Hometown Girl

by Courtney Walsh

  Beth studied her hands, folded in her lap.

  Birdie leaned in, as if to share a secret. “Just like you can’t earn love. Or forgiveness. Or grace. Those things are gifts. You just have to reach out and take them.” Birdie covered Beth’s hands with her own. “You don’t get to be my age without a few lessons along the way.” Her smile was sympathetic, like the smile of a person who actually understood.

  Beth stilled.

  “It’s awful tiresome, if you ask me.” The woman pulled her hands away and slumped in her chair. “I mean, why work for something you already have?”

  The words radiated into Beth’s weary soul.

  “I heard a quote once: ‘The two most important days of your life are the day you were born and the day you figure out why.’”

  Beth met her eyes.

  “Find your ‘why’ and the rest of it—that will fall into place. And it’ll let you off the hook. All the things you thought you should have done—if they aren’t part of your ‘why,’ then they don’t matter anymore.”

  Beth sat silent for a few long seconds. “I have a ‘why.’”

  “Having a ‘why’ isn’t the same as having something to prove.”

  Beth frowned.

  Birdie glanced at the canvases on the table in front of her. “You know, once upon a time, all I wanted was a gallery showing in New York City.” Beth’s face must’ve shown her surprise, because Birdie laughed. “I know, can you believe it? Me in a New York City gallery? I worked tirelessly to make that happen. I thought once it did, I would finally—finally—be somebody. I’d be respected and well-thought-of and known.”

  Birdie pulled her stack of paintings from the box.

  “There’s something deep down within us, isn’t there, that just wants to be known?”

  There was. Beth had felt that longing many times.

  “Anyway, I had my gallery showing in the city.”

  “You did?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised, kid. I’m a sensational artist.” Birdie winked at her. “And you know what? My heart never settled into it. I started painting what the gallery owners and my manager told me to paint, instead of what my own soul wanted to paint. They wanted me to wear stuffy clothes and look professional, and I wanted to be my hippie-dippy self.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I left.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Packed up my brushes and moved to this little hole-in-the-wall town in Illinois, where I met my husband, who gave me the very best life I could’ve ever imagined.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, right here in Willow Grove, hometown girl.”

  “You didn’t feel like a failure for not going after the big dream?”

  Birdie waved her off, her bracelets clanging together halfway up her arm. “Are you kidding? This is the big dream!” She let out a loud laugh. “I started to love painting again. I was creating whatever I wanted—nobody got to tell me how my art should look or what the people would buy. I didn’t care. I just did it because I loved it.”

  Beth stilled.

  “You get to decide, Miss Whitaker, what ‘the big dream’ is for you. And it’s okay to want a simple life. It’s even okay to admit that you kind of love it here—that this place is your ‘why’—at least for right now. I mean, look what you’re doing—bringing people together. Fairwind Farm is a connector of people. We need that around here.”

  Beth was skeptical. Birdie Chirper was a crazy old lady who really needed to pay them rent if she wanted to continue to paint in their barn, but she made a lot of sense.

  Could Beth ever be that brave—that comfortable with her own choices that it didn’t matter what anyone else thought?

  Birdie stood. “I’ve got more paintings to cart down here.” She turned to Beth. “Unless you don’t want me to participate in your sale?”

  Beth shook her head. “Of course you should participate.”

  She smiled. “Of course I should.”

  Beth watched as the old woman left, resting in the words imparted by a perfect stranger and begging God to show her how to rest in the gift of His “why.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The next day, when she arrived, Beth knocked on the front door again. Drew had made up his mind not to be so distant with her today—even if it seemed awkward. Yesterday had been brutal, and not knowing where he stood with her was killing him.

  He’d figure out a way to tell her who he really was tonight. He owed her that much.

  He pulled the door open and found her eyes, which asked permission to come in. One look at her and his self-control unraveled.

  “Good morning.” She shoved a coffee at him.

  “Good morning.” He took the cup.

  “Listen, can you tell me what’s going on here?” She motioned at herself, then at him. She’d taken on her business tone, same one he’d witnessed when she talked to Davis Biddle. He watched her for a few long seconds until she looked at him again. He couldn’t help it—he smiled.

  “You’re smiling.”

  “You’re cute when you’re confrontational.”

  She gave his shoulder a shove, and he held on to her wrist, pulling her close.

  “I’m serious,” she said. “I can’t figure you out.”

  “I like you, Beth Whitaker,” he said.

  She let out the slightest sigh (of relief?) and sank into him. “I like you too.”

  He kicked the front door shut with his foot and kissed her the way he’d wanted to ever since their first kiss. When he pulled away, he found her breathless and beautiful.

  “I know I was weird yesterday,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  Her face fell. “I want you to know you can trust me. You can talk to me.”

  He brushed a stray strand of hair away from her eye, tucking it behind her ear. “I know. Let’s talk—tonight? Dinner?”

  “Yeah?” She smiled.

  “Yeah.”

  “Deal.”

  He stared at her for a few long seconds until she remembered there was work to do.

  “Okay, today I’m going to start hauling stuff from the second floor down to the barn for the sale,” she said.

  He frowned. “By yourself?”

  She cocked her head to one side. “I’m a perfectly capable woman, Mr. Barlow. I can haul a few boxes out of the house.”

  He nodded. “Noted.”

  “But I might need help with some of the really heavy stuff, so I’ll let you know.”

  He laughed, kissed her again and headed outside. His crew had been roped into helping set up for the barn sale, but thankfully no one had complained.

  Drew stepped back to admire the progress so far. He’d focused most of the last few weeks on that barn and it showed. The place looked better than new. Once they had inventory, they could turn it back into a store.

  He’d fixed the checkout counters—all eight of them—as well as the shelves that would hold whatever Beth and Molly decided to sell. In the back near the coolers was the apple-cider donut counter, and across from that were open rows perfect for bushel baskets and bags of apples. It had all been cleaned and repaired. Just off to the right of the entrance, the fudge counter had been rebuilt and new cases installed.

  It looked better than it ever had, and he was proud of his guys. Proud of himself. He felt like he’d made a real contribution—and more importantly, it would make Beth happy.

  If Walter was right about the orchards and the trees were in good shape, there was a chance they really could open by fall. They wouldn’t have everything finished, but they could certainly get the store and bakery up and running. He relished the sense of accomplishment for a long moment, then picked up his toolbox and moved outside.

  The guys had this under control. Today, he had another project for himself—the petting-zoo barn, which didn’t need as much work as he’d originally thought. A few days—a week, tops—and he’d have that one sealed up.

  It felt good to cross thin
gs off his list. It felt good to go to Beth with visible progress.

  Maybe it would ease the worry in her mind a little.

  He found Roxie lying in the shade of an old oak tree while Daisy ran in circles around Blue. He hadn’t had much time to work with Molly’s dog, and she went rogue every chance she got. Eventually, she would have to be trained.

  But not today.

  Drew walked through the petting-zoo barn, assessing the damage to each stall. He’d have to pull out rotted wood and start over with the new lumber he’d purchased last week. An old radio hung from the corner. He flipped it on and found the nearest station without static. An oldies station. It would do.

  He found a sledgehammer in the bottom of his toolbox. He’d start by clearing away the rotten wood. When he rebuilt the stalls, he’d create some order in the barn—judging by what was there now, this setup had been a last-minute hodgepodge of cagelike stalls that Harold had built as they’d procured more animals.

  He didn’t know what kind of animals Beth and Molly intended to put in their petting zoo or when, but it didn’t matter. It felt good to slam the hammer into the wood, to knock out the old in favor of the new.

  Normally, when he worked, it was to drive away some kind of aggression. Today, he worked to work, as if something had taken the edge off his sorrow.

  There was only one thing that had changed. Beth.

  She made him happy. How long had it been since he’d felt that way?

  An image of two kids rolling down a huge hill at the back of the Fairwind property raced through his mind. Had it been that long?

  A part of him still felt guilty for enjoying what Jess couldn’t. But he tried to focus on nothing but the task at hand. As he worked, the radio blared songs from the fifties and sixties, most of which Drew knew from his own childhood. It’s what happened when a kid took long road trips with parents who insisted on listening to Chubby Checker and Buddy Holly.

  He pounded at the wooden stalls, some sections more rotten than others, all of it easy to remove. He stacked the garbage wood in a neat pile just outside the barn, doing his best not to think about the fact that he’d told Beth they’d talk tonight. He’d talk. He’d tell her the real reason he was there—all of it.

  Bishop would likely uncover it all in a matter of days, and Drew couldn’t let her find out from anyone but him. He knew there was a chance it would make her mad—she did have a temper—but he hoped she would understand.

  She could tell him to leave, and he wouldn’t blame her, but it wasn’t what he wanted. Not only because he still had no answers, but because he thought he might love her. Leaving now—after he’d finally admitted it to himself—how would he live with that?

  More pounding, more hauling.

  “Surfin’ USA” by the Beach Boys rang out through the barn. The upbeat music reminded him of Jess. Years ago, the jaunty melody would’ve suited Fairwind, but now? The two seemed a complete contradiction.

  The song ended, and the DJ’s voice interrupted Drew’s thoughts.

  “And now we’ve got a special treat—a one-hit wonder by fifties doo-wop group The Chords. Let it take you back to a time life really could be a dream. Here’s The Chords singing ‘Sh-Boom.’”

  A familiar tune bounced through the air, filling sad space with another fun melody. Four men sang harmonies that begged feet to move, a song that enticed even the most conservative listeners to dance. It was a playful tune that touted the ironic idea that life could be anything other than painful—that it could, in fact, be a dream. And as the words filled the barn, Drew’s mind drifted back years, setting him right there in one of the stalls beside Jess.

  He stilled, marveling at how he could hear the smile in the lead singer’s voice, but as he rose to his feet, his mind spun with decades-old memories, the kind that turned his dreams into nightmares. He closed his eyes, watching the memories spill in front of him like a movie on a theater screen. Vivid and bright, he saw Jess dancing at the center of the barn.

  “You’re going to hurt the animals’ ears,” Drew had said, wishing he could be as free as she was.

  Jess shook her body and laughed. “They love this song.”

  He sat on a bale of hay.

  “Dance with me, Drew!” Her voice matched the song’s tone, happy and exuberant, buoyant like a raft tossed down the river.

  He hesitated, feeling self-conscious and unsure what to do with a girl dancing next to him, but nothing about Jess suggested anything but innocence. Dancing made her laugh, and when she was happy, she wanted everyone else to be happy too.

  He obliged her with a few quick moves, and she threw her head back, hooting as she imitated him. Soon, the two of them were in the middle of the barn, twisting and spinning and giggling in the quiet country air.

  Drew watched the shadow of his memory as it tried to fade, but before it did, before the song ended, his ten-year-old self glanced up into one of the back stalls, and in that moment, he remembered they weren’t alone. Someone sat there against the wall, watching the two children play.

  Drew spun Jess around with a laugh, looked up and met a pair of angry eyes staring straight through him. He’d gasped, stopped dancing and moved in front of her.

  The song came to an end, and Drew shook himself back to the present, the memory—and fresh tears—stinging his eyes. He closed them tightly, his breathing labored, and fell to his knees, the image of the face still fresh in his mind.

  Why hadn’t he seen it before? Why hadn’t he remembered this man until now? Why had this song triggered a memory that should’ve been there since that very day?

  What had they done that day in the barn? Why hadn’t he told his parents someone had been watching them? Why had they continued to play in the barns without an adult, as if they were invincible?

  Drew closed his eyes again, pressing his knuckles into them. He could still see the man’s face, vivid as a photograph. But he didn’t recognize him. He had no idea who he was or if he’d played a role in the single event that had shaped Drew more than any other.

  How could he get the image out of his mind and into the hands of the police? It had been two decades, but maybe someone would recognize him.

  Drew stood, unsteady on weak knees. He leaned against the only stall he’d yet to tear out, the one at the back, often shadowed and hard to see into. The man had been in that very spot only days before Jess had disappeared. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

  All those years he’d been right. He hadn’t seen anyone the day Jess went missing, but he had seen someone two days before.

  He had the answer he’d been looking for.

  He dropped the hammer back into his toolbox and started toward the house. He might not be able to get the image out of his mind, but he knew someone who could.

  Beth’s art was different from Birdie’s, clothed in realism. He wished for a fleeting moment it was the other way around. Birdie already knew who he was. Asking her would be easier.

  Asking Beth had all kinds of ramifications. But he’d never be able to love her the way she deserved if he didn’t finish this.

  Time to stop being a coward.

  He passed through the commotion in the main barn. When he didn’t see her, he headed straight for the farmhouse.

  Inside, it was quiet.

  “Beth?” he called out, but the only reply was silence. “Beth?”

  After checking the main floor, he started upstairs. He moved quickly, trying to hold on to every shred of the image he’d seen, though he was pretty sure he couldn’t forget that face—those eyes—if he wanted to. He finally had something tangible, something that could lead them to Jess’s kidnapper. Even the possibility of it quickened his pulse.

  “Beth?” Still nothing. He checked each room, wondering if she’d gone or if she was outside somewhere and he hadn’t realized it.

  A quick glance in Jess’s room. Empty. Guest room. Also empty. The bathroom door stood wide open, with obviously no one inside.

  The master be
droom. She was probably cleaning out the closet.

  Oh, no. Drew’s heart sank.

  What if . . . ?

  “Beth?” His voice was quiet now as he entered the bedroom and moved toward the closet. The door was open, and all the clothes had been cleared away, revealing the door to the hidden room, which now stood open and exposed like a gaping wound in need of stitches.

  Inside, under the dim light of the single hanging bulb, Beth sat at the table, studying the clippings and photos on the bulletin board.

  She turned, tears in her eyes, holding a small photograph Drew recognized almost instantly. Him and Jess at the creek, proudly holding the fish they’d caught that morning. Jess’s mom had snapped the photo, and he’d found it tucked behind an article on the bulletin board.

  “Beth, I—”

  “It was you.” Her voice shook as she slowly faced him. “You were the witness. You know what happened to Jess Pendergast.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Drew stared at her, pain radiating behind his icy blue eyes. He looked at her, then at the photo in her hands, then to the room where she sat—a tiny room she hadn’t intended to find. When she’d cleared away the clothes, there it was—and what she saw inside looked like the work of a madman.

  “This is why you’re here.”

  He turned away, took his hat off and raked a hand through his hair. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out.”

  “You could’ve told me weeks ago.” She scanned the wall of photos, newspaper clippings and random scribblings on napkins. Most of the items were old and weathered, undoubtedly the work of Harold Pendergast. But some of those things, like Davis Biddle’s business card, were brand-new.

  Those things told her Drew not only knew about the secret room, he knew about the wall. He’d contributed to it.

  Was he a madman too?

  Beth waited for an explanation, but as usual, Drew seemed unable, or unwilling, to speak.

  She stood and walked toward him. “Drew, what’s going on?”