The Singing River

by R. K. Ryals

  Mrs. Nelson’s plants were suddenly magical in the small space, green and full of love. A fly buzzed near my head, and I swiped at it.

  “It’s a hot job,” I pointed out.

  River looked at me, his mouth turning up at the corners. “Are you trying to talk me out of staying?”

  I frowned at him. “No … I’m trying to figure out what made you come.”

  Mr. Nelson cleared his throat. “I’ll just be getting the pots. We’ll be boiling them on my outside cooker.”

  Thomas brushed past us and shut the door behind him. The sound of cabinets opening and closing in the kitchen was loud and obvious.

  River glanced around us at the porch, his gaze pausing on the peeling screen and hanging plants.

  “I’m not quite sure what made me come,” he admitted, his gaze finally resting on mine. “It seemed right.”

  Maybe it was best I didn’t question his intentions. His presence made me feel safe and uncomfortable at the same time. It was a feeling I didn’t like, and yet didn’t want to give up.

  “You don’t have friends you’d rather be with?” I asked him.

  He shook his head. “Most of my close friends are away at college, and my newer ones are at Cambridge.”

  I laughed. “So it was loneliness that brought you here?”

  The smile I got in return was a soft one. “If that’s what you want to believe.”

  There was mischief in his eyes, and I found myself caught up in the glint, the dare he left between us making me feel reckless and maybe even a little immoral.

  The back door opened again, and Mr. Nelson returned carrying two large cooking pots.

  “These’ll do,” he murmured, his dark eyes meeting mine as he handed me one. I could see the caution in his gaze.

  River relieved him of the other pot, his gaze taking in the two large bags on the porch.

  “You have to do all of these today?” he asked.

  Mr. Nelson cleared his throat.

  I laughed. “He doesn’t have to, but Thomas here doesn’t like to leave things unfinished once he’s decided to start something. It’ll be a late night.”

  Mr. Nelson glared at me, and I hugged him affectionately.

  “We’re burning daylight,” Thomas grumbled as he led the way into the yard. An old rusty cooker sat in a cleared off section of the lawn next to the porch, and Mr. Nelson laid one of the pots on it as I dragged the water hose to him.

  It only took a few minutes to fill the first pot with water and peanuts, but the heat was a beast, and having the cooker on under the afternoon sun had us all drenched before the peanuts had even started to boil.

  Rolling my tank top up, I shoved it under the bottom of my bra before braiding my hair with my fingers and securing it with a rubber band. River had unbuttoned his shirt while Thomas had removed a striped, short-sleeve button-up, leaving him in a white T-shirt with suspenders pulled over it.

  River swiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “What do you plan to do with these?”

  I fought not to stare at him, at his wide chest and chocolate eyes. “We’ll bag them to freeze. After that, they can be taken out to boil any time of year, though I personally like hot peanuts best during the winter.”

  Mr. Nelson grunted in agreement.

  River stared at us. “Can you believe I’ve never had boiled peanuts.”

  I blinked. “And you’re from the South?”

  He laughed, his hands coming up in a gesture of defense. “I know. Such a shame, huh?”

  “An utter one!” I insisted.

  Thomas clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Gotta fix that, boy.” He moved to the porch, pulling down several citronella pails before lighting them to lay around the yard in order to keep the mosquitoes at bay. I kicked off my flip-flops, digging my toes into the grass as I helped place them in a circle around the cooker.

  “So you do this every summer?” River asked.

  He seemed genuinely interested, and I looked up at him. “No, just when there are peanuts, but there are other things that need canning or put up.”

  “And pickled,” Mr. Nelson added.

  I scrunched my nose. “My least favorite thing to do.”

  Thomas snorted. “Mrs. Nelson used to love it.”

  I grinned. “Keep telling yourself that, Mr. Nelson.”

  Pulling a chair off the porch, I held it out to Thomas, and he took it, sitting carefully. River watched us, his gaze following me as I brought another chair into the yard and offered it to him.

  There was a hammock hung between two trees in the yard not far from the cooker, and I sat on it, letting it rock me back and forth as I stared at the cooker’s flame. River ignored the chair and sat beside me, making the hammock swing wildly, his arm going around my waist to keep me from falling out.

  “You break my hammock, you replace it,” Mr. Nelson grumbled.

  River grinned. “I’ll do that, sir.”

  It was a little disconcerting sitting this close to him after we’d been together at the river. Every place his leg and arm touched, my skin burned.

  “You have a funny way of enjoying the summer, Haven Ambrose,” River commented.

  I stared out into the yard, at the cooker in the corner, the way the shadows grew long around it in the late afternoon. Mr. Nelson leaned back, his eyes closed, resting. Bees buzzed around potted flowers sitting on the porch steps, and a grey bob-tailed cat slunk from under the stairs to rest at Thomas’ feet.

  “It’s the best way to enjoy it,” I said. It surprised me how much I meant it.

  The hammock swayed gently, our legs rubbing together as River rocked us. The cat purred.

  My gaze went to River’s profile. His head was back, his eyes on the leaves above our head, his white shirt splayed open.

  He caught me looking, his eyes meeting mine briefly, his mouth turning up in a grin.

  Out of nowhere, he said, “I came here because I found myself thinking about you a lot.”

  I gripped the netting on the hammock. “About me?”

  He didn’t say anything, just stared at the cooker before letting his gaze move over the yard. Mr. Nelson snored, the sound loud enough that I had a sneaking suspicion he was faking.

  “You’re right,” River whispered. “This is the best way to enjoy summer. The way my life is … I’d forgotten.”

  My fingers were so close to his, I found them itching to touch him.

  “You don’t spend a lot of time outside?” I asked, my fingers fisting so hard around the netting I could feel the fabric digging into my skin.

  River sighed. “When my grandmother was alive, we were always outdoors. There’s a place in the gardens behind our estate that reminds me of this spot. My grandmother put a gazebo there with cushioned seats. She always said it was her special place. A place where she could think away from the humdrum noise of our life.”

  I leaned back, my grip on the netting lost. “Humdrum noise? From the outside, your life looks easy.”

  River snorted. “From the outside maybe. And I guess financially it can be. But outside of that … there’s a lot of humdrum noise. Trust me.”

  We fell into silence, both of us leaning back, the hammock rocking steadily back and forth, back and forth.

  “I could get you a better job,” he said suddenly.

  I froze, my gaze flying to his. He was watching me, his glinting eyes moving over my face, over the hasty braid I’d done, frizzy strands attempting to escape in the heat.

  “What?” I whispered.

  His hand found my hand, his fingers entwining with mine. The contact sent tingles all the way to my toes.

  “A better job, Haven,” River repeated. “Maybe an office job.”

  I stared. His voice was full of sincerity. There was no pity in his gaze.

  Shaking my head, I murmured, “No, I’m happy where I’m at for now.”

  He didn’t pursue the topic. Maybe he sensed arguing about it would be a serious blow to my p
ride.

  His fingers tightened on mine. “We should really talk about the river.”

  I nudged him with my shoulder. “No, we really shouldn’t.”

  He laughed. “Afraid to talk about it?”

  Deciding it was better to be bluntly honest than try and skirt the issue, I sat up just enough to look down at him. “No, I’m afraid if we do, I’ll want to do it again.”

  River’s eyes darkened, his free hand coming up to grip the back of my head, his eyes searching my face. “You can’t say things like that,” he whispered.

  He was pulling my head down toward his, and I let him.

  “Why?” I whispered back.

  It was a dangerous question with a dangerous answer.

  His lips were an inch away from mine when he replied, “Because I know I want to do it again.”

  The kiss, when it came, was soft and gentle, undemanding. It was easy to get lost in, easy to forget everything but the moment.

  A clearing throat broke us apart.

  “You two watching the peanuts?” Mr. Nelson called out.

  River’s eyes met mine.

  I chuckled. “Almost done I think.”

  Pushing myself off the hammock, I stepped toward the pot, mixing the peanuts with a long handled spoon before turning to Mr. Nelson, who’d long since given up his pretense of sleep.

  “These should be ready to bag.”

  The next couple of hours were spent in silence as we drained the peanuts, letting them cool before moving them to freezer bags. River stood behind me in Mr. Nelson’s kitchen, his open shirt and damp skin touching mine as he leaned against me at the sink. It wasn’t a productive stance, but the feel of him against my bare back overwhelmed my senses, and there was no way I was going to tell him to move.

  My eyes watched Mr. Nelson through the kitchen window as he filled the second pot outside with peanuts, his lips pursed as he whistled. The sun was setting behind him, throwing rays that turned everything it touched into gold.

  River’s arms enfolded me, his hands on mine in the sink, the cold water running over our fingers as we ran them over the cooling peanuts. What neither of us said in words, we said with our bodies, his chest pressed up against my back, his water-sodden fingers tracing circles on my palms. Electricity shot through my hands and down into my feet.

  “I haven’t decided yet if you are just what I need or trouble.”

  River whispered it, his lips next to my ear. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck rose, and I shivered.

  “I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for,” I answered him. “People are what you perceive them.”

  He chuckled. “Perception can often be distorted.”

  I tilted my head back, my gaze going to River’s face. “Are you looking for trouble?”

  He stared down at me. One of his wet hands lifted, his cold, moist finger tracing my lips before running across my cheek. Moisture ran down my face. It felt like tears. Chilly tears.

  “I’m not sure what I’m looking for,” he replied.

  We stood frozen, our eyes locked. I wasn’t sure what I read in his gaze. Confusion maybe?

  “My favorite color is cerulean.” I blurted it out, and then blushed because I didn’t know where it came from. It just felt important somehow. “Not blue,” I continued, “but cerulean. Because it’s what the sky looks like just before nightfall. Because it’s what I imagine the ocean looks like when you’re sitting on a tropical island in the middle of nowhere.”

  I expected him to laugh, but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes changed, darkened. They went from milk chocolate to dark in mere seconds.

  “Black,” he said. “Mine is black. Because it’s what I see when I close my eyes, the moment of peace and darkness right before I rest, the color of the clouds right before a massive storm. Because it’s that perfect night when there is no moon.”

  It seemed an odd choice of color to me, but no odder than our current conversation, no odder than this moment.

  “Because you like storms?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Because I like the way the air feels before a storm, as if it’s holding its breath, waiting for the perfect moment to exhale.”

  I watched him, my gaze searching his, and I rambled on, my brain telling me to shut up even as I said, “I don’t like gum. I don’t like the way it feels or the way people smack when chewing it. It’s like fingers on a chalkboard.”

  River’s lips turned up. “So only peppermints before you kiss? I’ll remember that.”

  This was the moment where I was supposed to laugh, maybe turn and thump him in the chest for being a smart ass, but I rambled on instead.

  “I’m sort of obsessed with reading my horoscope, and I hate wearing shoes. I count calories in my head when I eat, and I like to write. Nothing important, just ideas,” I murmured.

  River’s cool fingers fanned out along my face, dry now against my skin.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Because you said you didn’t know what you were looking for and because you needed to know what you’d find in me. I’m not chocolate boxes and a dozen roses. I’m not that girl. I wouldn’t eat the chocolates and my mother would kill the roses. I’m friendship bracelets made out of twine. I’m the type of girl that thinks it’s fun to boil peanuts with a seventy-eight-year-old friend. I’m library books and journals, and I’m hard work. I wouldn’t know how to be anything else.”

  He stared too long then, his palm having warmed against my skin before he said, “And that’s why I’m drawn to you.”

  His words caught me off guard, and my brows rose. “Why?”

  His head came down. “Because you wouldn’t know how to be anything else, and I’m constantly pretending to be something I’m not. Because when I’m standing next to you, it’s easy to be who I am.”

  The smile I gave him was soft and sad. “Then you’re not looking for trouble.”

  His lips turned up. “No, I’m looking for escape.”

  How easy it was for him to say escape. If only he knew the burdens my life came with, the pain, and the worry.

  He’d kissed me again then, turning me so that his bare stomach touched my skin, his lips moist and warm against mine, and I’d let myself get lost in it. I’d let myself pretend that escape was an okay thing, but there was still that niggling doubt in my head, that little part of me that asked, “What happens when he can’t escape anymore?”

  Chapter 26

  River

  For a year I’d dreamt constantly of my father; dreamt about his body sprawled in his study, the deep, hateful gashes on his skin. For a year, I hadn’t slept much past midnight, the dreams keeping me more awake than asleep. My body would be cold with fear and then hate, with the knowledge that the man or men who’d murdered my father were still free.

  But that was this past year. For the last two nights since returning from Mr. Nelson’s home at two in the morning to find an irritated Marissa and pacing Roman, I’d dreamt about a sandy-haired young woman who liked horoscopes and hated chewing gum. For two days, as Marissa spoke endlessly of Cecily Davies and why I should take her to dinner while I was home, I’d thought about cerulean oceans and twine friendship bracelets. For two days, as Roman found ways to sneak out of the house while fighting with me about his car, I’d thought of bare feet and wilting roses.

  For two days, I thought about that night; citronella candles burning as Haven Ambrose ran barefoot across moist grass to stir peanuts, her braid a frizzy mess, her cheeks flushed by the heat. For two nights, I thought about Mr. Nelson’s peeling porch, the unusual smell of boiling peanuts mixed with insect repellant, and the apple scent in Haven’s hair that drove me wild. I dreamt of her skin against mine, and the way her eyes always widened right before I kissed her. It was the first time I’d had relief from the nightmares, and it gave me strength. Not physical, but emotional strength.

  It was two nights of reprieve from horror that found me standing at five a.m. at my
father’s closed study door, my hand resting against the wood. Outside, the sun was just noticeable through the trees, the faint light casting shadows in a hall full of tragedy. It was Roman who’d awoken me, the sound of his footsteps past my bedroom door at dawn soft, but not light enough not to alert me. I hadn’t tried to stop him. He wasn’t going to stop until he’d found his truth, the answers he thought would make the nightmares go away.

  My fingers moved over the wood, sliding down to the doorknob. It was easier than I thought it would be to open that door, to walk into a room that had haunted me for months now. For a moment, I thought I saw him there, his prone shape lying in a pool of blood in the dark room. My hand hovered over the light switch, my mind suspended in limbo between two worlds, two moments in time, then and now.

  “Dad.”

  The word was loud in the still room as I pushed the switch up, flooding the study with light, the glow softened by tinted bulb covers. Nothing in the office had changed. The desk still stood in the same place, an eclectic mix of art splashing only minimal color into the dark wood and latte walls. An overstuffed, brown leather chair sat behind the desk, pushed back slightly as if someone had been sitting in it and was on the verge of standing.

  Stepping onto a thick chocolate-colored area rug, I paused, my eyes on the floor. The area rug was the only thing that had changed, the old, lighter rug having been removed because of the blood in the fibers, used first for evidence before being destroyed.

  I stooped, my gaze on one particular spot in the rug, one hand braced on the floor. “You left me in a bad place, Dad.” The silence that answered me was deafening. “I’m not what you need me to be, and I’m not sure I want to be.” I shook my head. “And look at Roman. He’s a mess. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

  “Try,” a voice answered me.

  I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

  “And if I don’t want to?” I asked.

  Marissa took a tentative step forward, her heels clicking on the hardwood.

  “Your dad had a lot of expectations. I’m sure he doesn’t mean for you to meet all of them, but it’s best to try.”