Two squirrels chased each other across the gravel, and guilt slunk into his gut. Some days he felt no pain at all; others, it twisted like a dagger. How could he disappear into passion when he should be lost in despair? His first birthday, first Christmas Eve, first Christmas without Freddie—each one a glass wall of grief impossible to scale.
Happy Christmas Eve, Munchkin. Daddy loves you.
Love and loss were learning to coexist but in a tentative balance that was easily tipped. Galen understood better than anyone. They had resumed their evening therapy of two—brought forward to 9:00 p.m., the time Freddie was pronounced dead. There would be no more anniversaries spent alone. And eleven o’clock was now reserved for Hannah. Finally, Will fell asleep holding someone instead of wrestling images of his door cracking open and Freddie saying, Daddy, can I sleep with you?
His cheerleading squad of two—Hannah and Galen—had also encouraged Will to walk away from Agent Dodds. No one else applauded this midcareer detour. Or death, according to his agent. Eventually he would come back to Agent Dodds, but for the first time in his life, he wanted to write nonfiction, even if it hadn’t turned out as planned. After the second interview with his dad, Will had realized he wasn’t excavating a family memoir about mental illness—he was uncovering a love story.
Growing up, he’d never understood why his dad didn’t leave. Now that love had become his guide through grief, everything made sense. In the bedlam of his parents’ marriage, his dad had held on to unconditional love. Jacob had sacrificed so much, and yet, as he’d pointed out, walking away from music had been his choice. There’d been room for only one passion in his life and that had been his Angeline. Such music we had, Willie. Such music.
Will had always seen his parents as trapped in empty, unfulfilled lives, but he’d been wrong. The focus of their relationship was love, not insanity. And now, with his failing mind, his dad’s love for his mom was the one memory that never faltered, that cast its shadow over everything. The Memory Shadow was his working title.
Muffled music came through the closed window. For a second, Will was the little kid in his footed pj’s who’d snuck out of bed to watch his parents dance. Sometimes his mom pushed aside all the furniture in the main room, and his parents danced into exhaustion. His dad moved elegantly with a natural sense of rhythm; his mom moved like a hummingbird. Sometimes Will joined them and visualized the music pulsing through his blood stream. Really, it had been a form of mindfulness, filling him with the same focus, the same meditative calm, as rock climbing.
What the hell. It was close enough to quitting time.
Will hit Save, slotted in his flash drive and backed up his work-in-progress. He hadn’t written much today, but what he’d produced was damn good. Writing during daylight hours was new and unexpected, as were the challenges of working in a house crammed with noise. He’d tried writing in his old bedroom over at the cottage, but the downstairs was alive with pets, and Poppy was an impossible housemate with a penchant for Green Day. He liked “21 Guns” well enough, but not vibrating through the walls for two hours straight.
Continuing the theme of musical beds, his dad had taken over Liam’s old room—another source of irritation for Liam—which meant the only place Will could write in peace was on the porch. And truthfully, working outside with a view of the forest was inspiring. As a kid, he used to run into the forest with his notebook, hide in his secret den and scribble imaginary adventures. In some strange way, he was rediscovering the joy of creating those first stories.
Will snapped his laptop shut and breathed in wood smoke. Galen and the old man must have started the fire. He should go inside and help, but the need to wait for Hannah, to have her to himself for two minutes, eclipsed everything.
On Saponi Mountain, naked branches rose to heaven like arms held up in prayer. Tomorrow they would spread Freddie’s ashes up there on the new property—bring him home to his roots with a small ceremony planned for the late afternoon. But Will had another idea, one he was eager to share with Hannah. Maybe they should keep some of Freddie’s ashes to spread on his mom’s grave. What a Christmas gift that would be for his dad.
A column of smoke rose from Hannah’s chimney—their chimney—and drifted into the sky. A flock of Canada geese flew over, honking; four vultures circled, and the hawks called to one another on the edge of the forest. Soon, all the birds except for the owl would retreat from the night. Owls fascinated him, always had. Despite their perfect night vision, despite heads that could swivel to see anything within a two-hundred-and-seventy-degree radius, their eyes couldn’t focus on what lay directly in front of them.
Well, he knew what was in front of him, and he would never, ever take her for granted. Will stood, stretched and smiled toward the cottage. Any minute now, he would see Hannah.
He turned as the front door opened, and Galen stuck his head outside.
“Did you proof ‘The Space Between Emotions’?” he said.
Will pulled the poem from under his laptop. “Fantastic, man. It’s ready to submit.”
Galen nodded, then gave a half smile. He was still way too hard on himself, but every now and then a glimmer of self-belief escaped. The first time Will tore apart one of Galen’s poems, he was worried he’d gone too far. But then Galen confided that the poem was a reject. On some level, Galen had been testing him, and he’d passed.
“Listen, can we skip tomorrow morning’s run?” Will rubbed his shin. A bit overly dramatic, but some lies, little white ones, were necessary. Galen’s first dry Christmas would be tough; he didn’t need to know about the mimosas Will and Hannah would have in bed before anyone else was up. “I think I pulled something today.”
“Sure,” Galen said.
“So, while your mom’s not around. What did Liam say?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“He’s never going to agree to meet with me, is he?”
“Enjoy the peace. Writing with him in the house is impossible.”
It could get worse? He needed to call the architect—fast-track those plans.
“Mom still working?” Galen frowned.
“She’s got five more minutes, then I pull the plug. You guys started the fire already?”
“Your dad insisted. He takes Mom’s wishes seriously. She only has to say, ‘We’re going to have a fire tonight,’ and he’s on a mission to make it happen. He threw on the hickory, too.”
“How did he seem this afternoon?”
“Good. I introduced him to Mumford and Sons.” Galen opened the door wide and sounds of folk rock—heavy on the banjo—drifted onto the porch. “And we’ve been reading Robert Frost. Jacob’s not as uneducated as he makes out, is he?”
“Don’t be fooled by the whole ‘droppin’ out of high school to work in the cotton mill—third shift—before I were a grave digger.’ Ask him about his song lyrics.”
“Your dad used to write lyrics? Wow. That’s rad.”
Will grinned. “Radical, indeed.”
Galen went back inside, and Will watched the cottage door. The lights went off, and there was his angel. Wearing jeans, clogs and a UNC sweatshirt that was practically a museum piece, Hannah had never looked more beautiful. She turned to talk to Rosie and then threw him a coy smile that said, I remember lunchtime, too. Her smile just about undid him.
Will jumped down the porch steps and ran to her, his body buzzing. He needed to touch her, to ground himself in her kiss. Sweeping her into his arms, he twirled her around.
“First things first. The cell phone stays off for the next twenty-four hours. Hand it over.”
She did and he tucked it into his back pocket, keeping his left arm firmly around her waist.
“Good.” He tugged her closer. “Now kiss me like you mean it.”
“That’s quite a welcome, considering I haven’t seen you in at leas
t three hours.”
He loved her laugh almost as much as her smile, and when she was this close, he couldn’t see, couldn’t smell, couldn’t hear anything but Hannah. He didn’t deserve to be this happy, but he couldn’t help it. His hands crawled under her sweatshirt, tugged up her T-shirt and lost themselves in warm, soft skin.
“Stop. I don’t want to give your father a heart attack or send my son back to the psych ward.”
His hands retreated and Hannah fingered the necklace of bear claws his dad had given him for his birthday. Then she snuggled into him, filling the empty space that surrounded him on today of all days. For a while they stood still, holding each other. If he concentrated, he might hear the forest breathe. His mom had loved this part of the day, when the light of the gloaming burst golden rich through the trees.
“I love the gloaming,” Hannah said. “My mother used to say it was a time of endings and beginnings. I think she stole that from her Scottish mother.”
He smacked a kiss on her cheek.
“What?” Hannah looked up.
“You, reading my thoughts—you having a Scottish grandmother, too. You, being connected to me by invisible threads. Mom always said the gloaming was magical.”
“I agree. It’s so fleeting, over so quickly, and yet it seems as if the clocks slow down and time can stretch to whatever you want it to be. It’s not quite day, it’s not quite night—it’s like being caught between possibilities.”
“Or between two worlds and not belonging to either.”
“Are you projecting?” She chewed on the corner of her lip, one of many habits he’d come to adore.
“I’m being honest. I always want to be honest with you. No secrets, no lies. Not between us.” He traced her lips with his finger. “I’ve spent the past thirty-five years feeling as if I didn’t belong anywhere with anyone.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m home.” He buried his face in her hair and inhaled miracles.
“So, did you slip any last-minute gifts under the Christmas tree?”
He straightened up. “Selling my Manhattan penthouse so I could buy you twenty acres of prime real estate on Saponi Mountain and hire the best architect in Chapel Hill to design our dream house wasn’t enough, woman?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“How about my undying love for all eternity?”
“Perfect,” she said.
“And what do I get out of this deal?”
“A trip or two to a sweat lodge. And did I mention the lifetime of sex with the full-coverage, money-back guarantee?”
He grabbed her ass and squeezed. “Maybe I should switch genres, start writing erotica. Which would mean an exhausting amount of hands-on research.”
“You authors are so demanding.”
“And one other thing.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Dance with me.”
Will closed his eyes and kissed her, letting pure, unfettered passion guide his lips. But Hannah pulled back.
“What’s wrong, darling?” he said.
A Jeep had parked in front of the cottage, and a young man in ripped jeans with studded black leather buckles around both wrists and a mess of dyed black hair climbed out. His earlobes were stapled with multiple hoops, and was that a nose stud glinting in his right nostril? Gross. If Will were casting him as a character, Liam would definitely be the bad-boy rocker. Gone to seed with a nasty coke habit.
“Not interrupting, am I?” Liam peered over the top of his sunglasses. His eyes were even deeper blue than Hannah’s. And scary as shit.
Hannah rushed to Liam and hugged him. Family resemblance flashed between mother and son—their expressions identical—and Will squirmed like a teenager caught with his hand shoved into his girlfriend’s bra. This was so not how he’d planned to meet the errant son.
“Sweetheart! Why didn’t you call?” Hannah said.
“Thought I’d surprise you.” Liam sneered. “Seems I did.”
“Are you staying for dinner?” Hannah’s voice was higher than usual.
“Undecided. Galen’s been on my case to swing by, pick up some gift for Dad. I was in the neighborhood so I thought, like, why not?”
“Well, come in.” Hannah linked her arm through Liam’s.
Time to take the situation by the jugular. Be the authority figure, behave like a father. “Hannah, can I talk to Liam alone?”
She gave Will an uncertain smile. “Of course. I’ll see you both inside.”
Liam lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and exhaled. Will tried not to stare at the purple nail polish.
The front door opened and closed.
“So. You’re Will.”
“So. You’re Liam.”
“Happy thirty-fifth birthday.”
“Thanks.”
Liam removed his sunglasses and slotted them into the vee of his T-shirt. Black, of course. Also ripped, although the slashes looked very symmetrical, very well-designed. Very expensive. Might have to rethink the typecasting. Maybe more of a dealer than an addict?
Liam tapped ash onto the gravel. “I didn’t bring a present.”
“I didn’t expect one.”
“I hear you saved my big bro’s life.”
“More of a group effort.”
Liam smiled as if his mouth were full of poison darts. Then he leaned toward Will. “Just so you and I are on the same page—you break my mom’s heart and I’ll snap every bone in your writing hand.”
Will nearly said, I’d like to see you try. Liam might have the advantage of height, but he seemed more of a party animal than a gym bunny. The gray circles under his eyes bellowed hangover.
“And if I were your stepdad?” On the off-chance Liam was hanging around for Hannah’s traditional Christmas Eve exchange of presents, he might as well be prepared.
“You, like, asking for my permission?” Liam took another drag, then blew a smoke ring. A guy who blew perfect smoke rings all the time, no doubt.
“You know I’m a rock climber, right?”
“My bro mentioned it. In passing.”
“Well, when you’re climbing, the most important part of the protection system is the anchor.”
“That so?”
Will swallowed. “From the moment she entered my life, your mother has been my fail-safe anchor, the one that’s strong enough to hold no matter what the climber does.”
“You better not be comparing my mom to a piece of sports equipment.” Liam’s eyes became slits.
“No. I’m saying that for the first time in my life, I feel safe with my feet on the ground. I belong here, with your mother, and I’m not leaving. Which means you and I need to figure out how to deal with each other. I won’t ask her to choose between us, and I hope you won’t, either.”
“Are you going to make me call you Dad?”
“As if, dude.”
“Well, then.” Liam gave a smile, a real one, and extended his hand. “Welcome to the family, Will.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE UNFINISHED GARDEN by Barbara Claypole White.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The In-Between Hour was written during a succession of personal crises that helped me dig deep to connect with my characters...but created horrible hiccups with deadlines. Never-ending gratitude for the support of my amazing agent, Nalini Akolekar of Spencerhill Associates, and huge thanks to the team at Harlequin MIRA for enabling me to put family first.
I was blessed to work with not one but two MIRA editors on this novel. To Miranda Indrigo, thank you for believing in my beloved Will. To Emily Ohanjanians, thank you for graciously leading me toward a better story, for not letting me take shortcuts, for suggesting I put Will on the rock and for loving Jacob as much
as I do. Your revisions inspired me.
Group hug with my brothers- and sisters-in-arms at Book Pregnant, especially cofounders Lydia Netzer and Sophie Perinot, and my personal heroine, Anne Clinard Barnhill. Wiley described us as a wolf pack. Oh, we are. I can’t imagine being on this journey without you guys. (Besides, I get to bask in your publishing glory.)
Thanks to fellow MIRA authors Pamela Morsi and Rebecca Coleman for adopting the clueless newbie, and to Laura Drake and Laura Spinella, who never hide from emails that scream, Help! Special thanks—with penance—to Charmi Schroeder, whom I forgot to mention last time.
Thank you to the local booksellers who have helped make the transition to published author fun and memorable, especially the staff at Flyleaf Books in Chapel Hill and Sharon Wheeler at Purple Crow Books in Hillsborough.
Thank you to everyone who helped with research and apologies for any facts I have mangled: thank you to Jennifer Carruthers, Kelly Hammer and Loran Smith for trying to explain climbing to someone who’s terrified of heights; thank you to Perrin Hammond Heartway for showing me the life of a holistic vet; thank you to Bonnie Hauser and Marilee Mctigue for all things Orange County; thank you to Steve Barrell, Lisa Brown and Steve Rogat for helping me understand what it means to be an empath. Sergeant Butch Clark, thank you for the information on Project Lifesaver; Lori Hilliard—thank you for helping with tree identification! To Dan Hill, thank you for teaching me batshit insane and such great phrases as Teflon-coated procrastination. (Where would I be without my Dan file?) Thanks to Dr. Jack Naftel and Laura Catherine Newton in the Department of Psychiatry, School of Medicine, of the University of North Carolina. And endless gratitude to Caroline Furman, Kathleen Gleiter, Harriet Ling, Della Pollock, Maureen Sherbondy, Stephen Whitney and Carolyn Wilson for helping me find—and understand—this story.
Special thanks to John Blackfeather Jeffries and his wife, Lynette Jeffries, for sharing their memories, photographs and scrapbooks. I wish I could spend all day every day listening to both of you talk. And apologies for pushing the 2013 powwow into October to fit my story!
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