by J. R. King
T H E
G R O V E
J.R. KING
The Grove
Text Copyright © 2017 by J.R. King
Cover Art Copyright © 2017 by J.R. King
Brushes by midnightstouch/brusheezy.com
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1540426611
ISBN-10: 1540426610
No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owners.
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This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed by the characters in this book are their own and do not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of the authors.
Dedication
For anyone who has ever been completely
and utterly lost, and then found themselves
within the pages of a book.
CONTENTS
1
Waiting for the Sunrise
2
The Day Has Dawned
3
Wishing We’d Known
4
What Was There All Along
5
Opposites React
6
Between Space and Time
7
Inauspicious Beginnings
8
All That We Find
9
Beyond Ankle Deep
10
Learning to Soar
11
Breaking Our Fall
12
On Dreams of Before
13
Lying in Wait
14
The Truth Sets You Free
15
The Sound of No One
16
We’re Longing to Be
17
Searching for Faith
18
Prevent Me To Fly
19
Deep in the Roots
20
We Find Our Goodbye
21
The Choice Is Ours
22
To Bend or to Break
23
Upon the High Rocks
24
We Find an Escape
25
Where We Began
26
The Road’s Led Us Here
27
Fear Not the End
28
Though Endings Are Near
29
The Past Reappears
30
Spoken on the Wind
31
Beneath the Stone
32
We Meet Again
33
Troubled Old Foes
34
Smile Like the Sun
35
In the Eye of the Storm
36
There’s Nowhere to Run
Epilogue
T H E
G R O V E
J.R. KING
Chapter One
Waiting for the Sunrise
La Lune was a five-star restaurant, and hands down the nicest establishment in Redwood Bay. The dining room was massive. Antique tables and chairs sat like still ghosts in the empty hall. Here, waiters gathered nightly, each one complete with a bow tie and an old world charm. It was the kind of place where you had to know someone to get your name on the guest list. The dinnerware was made of the finest china and silver, the ceilings reminiscent of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. They even offered wine tastings on the weekends, and had an entire cellar filled with rare and expensive selections.
Wind swept through the back alley of the restaurant, dragging dry leaves across the pavement. Several bags of trash sat outside the compactor, all filled to the brim from the night’s service. Rome carried out the last of them while his manager barked out orders from across the deserted kitchen.
“When you’re finished with the garbage I want all the dishes cleaned, including the ones you half-assed earlier. Then you’ll need to mop the kitchen, wipe down the booths, set the tables—”
This was when Rome ‘accidentally’ let the metal door slam closed at his back. He could still hear him yelling from the other side, the sound of angry footsteps foreshadowing an equally unwanted lecture. The man pushed the hinges wide, grumbling as Rome started up the compactor before he could complain. “Sorry,” Rome shouted. “I can’t hear you.” Of course he could hear him perfectly well. The beautifully perturbed look on his manager’s face was what he’d been after.
“I’d fire you right now if you weren’t already quitting.”
“And I’d gladly collect the unemployment…”
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” Rome said.
“Just don’t forget to lock up.”
Rome took a breath as the night moved by around him. He stood there for a good five minutes, watching a spider spin its web under the gentle glow of a streetlamp. The sound of the manager’s luxury sedan peeling out of the parking lot signaled his cue to go back inside (back to the giant pile of caked on plates and cooking utensils). The apron tied around his waist was already stained with various splatter. It made him wonder if they ever bothered to clean it. At least summer was over, he thought. That meant no more odd jobs filled with endless hours of menial, repetitive tasks. No, now there was school for that.
Tomorrow marked the start of his senior year. Or what would have been, had they not decided to hold him back. Lincoln High wasn’t particularly known for its academics anyways. It was underfunded, understaffed, and overpopulated. The teachers weren’t paid enough to care about the troubled kids they taught. Most of them were destined to end up in dead-end jobs or worse. He knew enough about that. He’d had his fair share of run-ins with the law.
The large pile of dishware dwindled to nothing, and Rome moved on to mopping the kitchen, searching for happier thoughts. Glossy lines swept across the tile, the bucket sloshing with dirty water as he went. An old boom box kept him company throughout the night, just as it had all summer. He finished up by bussing the tables and laying out cloth napkins with entirely too many pieces of silverware. Big spoons and small spoons and forks splayed out beneath the gentle lighting. By the time he was done, it looked like a place left untouched. All you could hear was the gentle ticking of the grand clock above the fireplace.
The apron now hung upon its rack in the kitchen, and leftovers beckoned to him from the fridge. La Lune undoubtedly had a better selection than what was waiting for him at home, seeing as Henry (his uncle) liked to keep a fresh stock of cheap beer above all else. And he’d never tried the food here before, despite having to smell it night after night. Against his better judgment he grabbed some utensils and a plate, ready to dish up a generous helping of just about everything in the fridge.
The first thing he found was a platter of seared duck breast, dripping with some kind of sweet citrus sauce. His mouth was watering as he speared a few slices on a fork and set them on his plate. There were seafood options, quiches, and soup, roasted vegetables, and decadent desserts. He found a chunk of bread in the pantry and added it to the p
ile.
The sound of footsteps interrupted his foraging, and Rome scrambled to hide the evidence of his meal. The refrigerator door hit the edge of his plate, refusing to close as the blonde stepped into the kitchen.
“Autumn… What are you doing here so early?”
Her eyes flicked to the cracked refrigerator at his back.
“I was asked to help prep for that big event today,” she said. Autumn moved towards him, smiling curiously. “What are you hiding?” She opened the door and chuckled. “Rome, you know you’re welcome to anything in the fridge. The kitchen crew does it all the time.”
“Yeah, but they’re the ones who made it. I’m just the guy who cleans the dishes. I don’t think I get meal privileges.”
Autumn glanced at him sincerely. “I don’t see anyone here who’s going to protest. I won’t tell if you won’t.” She offered him a smile, pulling the large plate from the fridge. “Did you want me to heat this up for you? It would probably taste better.”
“I’d feel less guilty about it if I ate it cold,” he said.
“Don’t be silly.”
Rome watched her move to one of the stovetops, pulling various cookware from the overhead rack. Autumn had three frying pans and a saucepot going before long, watching each one with a precise eye. He stared at the dancing blue flames, enjoying the aroma as he observed her quietly.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
The shrimp sizzled in the skillet, and she lifted the pan from the burner, dishing it back onto his plate.
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“A lot of things.” He smiled, letting it reach his ears before fading back into his cheeks. “Your family owns a farm, right?”
She nodded. “A ranch, actually. Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering if maybe you needed a farmhand for the next few months? I could work for a bed and a meal.”
Autumn fought back a smile as she moved the hefty plate across the counter. “I’m not sure we could afford your appetite.”
Rome lowered his eyes. “Never mind,” he said. “How was your weekend?” He took his first bite, savoring the flavors dancing across his tongue. “You should try this.”
“I’m okay,” she said. “I had an early breakfast. And my weekend was quiet for a change. It was pretty nice.”
Rome watched her periodically as he ate, the small cornucopia of items on his plate dwindling as she worked.
“I’m going to miss how clean you got this place,” she said.
He hid a smirk. “Thanks, though you’re probably the only one who’s noticed. You start college this year, right?”
She nodded.
“Are you studying to be a chef?”
Autumn laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t have any aspirations to be a chef. I just do this to help pay for my tuition. Baking is a passion of mine, though. My mom taught me how to make pies as big as your face.”
Rome grinned. “I’m sold.” He gathered up the dishes, including the pots and pans so that he could wash them in the sink. Autumn seemed to have other plans.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“How many dishes have you cleaned already, hundreds?”
Rome conceded after a moment.
“So,” she said, “did you ever end up talking to that girl?”
The water ran quietly as he watched her make quick work of the dishes. “No. And I never intended to. I just said she looked—”
“Lonely?” Autumn said.
Rome scowled at her all-too-amused smile. “Troubled.” He leaned over, resting his elbows on the metal island. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen her looking like that. She’s been here a lot this summer.”
“It’s too bad you never got her name.”
“It’s not like it would have gone anywhere,” he said. “It’s just one of those things I’m going to wonder about.”
The dishes were finished and set onto the drying rack, and Autumn offered to walk him out.
“Did you park out back?” she asked.
Rome shook his head, fishing around for his keys. He frowned when he came up with a quarter and a handful of lint. That meant he’d managed to lock them in the car again. A car that was already parked several blocks away because it didn’t reflect ‘the company image’. “Great,” he said.
“What is it?”
“I left my keys in the ignition.”
She locked the door after them. “We’ll figure it out.”
Rome tilted his head towards her conspiratorially. “Are you saying you know how to break into a car?” He managed to keep any amusement out of his tone. “Okay, I’m intrigued.”
They followed the sidewalk down a few blocks and ducked into a nearby neighborhood. On the sparsely lit street a handful of vehicles sat quiet and unused in front of equally silent houses. Rome’s car was parked by the far curb, and easily the quirkiest of the lot. Autumn spotted it in seconds.
Rome sighed, staring at the keys through his window. He tugged on the door handle before slapping a hand against the T-top. “This is just my luck,” he said.
Autumn slipped around the front of the car, approaching the passenger door curiously. She pulled on the handle and it opened with a click. She watched his eyebrows pinch together.
“How did you do that?”
“I just pulled,” she said. “It probably wasn’t locked.”
“It’s always locked…”
“Well, drive safely. Don’t fall asleep at the wheel, alright?”
Rome nodded in bemusement, watching her disappear down the darkened street. He may have thought it odd, had stranger things not been known to happen. That didn’t mean he wasn’t questioning it though. He kept shooting curious glances at his door the entire way back.
Henry’s trailer sat at the edge of Foxbury forest, located down an unmarked lane on the outskirts of town. It was a dreary little hole nestled beyond mile marker twelve. Rome pulled up to the old mailbox, grabbing out three days’ worth of mail. Henry hadn’t checked it once. The usual junk got left in the trash, and the credit card offers were ripped up before he even got to the trailer. Rome left the state check on the table, picking up empty beer cans from the floor as he went.
The last envelope was addressed to him, and he frowned doubtfully at the fancy emblem. He started opening it quietly, peering down the hall to confirm that his uncle was sleeping. He set the envelope down, switching into jeans and a shirt in the cramped space between the kitchen and what served as his bedroom. The trailer—just twenty-eight feet long and no wider than a hallway—was really just a house, smashed into a tin can.
Rome swept the letter up, removing a stack of folded papers and a small brochure from the envelope. He set the brochure on the bench and sunk back into the cushion, reading the title on the front: Vardel Academy. The words were printed below a blue-and-red crest. Fanciful filigree decorated much of the page. Rome’s frown deepened as he skimmed over the stationary.
Dear Mr. Navarro,
We are delighted to inform you that you have been chosen to receive a scholarship to Vardel Academy, effective immediately. Your tuition, materials, and room and board have been paid. Due to your recently demonstrated promise as a scholar, the Collective has agreed to cover all expenses in admitting you to our outstanding students program.
You are now a part of a faction of young men and women dedicated to the pursuit of academic excellence. This is a community founded on exploration and intellectual integrity, and we expect all of our students to adhere to the standards therein.
We are confident that your attendance will be a positive addition to the community, and we look forward to cultivating a prosperous future together. If you have any questions, please contact Dean Oakland, your dean of students.
With Regards,
Mr. Jones
Professor of Ethics & Head of Admissions
Rome placed the letter down on the laminate table, staring quietly out the window as the sun began t
o skirt across the sky. He glanced through the pamphlet disinterestedly before grabbing his backpack out of the overhead compartment. As his uncle slept, he slipped in and out of the small bathroom, making quick work of his morning routine. That letter would have to be dealt with, and that meant missing his first day at Lincoln. Rome left the trailer as the cold was beginning to break.
Vardel sat to the north of town, a prestigious school best known for its exclusivity. Rome didn’t know much about it beyond that. The winding highway moved like a snake through the mountainside, carrying him into the expansive morning. He’d lived here all of his life and he’d never taken the drive before. Today seemed as good a day as any.
He sped quietly through the valley, the whistle of the wind his closest companion. The ‘bird didn’t have a stereo. There was just a big gap where you’d expect one to be, occupied instead by a mess of gnarled wires. Gray primer and faded red paint made up most of the exterior. If you asked him, though, it was about more than what was on the outside.
The ‘bird, as he called it, was the first thing he’d ever earned. It used to sit like a mossy statue outside of Grundler’s Garage. Back then, it didn’t even run, let alone click when you turned it over. He had rebuilt it from the inside out, and got a job out of the deal too. That was a good summer for the most part, though not entirely unlike the one he’d just had. Grundler was an awful, stubborn mule to work with. When he really thought about it, Autumn was probably the nicest person he’d met in a long time. He remembered then the napkin in his glove compartment with her number on it. They’d cleared up that awkward encounter weeks ago, but he still hadn’t tossed it out.