From the broken windows, sagging porch, and roof that was obviously in need of repair, it was clear to Taryn that the picture was depicting a fairly recent time period, if not the present. It had the look of an abandoned, neglected house although it was, of course, in far better condition than it was today. Weeds grew in clumps around the foundation and a rash of poison ivy wounded its way up from the ground all the way to a second-floor window. “Leaves of three, leave them be,” Taryn chanted silently in her head.
The sadness that often accompanied her view into the past settled over her like a damp fog. At one time someone had ordered the house, probably in excitement at the thought of building their own home. They’d watched it roll in and be unloaded and then watched as it was put together, piece by piece. Some woman, most likely, had visited furniture stores and outfitted the rooms to her liking and maybe even fawned over fabric samples as she dreamed of curtains and bedspreads. Taryn knew nothing about the former occupants, or original owners, but she had a fairly good grasp on people in general; the house had once been loved. Now it was forgotten, simply an addendum to the open field where mischievous teenagers liked to party.
The pictures Taryn took around the fire pit were unremarkable. She zoomed in on a few, thinking she saw something small, but nevertheless revealing, but nothing stood out. Only the farmhouse, with Cheyenne happy as a lark on the porch, was troubling.
“It takes your breath away a little, doesn’t it?” Matt mused. “To see her there, alive, when there was nothing present when you took the photo.”
“I thought I’d get used to it eventually, seeing things like this,” Taryn said. “But I don’t think I have. I keep expecting that it will stop, that I’ll wake up one morning and be unable to do this. And yet… here’s another one.”
“I think we can agree that the house had something to do with Cheyenne’s disappearance,” Matt concluded. “Or at least the farm.”
“So what do you think I should do now?” Taryn asked, feeling helpless.
“It might be time to talk to her parents. You’re going to have to do it anyway, and it’s better that you go to them rather than them hearing about asking questions.”
“You’re right,” Taryn sighed. “But that’s one visit I’m not particularly looking forward to.”
The house, a small brick ranch, was located in an older subdivision where sheer age had allowed the trees to grow again after being cleared out for the construction. Houses were positioned fairly far apart, with each lot having what looked to be an acre or more. Cheyenne’s house had a black Ford Explorer, an older model, and Kia Rio in the cracked driveway. A metal patio table, with a ripped stripped umbrella, perched at the edge of the yard; the umbrella beating back and forth in the wind. An attempt had been made to put in a flower garden along the front of the house, but the beds were overgrown and weeds were shooting up through the hard-packed soil, obscuring the myriad of gnomes, toads, and ceramic chipmunks. It was obvious the shutters and front door had been painted recently, but it also appeared that the old paint hadn’t been scraped off first as it appeared thick and bubbly.
When Taryn knocked on the door Thelma opened it almost immediately, leaving Taryn to wonder if she sat by her front picture window, watching the road for signs of visitors… or signs of Cheyenne.
The warm interior was a stark contrast to the biting cold of outside. Indeed, it was almost stuffy, and Taryn found herself wishing she hadn’t worn so many layers. The house opened up into a living room jam-packed full of furniture, decorations, and books. The blueberry-colored walls were alive with Home Interior, every few feet a different collection of prints and the matching accessories. Taryn was seated in a fluffy recliner under a print of a seascape. Beneath the print was a small shelf containing a matching seashell, ceramic lighthouse, and candle. Across from her, above Thelma’s head, was a farm print. Surrounding it were wall hangings of miniature cows and horses. For some reason Taryn couldn’t help herself and found she was adding up the cost of the collections; she figured there was at least three-thousand dollars’ worth of Home Interior on the wall. That stuff didn’t come cheap.
The shabby furniture was happily alive with “primitive” figurines and “artwork.” Everything from plaques proclaiming “Everything simple” on reclaimed barn wood to imitation farm implements littered the room. Thelma obviously took great pride in her decorating and her “things.” The couch was sagging, the fabric on the matching recliners torn in several places, and the wood furniture all pressed and factory made (cheaply) but there wasn’t a spot of dust or stain to be seen.
“I’m sorry it’s such a mess,” Thelma apologized, gesturing about the room. “I just didn’t have time to really clean.”
It was a southern thing, Taryn knew, to apologize for the house’s cleanliness. She had no doubt that Thelma, like most southern women she’d known (her grandmother and mother included), had probably spent half the morning polishing, dusting, vacuuming, and shoving things in forgotten rooms and corners. She’d even taken the time to light candles and set out incense; the air was filled with a combination of vanilla, strawberry, and lavender aromas.
“It’s a beautiful home,” Taryn asserted, “and there’s no mess at all. You should see MY place.” That was also the polite southern thing to do: assure your hostess their house is perfect and you’re the unkempt one.
“You’re too sweet. Would you like something to drink, dear?” Thelma asked. “I’ve got sweet tea, Coke, Diet Coke, and hot chocolate.”
“I’d like a Coke, please, if it’s not too much trouble,” Taryn replied, thinking a boost of caffeine couldn’t hurt.
Thelma excused herself to the kitchen and was back a moment later, the Coke poured into a tall glass with imprints of roses on it. Ice cubes bobbed at the top, their clinking noise cheerful in the otherwise quiet room.
Now that visitor protocol had been reached and carried forth, it was time to get down to business.
“First, I wanted to say how much I am enjoying teaching the class,” Taryn began sincerely. And she truly was enjoying herself. “I don’t know how good of a teacher I am, but I’m having fun and nobody’s dropped out.”
“Oh, lots of little birdies have told me you’re a wonderful teacher,” Thelma assured her, her eyes dancing. “Some are even asking if you’ll come back a second term.”
Taryn felt her back stiffen in pride. Perhaps she didn’t stink as badly as she thought she did.
“There is something else, though, and I don’t quite know how to say it…” Now that she was there, in Thelma’s living room, she felt awkward. How did one go about bringing up the other person’s private life in such a direct way?
“Well, I imagine the best way to say it is the most honest. What’s on your mind?”
“I know about your daughter, about Cheyenne,” Taryn disclosed softly, looking down at her feet. Her boots were heavy and dark against the light beige carpet and now she belatedly wondered if she shouldn’t have taken them off at the door. Some people were funny about their carpets and shoes.
“Oh,” Thelma sighed.
Taryn could feel a shift in the room, a heaviness. The sweet aroma of the lavender candle next to her was starting to make her a little sick to her stomach and the Coke was thick on her throat. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea to pay Thelma the visit. “You see, I… well, I felt something on one of my first nights. And then someone told me about her disappearance. I did some research of my own,” she finished lamely.
Thelma’s ears had perked up now, and she was studying Taryn intently, gazing at her with rapture. ‘What did you feel?”
“I can’t really describe it, I’m afraid. But I heard what I thought was a cry. And then I had a bad dream. Well, when you look at everything individually it’s not much but when you put it all together, it usually means something. I think Cheyenne might be trying to communicate with me.” Taryn held her breath, cringing at her choice of words. The fact was, there was no way to talk about
this without letting Thelma know she thought Cheyenne must be dead.
But Thelma only nodded. “In the beginning I felt things as well. I’d hear a voice, a singing even. The air currents around me would shift. Sometimes, I’d catch things out of the corner of my eye, but I could never get a full picture. I talked to my preacher about it. He said it might be part of my grief, my depression.” Thelma’s eyes filled with water and she hastily dabbed at them with the edge of her sweater sleeve. “I know she’s dead. I know it. A mother would know these things, right?”
“Maybe she’s not,” Taryn proclaimed, but to her own ears it didn’t sound particularly convincing.
“We know she’s dead,” Thelma stated again, this time with more firmness. The glass in her hand shook a little, sending drops of cola over the side, but she steadied and forced herself to be steady. “Cheyenne was a difficult child, the kind of teenager you wanted to pull your hair out over, but she was thoughtful. She would never do this to me.”
Taryn made a mental note that she hadn’t mentioned Cheyenne’s father, but decided to let it pass for now.
“You would know your daughter best of all,” Taryn reassured her with care, trying to choose the right words. “My parents and I had a difficult relationship when I was growing up. I actually ended up going to live with my grandmother when I was still young, and it was an arrangement that suited everyone well. But, like Cheyenne, I wouldn’t have put my parents through this kind of grief. Not for this long anyway.”
“Exactly,” Thelma quavered, sounding relieved Taryn understood her. “I know the police still consider this a possible runaway but I know she’s not. Jeff, that’s her stepfather, he still holds out the belief she’ll turn up one day with her tail between her legs, seeking forgiveness. I give that sliver of hope to him. He holds so much guilt otherwise.”
“Why?” Taryn asked, unable to stop herself.
Thelma sighed and seemed to age ten years in a matter of seconds, her face darkening and the lines drawing deeper on her forehead. “Jeff and I married when Cheyenne’s father died. She was twelve when he officially adopted her. He did his best by her, Jeff’s a good man you see, but he’s not always an easy man. Sometimes he may have expected too much out of such a young girl. Jeff’s former Navy, retired now, and likes everything in order. Cheyenne was just the opposite. She didn’t understand his rules, his rigidity, was to keep us safe and his way of showing love. They butted heads a lot. But he would’ve walked through hell and high water for her.” She snapped this last part with vehemence.
“It’s not his fault what happened,” Taryn tried to soothe her. “He couldn’t have known.”
“Well, in a way he could have. You see, Cheyenne called him earlier that evening to come and get her. I guess her and her friends got in a tiff. That’s what one said. That’s why she was leaving with somebody else. She sent us that text, the one saying she was coming home early. But we didn’t get it. We were asleep at the time. If we’d gotten it, we’d have been expecting her. We would’ve known when she was meant to be here. We would’ve asked who was driving her. We both feel guilty about that.” Thelma set her Coke down on the end table next to her, a coaster under it, and shook her head with sadness.
“I understand about the guilt. I lost my husband years ago and am only just now getting around to letting go of some of the blame I put on myself,” Taryn admitted, feeling helpless. She wished she could offer this woman more comfort, but felt helpless.
“I am glad you’re here, no matter what anyone says,” Thelma asserted suddenly, her eyes blazing.
“What do you mean?” Taryn asked, taken aback. Hadn’t they wanted her to come and teach at the college?
“I know it was wrong of me to bring you in on false pretenses, but the students really are enjoying you and–”
“Thelma, what are you saying?”
“Oh, honey,” Thelma exhaled loudly. “Can’t you see? You’re not seeing and hearing my daughter on accident. I brought you here because I know who you are. I put you in our cabin to be close to where Cheyenne was. You’re here to find my daughter.”
Chapter 10
Although her stomach grumbled and she was dying for something carbonated and caffeinated (everything was a “Coke” to her unless it was clear) she drove straight to the cabin without stopping. For the first time since Andrew died Taryn found herself wanting, needing really, to be engulfed by the presence of a man. Or, more concretely, a man who loved her. And despite the fact she couldn’t really explain her current situation with Matt, one thing she felt for certain–he was the only person left in the world who truly did love her.
When she walked through the door she found him sitting cross-legged on the couch, his skinny pale legs poking out from his pajama bottoms. She still liked that he always wore matching pajamas. A bathrobe was tied loosely around his waist, and papers were scattered on the floor and around him.
“Hey,” he smiled as she began the process of disrobing of her outer layers. She let her scarf, jacket, and gloves land on her jacket in the floor while she studied him. Most women probably wouldn’t find him classically attractive. He was too thin, too angular. His longish black hair fell in a curtain around his bright green eyes, hiding them for the most part. A pity, too, since she found his eyes to be his best feature. Despite having both Italian and Native American in his lineage he was pale, even in the summertime. His jaw was angular but his mouth was full. At six-foot-two he towered over her, but had a tendency to hunch his shoulders when he walked, making him appear much smaller. He was a terrible dresser, wearing things that went out of style years ago or were much too young for him (a favorite outfit of his was black jeans with a T-shirt boasting a bunch of dancing frogs).
Still, there were times when she looked at him and thought he might be the most beautiful person she’d ever seen. Like now.
“How’d the visit go?” Taryn knew he hated being interrupted when he was working on something, his OCD mind liked to finish one thing before starting another, but he always made the effort to squeeze Taryn’s needs in.
She wasn’t ready to talk about the day, though. Instead, she walked over to Matt without a word, cleared the papers from his lap, and sat down on it. Like a little child she curled herself into his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist. He bent forward so his head rested on hers, that silky hair now falling down into her face and covering her own eyes. And, for the longest time, they didn’t move.
The sound was far away, off in the distance, and might have been part of her dream. Taryn was aware she was asleep only because her body felt incredibly relaxed and lucid–a feeling foreign to her when she was awake. She thought she was too young for arthritis but for the past few years she’d experienced such periods of stiffness and pain it felt as though her bones were breaking.
But the noise… it was nothing more than a “ping” really–a small, tinny sound that barely registered on her mental plane. Lovely images of a dark, starry sky floated behind her eyes like scenes from a vintage movie and made her smile in her sleep but the sound was out-of-place, a disruption that disturbed her.
She stretched her leg out and in her sleep was aware of the rough fabric of the couch beneath her. While she didn’t awaken, her heartrate quickened, and her breathing became more jagged, frenzied. Something wasn’t right and, as the cold beads of sweat begin forming at her temples and sliding down her cheeks in little balls, she struggled to understand what was going on and why she was so suddenly afraid. Then, there it was, that “ping” again–what should’ve been an innocuous sound but, instead, filled her with dread.
“Taryn.” The voice was beside her, in front of her, behind her, all around her. It was warm, but commanding, and Taryn had no trouble recognizing it as her grandmother. Although she’d been dead for many years, that whiskey-soaked voiced, turned hard by years of chain-smoking, was unmistakably Nora Jean Magill’s.
Blinking, Taryn pushed herself up, the afghan sliding to the floor. She moved as i
f in a daze, half expecting to look down and see her still-sleeping body below her. Her movements were fluid, unlike her normally clumsy nature, and in the cool darkness of night her limbs felt as though they were traveling in slow motion.
She wasn’t alone.
While the outline of her grandmother’s body might have been gauzy and not quite as solid as Nora had been in real life (Nora’s presence had always been solid) she was as real as anything else in the room and standing just a few feet from where Taryn now sat on the cabin’s sofa. She wore not the lavender burial dress Taryn had last seen her in but a simple striped polyester shift that hung smartly to her knees and hard-soled brown loafers. Her steel-gray hair was recently set and perched on her head like coils about to spring from a clock; her dentures shown evenly and brightly in the dark room. There was no light shining down on her, no glow emanating from the curves and angles of her body, yet Taryn didn’t question her undeniable appearance and her own ability to make out her features. Just as she didn’t question the fact she was face-to-face with a departed loved one.
An unyielding ball of sorrow, grief, and excitement rose in Taryn’s chest and erupted from her mouth in a mournful “oh” that slipped into the quiet room like an unwelcomed intruder. She longed to run to her grandmother’s side, throw herself at her feet, and cling to her like a little child. She wanted to raise her face, now wet with unfelt tears, and have it covered with kisses from those dry lips that had once soothed her and offered words of both comfort and criticism, depending on what she needed. She wanted to feel those leathery hands, dry with age, on her skin as they touched her.
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