill with a grandiose name,” Will muttered behind her.
“I figured it was once part of something more majestic, probably the ancient Sauratown Mountains to the west. The view from the ridge is stunning. Sadly they’re opening it up for development. One house is already finished and occupied. This time next year, there could be ten families living on Saponi Mountain.” She sighed. “I’ll have a community of neighbors.”
Their footsteps crunched through crispy yellow and brown leaves, his echoing hers.
“The forest is surprisingly open here,” Will said.
“It changes dramatically once you’re over the ridge and descending into the wetlands.” Talking about nature with Will was safe. She could almost pretend he was just another stray wandering through her life. “The creek’s dry, of course, but there are ferns and wildflowers everywhere on the other side. And each spring a wave of daffodils marks out a long-forgotten homestead. I like to picture an old woman with threadbare gardening gloves planting the bulbs, never imagining that they will endure and outlive both her and her house.”
Will gave a soft huh. “There’s a writer in you.”
“Hardly, but I do like to create stories that bring the past to life.” She stopped and turned. “I like to believe that people who die never really leave us.”
* * *
The forest had sunk its claws in once again. Dragged him back as if he were easy prey. And where was Hannah heading with this conversation? Could they not just find the old man and get out?
Will bent down to brush aside the leaves, to touch the hard, compacted dirt under his feet. Dirt never lies, his dad always said. Young Will couldn’t figure out whether that was Occaneechi lore or Jacob lore. The lines were fuzzy because his dad was good at making stuff up—almost as good as his mom had been. Except she’d been flat-out delusional.
“There must be graves near here.” Even though he couldn’t see any markers. The forest was keeping its secrets, which was fine. He wasn’t that interested. Really.
“There’s an old burial plot up ahead. The boys found it when they were younger and frightened themselves silly. I told them it spoke of peaceful death in old age.”
“Did they believe you?”
“Until Galen realized one of the nameless markers was considerably smaller and undoubtedly belonged to a child.” Hannah sighed. “How did you know, about the graves?”
“Periwinkle.” He pointed. “Planted on graves to suppress weeds. My dad taught me to read the land. He also encouraged me to play wherever I saw vinca growing, since it doesn’t provide enough cover for snakes. Come to think of it, I spent most of my childhood playing on graves. Which makes it totally impressive that I didn’t end up as a serial killer.”
She gave a laugh.
Her hair was gripped back today, but a blond curl had escaped to frame her jawline. How would it feel to gra
b that hair and pull her lips to his, to feel her mouth yield? Despite the faded jeans and tatty T-shirt, she was a babe. He’d never dug an older woman before, although she wasn’t that much older. Just a decade. Hard to decide whether her ass or her legs were more distracting. She had great legs. Long legs. Did she ever wear skirts and heels? Of course, heels would make her taller than he was. No, please no. He was getting a boner.
So not the time, Will.
She had a great figure for the mother of two grown sons, but maybe that’s what happened when you popped out babies while you were still one yourself. Were you ever ready to be a parent, though? And once you’d discovered that elation and terror, were you ever ready to stop? You didn’t just walk away from parenthood because your son was dead—or because he wanted to be.
“Your plant knowledge is so like your dad’s,” Hannah said.
“I’m nothing like him.”
“Your mother, then?”
“No.”
She shrugged, and he looked at the ground. There she was again, making things easy. He called and she came; she asked questions but didn’t push for answers. Hannah pointed to an area that looked as if a giant had taken a bite out of the land.
“This was the site of an old grist mill,” she said. “That’s the headrace, and on the other side is where the wheel would have been. The dam was destroyed in the yellow fever epidemic.”
“To kill off mosquitoes?”
“Exactly. There are so many memories on this piece of land, piled up top of one another. So many lives.” She exhaled. “So many deaths.”
Will followed her gaze and could have sworn he glimpsed someone watching them from down near the headrace. He nearly called out, Dad! But no one was there. The forest grew still.
“This is a beautiful spot.” Suddenly chilled, he rubbed his arms. “Peaceful, but the air feels heavy.”
“You feel it, too, the sadness?” Her voice rose.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?” she said.
“Not really.” He was not going to talk about the dead, the spirit world, any of it....
“I do.” She smiled. “My mother taught me to believe in them.”
“Yeah, well, lucky you. Mine taught me to believe in human monsters.” He glanced back at the headrace. Again, the feeling of being watched. “Your mother liked a good ghost story?”
“She was psychic.”
“No shit.”
“Your mother liked a good horror story?”
“She was insane.”
“No shit,” Hannah said.
Will laughed and was surprised how good it felt, as good as mountain air on naked limbs. But then he saw Freddie curled up beside him during a June thunderstorm. Remembered the smell of his shampoo, the heat his little body generated in sleep, the softness of his Buzz Lightyear pj’s.
The laughter died in Will’s throat. His breath burned; his heart was on fire. He wanted to sink into the leaves, let the forest devour him, but no. He did what he always did: he kept functioning, kept moving, his legs and his brain on autopilot.
Leaves snapped and crackled to their left, and Will jumped. Hannah seemed not to notice.
“What happened to your dad?”
Hannah stared. “Why do you ask?”
“We’ve covered my trust issues, the scenery, my dad and our dead mothers. I’ve heard a couple of things about your father from Galen. I guess I’m curious to know more.” And it had been months since he’d taken an interest in anything or anyone.
“So that’s what you guys talk about in your nightly therapy sessions.”
“What happens at the cottage after midnight,” he said, “stays at the cottage.”
Hannah watched him. “Okay, then, I’ll tell you about my father.” She unclipped her hair, brushed it with her fingers and reclipped it. “They were close, Galen and Dad. And so alike. Both quiet, easy to be with, sensitive. Eager to hide from the world.”
“It’s an unusual diagnosis—death by broken heart. Is it true?”
“In a sense, yes. My mother’s death broke him.” Hannah paused. “My father killed himself. Here, in the forest.”
Jesus. Will’s spine tingled. Through the trees, the cottage was hidden, but if he went straight, he could make a run for it.
“Few people know. Poppy, my brothers...and now you.” Hannah spoke as if she were placing a takeout order for pizza: Thin crust, extra cheese. Ready in fifteen minutes? Yes, that’s fine. Thank you.
“Why me?” His voice squeaked. Didn’t he have enough secrets of his own?
“Galen’s already curious about the genetics of depression. I was trying to figure out how to tell him when you and your dad showed up. My mother taught me that everything happens for a reason. And here we are—you and I, standing on the spot where my father died.
“I didn’t want my sons growing up under the specter of damaged DNA, but I always planned to tell them after Liam turned twenty-one. The past month just sped everything up. There’s quite a story to tell, though—my grandfather had holes drilled into his skull, and my father struggled against bouts of depression his whole life. He hid them, of course, as his generation did, but I often saw him huddled in the garage in the evening, crying. After my mother died, he fell apart. I thought if I brought him here and smothered him with love, everything would be fine. But love isn’t always enough. You can love someone, but that doesn’t mean you can keep him safe.”
Amen. You could plant yourself in every corner of your kid’s life, research the heck out of every piece of kid equipment on Consumer Reports before you bought it, and still not make a difference.
“As a doctor, he knew how to kill himself,” Hannah continued. “He took pills.”
“And I thought I had family baggage.”
“It’s good to know there’s someone worse off, isn’t it? But please don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not someone who peddles regret. I’m someone who believes the present exists because of the past. It’s a symbiotic relationship.”
He loved the word symbiotic, loved the way it sounded in his head.
“Do I wish my father were still alive? Of course I do. I miss both my parents every day. I talk to them all the time.” Hannah smiled her easy smile.
If he could talk to Freddie, what would he say? I’m sorry, I love you, I miss you? Or would there be no words—just one last hug?
“My father didn’t commit suicide to hurt me,” Hannah continued. “He killed himself because it was the only path he could take. I like to believe he found the peace in death that he couldn’t find in life. But I also need to believe a part of him stayed behind—” she stared at the headrace again “—as my guardian angel. As Galen’s savior. I’m not a kook, but I like to believe my father’s spirit lives on. I know that’s selfish, and I know my mother would say I’m holding him here on earth, preventing his soul from moving into the light, but I do feel him sometimes. In the forest.”
No one knew what happened once a family retreated inside a house, pulled the curtains and locked the front door, and life rarely made sense. But standing among the hardwood trees, surrounded by squirrels that were noisier than a bunch of preschoolers in Central Park, Will understood. Despite the talk of angels and light and crap he didn’t believe, he understood this woman who, like him, had lied to protect her broken family. Maybe he wasn’t the only person who needed to bury the truth in a story.
Had he known Hannah before, things might be different. She might be a confidante, someone who wouldn’t abuse his secrets. But in the trajectory of secret keeping, he’d passed the point of no return. For the first time, he hadn’t shared with Ally or consulted with his overpaid, pit bull publicist. No, this was his mess and his alone.
“I’m not sure what to say,” he said.
“You don’t have to say anything. But I do want to ask a question.” She sucked on her lips. “How do you think he’s going to react?”
“Hannah, he’s your son. You know him better than I do.”
“I’m not sure I do these days.”
Please don’t lay this on me.
Her phone rang and she turned her back on him, shutting him out. Thank God.
Will followed the path onto a rickety old bridge over the dry creek bed and jiggled the railing, testing it. A fall from this height could bust an ankle, and then he and his dad would be even more dependent on Hannah. The last thing she needed.
On the other side of the creek, the ground rose sharply. Would they make it up to the ridge? He wanted to experience the view she’d mentioned; he wanted to be up high looking down on the world.
“That was Galen. I asked him to let us know if your dad showed up at the house. He hasn’t.” Hannah joined him on the bridge, and they walked across side by side.
Will glimpsed an abandoned squirrel’s dray hanging from a huge white oak. It looked like Spanish moss attacked with a flamethrower.
“Have you read any of Galen’s poems?” she said.
“I’ve offered, but he seems reluctant to share.”
“He has a gift. First published at eight, and in high school he won a national competition that’s been going since the twenties. Sylvia Plath was a previous winner. How’s that for irony?”
“The Scholastic Art and Writing Awards? Did he win a senior writing portfolio?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Past recipient. Why are you smiling?” His dad was really, really right about that smile.
“I finally get why you and Galen are friends. You’re so similar,” Hannah said. “Both self-contained, both writers, both kindhearted.”
“I’m not sure anyone’s described me as kindhearted before.”
“You dropped everything for your dad. That says something.”
“It’s not like I had a choice,” he said.
“Actually, you did. Poppy tells me you were the one who pulled him out of Hawk’s Ridge. If you’d agreed to play by the director’s rules, Jacob could have stayed.”
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