“And did that work?”
“For me, yes. I stopped looking to the past for answers.”
“Have you always been this nauseatingly wise?”
She gave a laugh. “You know, you still have a chance to reach your dad, to forgive him for whatever happened with your mom. He might have made decisions you didn’t support, but that doesn’t make him a bad parent.”
Will leaned back and rested his arm along the porch swing. A trace smell of his soap—or maybe it was his shampoo—drifted into her space. Remembering the damp towel on his bedroom floor, Hannah edged away.
“I knew the band members had a falling-out, and I assumed Mom was the cause. She was the cause of everything bad. But it didn’t have to be that hard, you know? If she had just admitted she needed help. You really think Dad did that, for me?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
Will said nothing.
“What do you have to lose?”
“The glimmer of hope you just gave me?”
“What if I could give you another one?” She reached over and placed her hand on his knee. Without thinking, she had slipped into vet mode. Sharing important news—good or bad—was always easier if you were physically connected to the other person, like an emotional lightning rod. But they jerked apart in unison, and the porch swing vibrated violently. For a moment, the world seemed to tilt and Will drifted out of focus. Was she drinking too quickly?
Hannah shook her head clear and pressed on as if nothing had happened. “Was your mom petite with thick white hair down to her waist? Eyes the mirror of yours?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, those familiar eyes narrowing with question.
“I met her,” Hannah said. “I met your mom. She found Rosie in the Occoneechee Mountain parking lot, loaded her in the car and drove her straight to me. I never figured out why. She must have seen one of my flyers in the library, or maybe one of her friends recommended me.”
“My mom didn’t have friends.” He put his glass down on the porch floor and raked his hands through his hair. He had workman’s hands, not the hands of an artist. “Jesus, is there anything else you want to throw at me?”
“I only met her that once.”
“How long ago?” he said.
“Four years.”
“Which month?”
“March? I’d just come back from a hike in the botanical gardens and the trout lilies were blooming. I love trout lilies.”
Will didn’t move. “Mom died that March, of a heart attack. I hadn’t seen her in over a year. Did you look at her and think, Omigod, total whacko?”
“No. She was sweet.”
“For real?”
“She talked fast,” Hannah said. “It was a little hard to follow her thread. She wanted to pay me to give Rosie a checkup and stitch a wound, but I told her she could make a donation to the local shelter instead. She said she wanted a dog for when her grandson came to visit.”
Will slumped into himself. “She never met Freddie. I wouldn’t allow it. I couldn’t.” He sighed. “I was waiting until he was bigger, so she couldn’t pull some of the shit she had with me. Once, she dragged me by my hair. Please don’t repeat that—especially not to my dad.”
Hannah had witnessed so much cruelty, so much abuse inflicted on animals, but a mother with her own child...? She pushed her palm against her breast and tried not to imagine what Will must be seeing, feeling, remembering.
“What else did she say?”
Hannah swallowed and looked down at Rosie. Her Rosie-girl, the dog that had brought such happiness into her life. “Rosie was in bad shape, so I asked to keep her for a few days.” She sighed. “Your mom said she’d return the following week. She never did. To be honest, I was relieved. It was love at first sight for old Rosie and me.”
“Yeah, Mom had a limited attention span for anything or anyone.”
“I’m guessing she died before she could come back.”
“Possibly,” he said. “Did she look rough, like a hobo? Is that why you didn’t charge her?”
“No, it’s a judgment I make sometimes. Her car was beaten-up and, despite the cold, she wasn’t wearing a jacket. I see a lot of older people who would rather go without groceries than neglect their pets. I’m in this business because it’s my calling, not to get rich. I won’t take money that needs to go to food.”
“I sent them money all the time. But Mom was so impetuous. She’d buy this crap they didn’t need. And my dad never said no to her. Not once. Why didn’t he ever say no?”
“Love complicates,” she said quietly.
“I always wanted one good memory of her, but I could never find it.”
“Take mine. After all, your mother brought me Rosie. There’ve been many stray dogs in my life, but never one as special as Rosie. She’s my animal soul mate.”
Hannah slipped off her clog and ran her foot through Rosie’s baby-soft fur.
“Weird, that you of all people should have met my mom,” Will said. “Talk about a plot twist. Put this in a novel and no one would believe it.”
“I told you—things happen for a reason.”
“Yeah? But that doesn’t explain what’s happened in my life.”
“Right. You being a bestselling author and all that.”
“Talking to you is so easy. You make everything so...”
“Easy?”
A smile danced at the corner of his lips. “Are you teasing me?”
“I don’t like drama. My guess is you don’t, either.”
“Legacy of my childhood. And having a kid with a woman who was, I mean, is—” the smile disappeared and he flapped his words away “—just as crazy as my mom doesn’t help. What’s your excuse?”
“I bottomed out on melodrama. My mother died in a violent accident, my father committed suicide, my husband decided he was gay. And now I have Galen’s depression. Family life is never about the picket fence and the home-baked dinner rolls. It’s about surviving crises. You get through one, there’s always another one waiting in the wings.”
Will reclaimed his glass. “Why hasn’t your ex-husband visited since Galen came home?”
“I asked him to stay away. Inigo understands bad behavior, the kind of stunts our younger son used to pull, but he doesn’t get depression. He thinks Galen should snap out of it. I hope you have a good relationship with your ex, because parenting gets different, not easier. And there comes a point when you have to ignore your instinct to tighten the reins. By the time your son gets to high school, parental micromanaging will add pounds of stress to your life without impacting his.”
The rusted chains on the porch swing squeaked.
“I didn’t choose to be a parent,” Will said. “I knew by the time I was sixteen I didn’t want kids.”
“But fate had other plans.”
He jumped up, more restless than a male dog around a bitch in heat.
Hannah stood, too. “I’m sorry. You’ve made it clear you don’t want to talk about Freddie. But you know where I am, if you change your mind.”
“Don’t go,” he said. “We have half a bottle of wine left.”
“We don’t have to drink it all in one night.” She tried to ignore the burden of duplicity, the irrational sense of being involved in activity she should hide from her son. Now that Galen had hallmarked Will as his friend—his only friend at this point—the net binding them became more entangled.
Will grazed her shoulder. Less than a pat, but her skin tingled; her muscles tightened. Even as she tried to put her mind elsewhere—anywhere—her body whispered, Touch me again. Holding his gaze, she stayed still. Thankfully, only the whites of his eyes showed in the dusky light.
“I’d really like you to stay. It’s, well, it’s been a while since I’ve—” His hands flew
in front of his face, and he suddenly seemed shy. “I haven’t hung out with someone normal in a while. No offense to Galen.”
“What about Poppy?”
“It’s a little awkward between us, since the shower episode. I mean, she’s smart and funny—”
“And sexy.”
“I guess, but she’s not—” Music burst from his pocket, a song Hannah didn’t recognize. Will pulled out his iPhone. “Ally!” he said, and mouthed at Hannah, Back in five.
He sauntered down the steps and disappeared into the evening, but she could hear his voice murmuring. Hannah finished Will’s sentence in her mind: She’s not Ally.
And neither am I.
Hannah inhaled wood smoke and prayed the newbies in their big mansion up on the ridge weren’t stupid enough to burn leaves in a drought. And yet, smart people made terrible decisions every day. And intelligent women could say the most ridiculous things when distracted by flukes of fate and handsome younger guys. Why had she tested him, goaded him about Poppy? Like a dream catcher without a hole, there was no escape route for her thoughts. But she had to find a way out, because these feelings for Will? She needed them gone. If her connection to his mother was a sign, then it was a sign of one thing only: Will was here, in their lives, for her son, not for her. Nothing mattered beyond her son’s recovery. And please God, Will would stay long enough for her to be sure this shift in Galen’s behavior was not an aberration.
She leaned over the railing and dumped her leftover wine in the dirt, and then she went into the cottage to find a pen and a piece of paper.
* * *
“I’m not going to ask if you’re okay, but I’m sending you a telepathic hug,” Ally said.
So, she hadn’t forgotten today was the four-month anniversary of Freddie’s death.
“The day’s nearly over. That’s the best I can say.” And then he could start the countdown to the next marker. Five months.
He considered walking into the black forest, away from the lights of both houses. Walking until he collapsed and curled up in a bed of leaves like a wild animal. He did that once to escape his mom. Worked, too, until his dad had found him and carried him home.
“Listen, Ally. I can’t talk.”
“Meeting a hot babe?”
Will cleared his throat.
“Omigod, you are meeting someone. You dark horse.” Ally laughed.
Years ago, he had believed her laugh to be the sweetest sound in the world. Part of him wished he still did. Loving Ally had dragged him through adolescence; her rejection had given him the determination to get the hell out of Orange County—to prove to her that he was not destined to be the next county grave digger. The first three Agent Dodds novels were written for Ally. Maybe the fourth, too.
“Come on, you. Spill the details to Auntie Ally.”
Will tried to think of a comeback. Technically he wasn’t meeting anyone, since Hannah was already on his porch. Well, her porch, and yes, she was hot, and yes, he felt shots of electrical currents when they touched. Of course, that could just be ramped-up lust, since he hadn’t gotten laid in at least eight months. A big, fat, pregnant eight months. Maybe that explained the dreams about Hannah. Maybe he was just horny as hell, but thinking about sex when his son’s ashes were sitting in an urn in his apartment—that was beyond heinous.
“Let me guess.” Ally caved first, but then, she always did. “It’s complicated.”
“You have no idea,” Will said. Was Hannah the reason he had extended his search to retirement homes on the Virginia border? Was he engineering excuses to stay? “Listen, I’m planning to be back in New York next week. Can you handle everything till then?”
“What do you think?”
“Sorry. Silly question.”
“Is it strange, being home?”
“Yeah. Like plummeting into a time warp. Everything’s the same, except for the people. And the fact that my dad is, you know, losing it.”
“I thought you might decide to stay,” Ally said.
“Nope. Way too much crap waiting for me every day I wake up here.”
“Gotta resume the role of New York author?”
“Yeah, I guess. Listen. Did you ever hear anything about Dad and a recording deal?”
“Nope. He still picking that banjo?”
“Not really. The only time he’s played since Mom died was to piss off the director of Hawk’s Ridge.”
“You should get him back into it.”
“I tried, darling. I tried.” Admittedly, not very hard.
“Okay, fuck off, then. Call me before you leave. And, Williekins? Do us both a favor and get laid.”
“Hate you. Love Seth, hate you.”
“Hate you, too. So does Seth.”
Will hit End Call and smiled. Ally could always make him smile—even today. But she wasn’t the only one. Hannah had made him smile, too.
He stared up at Venus, the evening star. So bright, so full of dreams. As a boy, he used to wish on Venus: wish for his mom to get better; wish to be part of a normal family; wish to grow up and marry Ally and live on Occoneechee Mountain. What a load of sap. Not one of his wishes had come true. Not one of them had even held the possibility of coming true.
He turned back to the cottage. With any luck, Hannah would stay for another glass of wine and he could pretend, for half an hour, that he was a regular guy sharing a drink with a beautiful woman. He could pretend today was just another day; he could pretend Hannah would kiss him good-night.
But when he got back to the porch, Hannah was gone, and the bottle of wine and two wineglasses had been placed on the wrought-iron table next to the porch swing. Propped up was a note written on the back of a Trader Joe’s receipt. Will held it under the porch light.
“Please put this away before Galen comes over. H.”
Her neat writing—round and fat and friendly—told him nothing.
He flipped the note over looking for...what? A kiss? A snappy “Same time tomorrow”? He had no right to expect anything, but still, he’d hoped. Hope wasn’t always a good thing, and neither was wishing on stars.
* * *
Will kicked off his Converse, which was easy, since he hadn’t bothered to lace them. He wasn’t sure why he’d gone back outside. Maybe to spy on Hannah. Her bedroom light was on and so were all the lights upstairs. They must have finished supper and gone their separate ways. Maybe Galen was working on that poem.
Good writing vibes, man. Write for two.
Will tracked a path across the living room, turned and repeated. The wood floor was too warm under his bare feet. He wanted sharp, biting ice.
He paused, swallowed and glanced at his Rolex. An embarrassing status symbol, he liked to joke it was a knockoff purchased on a trip to Hong Kong. Only he knew it was real.
Ten minutes, he’d managed to waste ten minutes. The longest ten minutes ever.
His hand was shaking, his palm sweating, his breathing shallow. A thousand imaginary termites wriggled through his intestines. He huffed out a breath.
8:15 p.m.
He just had to make it to eight-thirty—the time the first bystander had called 9-1-1 to report the crash—and then to nine, when the medics had pronounced Freddie dead. Those were the only two facts to survive. Masquerading as the brother of the poor loser who’d died in the wreck, Will had tracked down every person at the scene. Finally, those research skills had proved useful. But despite all the rescuers milling around, all those professionals who dealt with carnage every day, no one could answer the one question Will asked: Did the people in the car suffer?
Had the lack of negation been affirmation?
Will grabbed his hair and tugged. Couldn’t go there.
If only Hannah had stayed, maybe he would have been too distracted to notice time. No—he he
ld up the thought with his right hand—no. He didn’t want to forget. Ever. A solitary vigil was best.
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
He stared at the stupid map that now resembled a preschool art project. Had it all been a mistake, a selfish mistake? He didn’t know; he just didn’t know anymore.
At least Galen wouldn’t shuffle over in his worn I-am-a-grad-student Toms for another two and a half hours, and the old man was tucked up in bed, knocked out by not one but two after-dinner temazepam. Drugging his dad was pretty low, but necessary. Worse, Will had planned it. Cut the old man’s afternoon nap short to keep him tired.
8:17 p.m.
Will had glided through the day, coasting on the fumes of memory. He needed the calendar to roll over into the second of November; he needed to get back to New York where he could reconstruct the work habits that had kept his life running smoothly for ten years. A tough boss, Will demanded people on his payroll—he hated the word employees—answer texts and emails at odd hours. He expected absolute loyalty and absolute secrecy and used Ally as his enforcer. He’d constructed a Will Shepard universe with its own twenty-four-hour clock and everyone in his orbit had to comply. Everyone, that is, except for Freddie.
And now?
Climbing had taught him the importance of control, but his life had become a free-for-all. It wasn’t working for him—or Team Shepard—and it sure as hell wasn’t working for his dad. He needed to get back on track.
8:18 p.m.
The wine bottle was still on the counter where Will had half-hidden it after Hannah left. He grabbed it and headed upstairs to bury it at the back of his closet. Once again, he was concealing stuff from his dad. Finishing the bottle wasn’t an option, not today. This was one anniversary Will didn’t want to spend drunk.
He mounted the stairs as slowly as he could. One more minute ticked past.
He hid the bottle. Another minute.
What the hell had Cass been doing, driving—drunk—through New York with Freddie at 8:30 p.m.? Why wasn’t Freddie tucked up in his red racing-car bed with the coordinating sheets and comforter? Why hadn’t Cass hired a babysitter or called Will? She knew he would take Freddie anytime. She knew. All she had to do was ask, but instead she’d taken Freddie out for a late-night dinner with some guy. What was his name, the poor bastard who’d died with Freddie? Couldn’t remember. Was this how his dad felt every day—battling to find the missing piece of information that was just out of reach?
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