A Shadow on the Ground

by Smith, Rebecca Lee

Jeremy shuffled into the house. The screen door banged behind him.

  “Is your boy here to take piano lessons?”

  “Uh...no.” Gage ducked under a string of wind chimes. “I'm here to meet Sean Maguire.” He leaned against a wooden porch post and followed Peach's anxious gaze to the road winding in front of the house. It had taken him half an hour to find the place. He lived on the other side of the mountain in Cherokee Bluff, and had forgotten how tricky the back roads near Riverbirch could be.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The view from the big wraparound porch looked like the picture postcards he’d seen at the Tennessee Welcome Center. A large painted wooden square decorated the front of the gray weathered barn—some kind of quilt pattern that looked like apples. He'd seen painted wooden quilt blocks with different colors and patterns hanging on barns all over Tennessee, and they always made him smile. Such a sweet, homey way to decorate the countryside. As if the idyllic scenery wasn’t beautiful enough.

  Below the Maguire’s rambling three-story Victorian, neat rows of apple trees, heavy with fruit, spread across a lush, rolling valley. According to the tax records, theirs was a high-density orchard, 175 trees per acre, on about thirty-seven acres, flanked on one side by Deer Creek and the other by the south end of Blackstone Mountain. He sighed contentedly. A little slice of heaven plopped down in the middle of nowhere. “Nice place,” he said. “I’m from Georgia. Is Blackstone part of the Appalachian Mountains or the Smokies?”

  “Appalachians. And I’m glad you pronounced it the right way. It’s downright insulting when some of those big know-it-all announcers on The Weather Channel pronounce it ‘App-a-lay-chuns.’ The only people who say it like that are the people who don’t live here.”

  Gage glanced behind him. “This house is huge.”

  “This house is a monster,” Peach said, laughing. “In winter, they close off half the rooms just to heat it.” She sighed. “But I love it here. Morgan doesn’t know how lucky she is. She's never been much of a country girl.”

  “Has she always lived here?”

  “She lived in Atlanta while she was married, then moved back here, then moved to Nashville for a few months until last spring. She keeps trying to get off this farm, but somebody always needs her for something. Then she has to come home again.”

  “What did she do in Nashville?”

  “Played the organ for some big church.’Course, she had to quit to help take care of her grandpa.” Peach shook her head. “Robert Maguire was a hard man, but I wouldn't wish a death like his on anyone. Cancer. The poor man was eat up with it. That's where Morgan and I met. I work at the nursing home part-time, and I stayed with him at night.”

  “You're a nurse?” He tried to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  “Well, not yet. But I’d like to be.” She took a breath and went on. “After Mr. Maguire died, his second wife, Opal, said she never wanted to see another apple tree as long as she lived. She threatened to contest the will, and forced Sean and Morgan to give her part of their inheritance. It left them in a pretty bad place financially, which is why Sean begged Morgan to stay until he gets the farm back on its feet. She won’t hang around, though. Once they get the harvest apples in, she’ll leave again.”

  Gage wondered what Morgan Maguire would look like now.

  He hadn't allowed himself to trust the memory he carried in his head, buried so deep no amount of effort or whisky could destroy it. Its luster should have faded, or at least morphed into the kind of hazy fantasy that had been trotted out and brooded over so many times, it had nothing to do with the real thing. Her eyes, her hair, the smile that had made his twenty-two-year-old heart ache with desire, couldn't be the same as he remembered. People never stayed the same. Life changed them. Other people changed them. Chances were he wouldn't even recognize her.

  He'd know her voice, though. Low and throaty, with the barest hint of a rasp. A voice no man in his right mind could ever forget. When he'd called to confirm the appointment with her brother, the sound of her voice on the answering machine startled him into tripping over a crate of empty wine bottles. Then sent him sprawling headfirst into the tasting room wall.

  “Your son looks like you,” Peach said. “Cute kid. He isn’t real thrilled to be here, is he?”

  “At the moment, Jeremy isn't real thrilled to be anywhere.”

  “They sure go through phases, don't they?”

  “Oh, lady,” he said softly. “This is way more than a phase.”

  Gage glanced at the screen door. He wished Jeremy would come bounding out and flash him the laid-back grin Gage had always taken for granted. But those days were gone. The last few months had turned Jeremy into a boy whose pinched face couldn't hide his anger. Whose volatile temper remained cocked and ready to explode at the slightest provocation. Refusing to look his father in the eye was something Jeremy withheld out of spite. It was the knife he could plunge into Gage's heart, the revenge he could exact without breaking a sweat.

  He’s just a kid. He deserves to feel happy.

  Gage didn't believe in happiness. Not for himself, anyway. Not anymore. It was something reserved for the elderly with brains so ravaged by dementia, they couldn't remember their own names, much less the person who had ruined their lives fifty years ago. And for the children, young, innocent souls still untouched by the meanness in the world. He'd always considered a person's innocence a sacred thing. Which is why he would never forgive himself for destroying it for his own son.

  “They’re here!” Peach jumped up and down. Polka dot ruffles flapped against her ample, bouncing bosom.

  A pale blue truck, so beat up it looked like it should be balanced on cinderblocks in somebody's front yard, turned into the driveway and rumbled toward the house. It ground to a halt beside the white fence. A little girl, the spitting image of Peach, sans about a hundred pounds, scrambled out of the cab and ran toward them. Her thin arms flailed in the wind.

  “Mama, Mama! Morgan found a—”

  “Crystal Darlene! Where have you been?” Peach flipped her cigarette behind a clump of azaleas and scooped her daughter into her arms. “I've been worried sick about you.”

  “Listen, listen, Mama! Morgan found a dead—”

  “Not now, sugar. Mama’s talking.”

  Gage stared at the truck cab, waiting.

  If he thought for one second she'd even remember him, he'd...no. He laughed softly. He couldn't imagine she would. It had been too long. The time they’d spent together had only been a spit in a bucket. They’d danced around each other for a day and a night like opposite ends of a magnet, shared a makeshift bed, made a few empty promises. By the next morning, she'd probably forgotten all about him, shaken off their time together like a dream barely worth remembering. He'd thought their lovemaking had been pretty spectacular, even by twenty-year-old standards, but what had he known? A kid who had hidden his inexperience and vulnerability beneath a veil of bravado, then let his better judgment and raging hormones get the best of him?

  Nothing much had changed there.

  The shallow part of him hoped she’d let herself go, turned into one of those hefty women he saw at the grocery store, who smelled like bacon grease, and enjoyed speeding down the aisles, terrorizing the other shoppers in their motorized carts. Or maybe that was the cowardly part.

  He blinked at the truck. Why didn't she get out? Had she seen him? Did he look familiar to her? He took another deep, ragged breath. Something sharp stabbed at the shell surrounding his heart, leaving it scratched and sore.

  What would she think of him now? Irresponsible? Inadequate? Disappointing? If she did remember him, how surprised would she be he had changed so little? That beneath the grown-up, slightly weathered exterior, he was still the same immature kid afraid to trust his own judgment? That he was still making the wrong choices and blaming himself because the life he’d screwed up hadn’t turned out like he wanted? He used to think that at least his heart was in the right place, but he wasn’t even sure o
f that anymore. He wasn’t sure of anything.

  He crossed his arms and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His heart thumped against his ribs. Double-time. Like Bugs Bunny staring down the barrel of Elmer Fudd’s shotgun. It occurred to him that when they finally came face to face, he might actually be required to speak. He tried to swallow, but all available spit had left the building.

  Two scuffed brown leather boots slowly emerged from the truck, followed by a pair of jean clad legs that seemed to go on forever. The woman attached to them slid from the cab, stepped back, and slammed the door. She took off her dilapidated straw hat, shook out a cascade of dark brown hair, then stood for a moment, looking at him.

  Had she always been that tall? As tall as him? Maybe. They'd only spent one day in each other’s company, and they hadn't wasted much time standing. They’d sat on a bench at the Harvest Festival beside a huge copper kettle while she stirred figure eights into boiling apple butter with a long wooden paddle. Then later, they'd lain on a cot in his uncle's Lake Shanleigh boathouse with the moonlight streaming through the wooden slats, caressing her pale, smooth skin until it shimmered. She still had the kind of porcelain skin that looked as if she spent her days indoors, protected by steel and UV coated glass, instead of trailing through a sunny apple orchard in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.

  As she rounded the fence, he took in her soft curves, her slim, square shoulders, the mud streaked, beige and blue plaid flannel shirt. Her glossy dark waves tumbled across one full breast as she bent to open the gate. Then, the moment he had been waiting twelve years for, and dreading more than any single moment of his life, came and went. She lifted her head, blinked her clear gray-blue eyes, and gazed directly at him. Without one single hint of recognition.

  Something twisted in his chest. He tried to swallow the knot lodged in his throat. He glanced at the toes of his carefully shined boots and willed his pride to stop scorching a path through his insides.

  Okay.

  Morgan Maguire didn’t know him from a can of paint.

  That was one giant blow to his ego. But in the end, it would make things easier. The street smarts he’d always relied on had pretty much flown out the window the second he’d discovered she was involved in this case. If she knew the real reason he was there, it would complicate things beyond belief. He had enough on his plate without adding humiliation and heartbreak to the mix.

  He’d only agreed to take this job because he needed the money for his son, and he would do anything—anything—to help Jeremy. No matter what moron was paying for it.

  He’d been curious to see how Morgan had turned out. Who wouldn't be? But now that his curiosity had been satisfied, it was time to jump back on the reality train and act like the professional he was. Or used to be. He'd give Morgan’s brother the two hour consultation he'd promised, do what Tyson had hired him to do, take his boy, and get the ever-lovin' hell out of Dodge. Then maybe, just maybe he could start to forget her.

  “Morgan,” Peach said, “I don't think you've met—”

  “Gage Kirkland,” he said. He started to hold out his hand, but as soon as it was airborne, he lost his nerve and pulled back. Not exactly the smoothest of moves, but he didn’t trust himself to touch her. “I'm...I’m from In the Black. We’re a small business salvage company, relatively new to this area. I don't know if your brother told you, but he’s won a free consultation for me to look at your operation. See if I can help get it back on track.”

  “Sean isn't here.” Morgan looked at him impassively. “He thought you were coming tomorrow.”

  “I was,” Gage said. “I am. But I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I might drop by and see the orchard. You know, get a head start.” Why couldn’t he stop smiling at her like an idiot? Why did he sound like he was selling used cars?

  She laid her straw hat on a chair and looked right through him. As if he wasn't there.

  Had he changed that much? Sure, he'd filled out, grown a muscle or two, started shaving semi-regularly. But he was basically the same guy. On the outside, anyway.

  “In the neighborhood?” she said. “Way out here?”

  “I had some free time,” he said, scrounging up a more plausible excuse. He blew out a short, silent breath, then settled his gaze on her face. God, he'd missed that face. He hadn't known just how much until that moment. A tiny dimple still creased the skin beside her full, perfectly shaped mouth, the same mouth that had never stopped haunting his dreams. “I had to pick up my son from school, and I thought if you didn't mind, I could—”

  “You have a son?” Morgan's head jerked toward the barn. “Is he here with you?”

  “We just moved from Atlanta,” Gage said. “Right now he’s—”

  “He's in the can,” Peach said. She pointed to the stains on Morgan's jeans. “What happened to you?”

  Crystal tugged at Peach's blouse. “Morgan found a body, Mama. A real live dead one.”

  Peach clutched Crystal to her hip. “Are you serious? Oh, my God, Morgan, who?”

  “Harlan Spannagel. He’s taking a blood thinner, and had some kind of hemorrhage.”

  “Crystal didn't—”

  “No, no,” Morgan said quickly. “I kept her away from it. That's why we're late. I tried to call on the way back, but couldn't get a signal. You know how iffy cell service is once you start around the mountain. I haven’t been able to get hold of Sean either.”

  “You mean, he doesn’t know?”

  Jeremy pushed his way out the screen door.

  The sight of his gawky legs and arms clutched Gage's heart. Oversized jeans hung on his slight frame. The curved bill of a navy baseball cap covered the back of his neck. A black T-shirt with the message ‘Earth's Full—Go Home!’ hugged his thin collarbones. Gage had worried Jeremy's Atlanta clothes might set him apart from the other kids in Cherokee Bluff, but, except for the expensive athletic shoes supplied by his indulgent grandparents, Jeremy was a perfect clone of every other boy who stood slouching in front of the county school.

  Jeremy's light brown eyes studied the people on the porch with cool indifference. His sharp chin, identical to the one Gage scraped shaving cream off every other morning, jutted out in a sullen declaration of disgust.

  “I like your shirt, kid,” Morgan said softly. “I've got one that says, ‘Why are you still here? The stupid people left hours ago’. Maybe we could trade sometime.”

  Jeremy's gaze flickered to life for a moment. Then it was gone.

  Morgan smiled. “So, Jeremy, how do you like small town life? Must be like getting hit in the chest with a stun gun after living in Atlanta.”

  Jeremy stared at the porch.

  “The lady asked you a question,” Gage said.

  Jeremy lifted his head and looked at Morgan. “Okay, lady. You wanna know how I like living in East Bumfuck? I don’t. I don’t like it at all. In fact, everything about it sucks a big one.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” Morgan said, nonplussed. “I mean, there’s so much to do here—4-H Club, Friday night Bingo, Saturday night fish fries, square dancing. Now, you know you want to learn to square dance. Swing your partner? Allemande left and do-si-do?”

  “I'd rather poke my eye out with a rusty nail,” Jeremy said.

  “Yeah, me too, kid,” Morgan said. “It was a joke.”

  Gage cleared his throat. “Peach said you give piano lessons. Jeremy took lessons while we were in Atlanta. Didn't you, Jeremy? He was pretty good.”

  “How would you know?” Jeremy said. “You never showed up at any of the recitals.”

  “How long have you been playing?” Morgan asked.

  “Let's see,” Gage said. “He's eleven now. Since he was eight. Right, Jeremy?”

  “Gosh, I'm eight,” Crystal said. “You're supposed to be eleven? You're not as big as me.”

  Jeremy winced and took a step back. His frail shoulders shifted a few subtle inches upward. His gaze locked on the barn.

  Gage wished Crystal
had been gracious enough to keep her comments to herself. But kids didn’t care. For years, Jeremy had endured rude remarks about his lack of height, and from kids who were more of a threat to him than an eight-year-old-girl. Why were children so cruel? Gage had never met one who couldn't open its little mouth and slice a person to ribbons, zinging insults as strong as sucker punches the second they let down their guard.

  “He took karate lessons, too,” Gage said. “Didn’t you, sport?”

  Jeremy stared at the barn.

  “Well, that’s good,” Morgan said. “Karate builds muscle, and some guys need a little help until they get their growth spurts.”

  “What’s a growth spurt?” Crystal asked. “Do I get one?”

  “Well, sure,” Morgan said. “But you’ll get yours sooner because you’re a girl. And if you take after your dad, Miss Chips Ahoy, you'll get drafted by a basketball team, and the stupid people will say things to you like, ‘How's the weather up there?’”

  “You're making it up,” Jeremy said. “I’ve never read that in a book, and I read all the time. There's no such thing as a growth spurt.”

  “Yes, there is,” Morgan said. “My brother didn't get his until he turned sixteen, then he shot up like a weed. We thought he'd sprinkled Miracle-Gro on his Cocoa Krispies.” Morgan pointed to the barn. “See that door? He can't walk under it without ducking.”

  “Are you serious?” Jeremy whispered in awe.

  “No,” Morgan said, laughing. “But he is six-feet.”

  Jeremy grinned. Then looked at his feet and grinned again.

  Gage couldn't believe what he’d witnessed. Morgan had actually managed to crack through Jeremy’s shell and engage him in conversation. Only for a minute. But it had happened. After two long months, Gage had finally glimpsed the old Jeremy again, and his heart swelled with relief. His son was still in there. Below the surface.

  He caught Morgan’s eye and smiled. A lump of gratitude settled in his throat.

  She didn't return the smile, but held his gaze for a full four seconds, clear and unwavering. Which was damned remarkable, since she didn’t have a clue who he was. Most of the women he’d known in Atlanta were stingy with eye contact. They liked to keep their options open, keep a man guessing whether he was on the short list or the long. He frequented upscale bars, but rarely changed out of his undercover clothes. So, unless the women he preferred were angling for free top shelf margaritas or a post last-call tumble in the sack, his old jeans and faded shirts rendered him invisible.