Meow.
She jerked her hand away, strode to the front door and clumsily undid the locks, stumbling in her haste to get out of the house.
Busy with the tiller, Jones didn’t notice her less-than-graceful exit, giving her a chance to study him. He’d removed his shirt and tossed it onto the porch. Sweat sheened on his back, rippling as he worked the tiller in a north/south line, amending the beds he’d already tilled. His skin was brown, a deep tan adding to the rich olive hue he came by naturally, and muscles defined the long bare expanse, disappearing into the sweat-soaked waistband of his shorts. Her breath coming more shallowly, she raised her gaze up again, to where his dark hair curled wetly against his neck.
She saw handsome men every day in New Orleans. She saw handsome men half-dressed and sweaty every day, and while she always appreciated them, she didn’t grow short of breath looking at them. Her fingers didn’t itch to touch them, to feel the heat radiating from them, to comb through their damp hair. For heaven’s sake, she was a twenty-eight-year-old woman, not a fifteen-year-old girl.
Sudden silence made her realize he’d seen her and shut off the machine. She strolled down the steps, absently counting one, two, three, four, then stopped at the bottom. “Marvin?”
Removing the ear cups that protected his ears from the tiller’s noise, he quirked one brow.
“Is that your name?”
“Nope. But I have an uncle Marvin.”
“Leonard?”
“Nope. He’s my cousin.”
“Homer?”
Grinning, he shook his head. “That’s my grandpa.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. And my other grandfather’s name is Cleland. I come from more Joneses than a census taker could count. Name a name, and I’ve probably got a relative who answers to it.” He wheeled the tiller off to one side, then swiped his face on a bandanna he pulled from his hip pocket. “What do you think?”
She walked out into the grass to get the full effect of the new beds. There was one on each side of the steps, blocky, their straight lines broken only by diamond points in the center of each bed. The freshly tilled earth smelled rich and lush, an intoxicating fragrance, like the first whiff of coffee early in the morning. Again, she felt a yearning to dig her hands into the soil, grind it into the knees of her jeans, cake it under her nails. Which would just earn her more disapproval from Grandmother.
“I like the points.”
“Every bed had them originally, except in the shade garden, which really didn’t have any beds at all. Things just grew kind of wild.”
“When do the brick people come?”
His grin was way too charming to leave any female unaffected, whether she was fifteen or fifty-five. “You’re looking at him.”
“You’re just a master of all trades, aren’t you?”
“When you work with different tradesmen on every job, it helps to know the job yourself. You want to help?” When she arched her own brow, he said, “I saw the gleam in your eye when you saw the pansies, and then when you got your first whiff of soil. Miss Willa and Valerie might not like getting their hands dirty, but there’s a gardener inside you.”
She didn’t bother telling him that any gleam in her eyes lately had been inspired by him. Her kiss earlier had gotten that message across clearly. “I’ll go change.”
She jogged up the steps and went inside, nudging the door shut behind her. As if yanked from her hand, it slammed, echoing through the house, and a puff of cigar smoke billowed around her.
Go away.
For a moment, she froze, then remembered Jones just outside. Batting at the smoke, she started up the stairs, but the words echoed again as she reached the top and an extraordinarily icy patch of air. “You go away,” she whispered with a glance toward Grandmother’s closed door.
Inside her room she started to strip off her jeans, hesitated, then grabbed the clothes she wanted and stepped behind the changing screen in the corner. She didn’t want to be ogled by any ghost, but especially a smelly, bossy one who was likely related to her.
She’d replaced jeans with comfortable cotton shorts and was unbuttoning her shirt when a squeak came from the other side of the screen. Part of her job at Martine’s shop included cleaning glass display cases. She knew the sound of moisture on glass.
Sticking her head around the screen, she watched an unseen finger write on the mirror, the words appearing slowly.
You may not live to regret the answers.
“Are you threatening me?”
The first message faded, then what sounded like a sigh—and smelled of tobacco—shivered cold air through the room. “Go home. Forget that summer.”
These words were as clear as her own, the voice as curt and ominous in death as it had been in life. Then, after a long pause, came another word, one she doubted he’d ever said in life, certainly not to the annoying granddaughter who’d disrupted his home for four months.
“Please.”
Slowly she withdrew behind the screen again, though she was certain Grandfather was gone. She removed her shirt and tugged a T-shirt over her head. Welcome to New Orleans, it read over a picture of Jackson Square. Now go home. The words struck her as…ironic? Prophetic?
With flip-flops and a ballcap to shade her eyes, she returned to the front yard without incident.
Her part of the work was easy. Jones prepared the base for the brick retaining wall that would enclose the garden while she followed his directions. They talked about inconsequential things, the topics two new co-workers might discuss…or a couple on their first date.
And this—helping to build a brick wall, albeit minimally—was more fun than any first date she’d ever been on.
He explained to her that each row of bricks was called a course, and showed her how to be sure the courses were level, how to slather mortar onto the bricks and position each one. She even laid a few herself, using his gloves that were too big and were damp from his own hands, because Portland cement was harsh on the skin.
They were taking a break, sitting in the shade cast by a majestic live oak and drinking bottles of cold water that he’d retrieved from an ice chest in the pickup bed, and she was thinking how out of shape she was for physical labor, when the front door silently swung open. Ghost or Grandmother? she wondered, then Grandmother stepped out onto the porch. Her gaze flickered over Reece, her mouth tightening, then she took in the progress Jones had made.
“You’ll be ready to plant soon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She looked again, then made eye contact with Reece. “Supper is in fifteen minutes. If you delay, the leftovers will be in the refrigerator, and you will clean up after yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Reece echoed Jones. As the door closed, she wrapped her arms around her knees, resting her chin. “Do you suppose she cleans up after herself on Lois’s days off?”
“I imagine not. Though she’s probably very neat by nature.”
“You’d think I’m some sort of slob, the way she acts, but I’m not. Except for the clothes I left on the floor when I changed, but that wasn’t my fault.” She told him about Grandfather’s visit.
When she was done, he gazed thoughtfully into the distance. “Have you considered taking his advice?”
“And going home? No. I came here to find out what happened that summer.”
“Sounds like he wants his family secrets to stay secret.” Jones stretched out his legs, leaning back on his elbows, and studied her. “What’s the worst case? You remember a little less of your childhood than most people do.”
“I have nightmares.”
“Take sleeping pills. See a therapist.”
She scowled at him. “I want to know.”
“There’s a reason your brain blocked it out to start with. You couldn’t handle it.”
“I was thirteen. I can handle anything now.”
He tilted his head to one side, studying her before quietly asking, “Are you sure? Have
you considered all the possible reasons you blocked it? Maybe you were attacked that summer. Or molested. Maybe you witnessed something.”
“Like what?” Her voice didn’t sound like the voice of a woman who could handle anything, she noticed, and clamped her jaws shut.
Jones shrugged. “An attack on someone else. A death. A murder.” Another shrug.
She swallowed hard, wanting to protest that none of those things could possibly have happened. Something that significant would stand out in her memory, not disappear into blackness. She would have remembered.
But that was the point. She couldn’t remember.
And if the event had involved an attack, molestation or someone else’s death, was she sure she wanted to?
Yes. Knowing was better than not knowing. She could always deal with knowing, with the help of time, friends and maybe a therapist. But not knowing…for fifteen years, not knowing had been the worst thing in her life.
Very quietly she repeated, “I want to know.”
Jones understood. Hell, he felt the same way about Glen. He needed to know what had happened to his brother. But he couldn’t help but think he was better able to handle his own nightmare than Reece was hers. Which didn’t make any sense. Neither of them had family to turn to for support, but at least she had a couple of best friends. He had a lot of buddies, but no one that close. And though she might not look it, she was tough. Coming back here proved it.
They worked until the sun was low in the sky. As they cleaned up, he caught her grimacing with the discomfort of muscles unaccustomed to his kind of work. “You want to take a shower and ride into town with me for a burger?”
That wasn’t at all what he wanted to offer, he realized the instant she turned toward him. The shower part, okay. They were both caked with sweat, dirt and cement dust, and he knew from long experience that he smelled about as bad as he looked.
But he didn’t want to go into town. He didn’t want a burger. He didn’t even want to get dressed after the shower. And he wanted to take that together.
She removed the ballcap and ran her fingers through her damp hair. “I suppose I should eat whatever Lois prepared for Grandmother.” A light flickered on, the dim illumination of a pole-mounted lamp above the driveway. She looked up, appearing to listen to its hum for a moment, then smiled. “I’ll meet you on the patio as soon as I’m clean.”
He watched her go into the house, and continued to watch for a while before a breeze stirred that brought his attention back. He gave the area around him an exasperated look. “If ol’ Arthur can hang around and pass on messages, why can’t you, Glen?”
There was no answer, no sight or sound out of place.
“You always did like to make me work for stuff.” Giving a whistle for Mick, he headed for the cottage. The dog joined him from the spot where he’d been sleeping on the patio, trotted inside the house and climbed onto the sofa, settling in comfortably.
Jones was quick at showering and dressing. With five brothers and sisters, he’d had to be. He put out fresh water and food for the dog, then walked to the door. Mick followed him with a mournful whine. Jones told him no, told him that he was just taking Reece out for a burger. Whether it was the mention of Reece or the burger that excited the mutt, he wasn’t sure, but somehow when he locked up and walked back to the house, the dog was beside him.
The only lights visible in the big house came from the downstairs hallway and Reece’s front upstairs bedroom. Either Miss Willa’s room was on the other side of the house, or she went to bed awfully early.
Before he reached the table that was his destination, the side door opened and Reece came out. She was dressed like him—jeans, T-shirt—and her hair, like his, was still damp. If she’d put on makeup, he couldn’t tell—which was the point of makeup, his older sister had once told him. Though both his sisters had worn a lot of it, and his nieces, if he had any, had likely dipped into their mothers’ cosmetics—and fashion style—about the time they started kindergarten.
One of the traditions he’d been happy to leave behind.
“Is your grandmother settled for the night?”
“She’s in her room with the door closed. One of the first lessons I learned here was that meant leave her alone.” Her smile was faint. “I left a note for her.”
For the first time in Jones’s memory, Mick willingly gave up the front passenger seat for someone else, jumping over the console to the rear seat, then sitting with his chin on the seat’s back so Reece could scratch him. He thought of their conversation about relationships, when he’d silently listed what she was looking for: loving her dogs unconditionally.
He had to admit, he was pretty much a sucker for someone who treated Mick the way she did.
Instead of a hamburger joint, they wound up at a table on a small brick patio outside Ellie’s Deli, where a friendly waitress named Gina supplied Mick with a chew toy and a bowl of water. She asked for their drinks, and Jones ordered a beer, Reece iced tea. When Gina returned with the drinks and took their dinner orders—they both got burgers, after all—he picked up the icy bottle and studied it a moment.
All afternoon he’d been wondering when to tell her what he’d learned from Mark. Well, not all afternoon, he corrected himself as he watched her lay the straw aside and lift the glass of tea to her lips, drinking long and slow. He’d spent a good part of it wondering when they would get to finish that kiss, because it wasn’t done, not by a long shot.
But the conversation with Mark had been in the back of his mind, stewing there behind the lust and need. It wouldn’t give her all the answers she wanted, and it was only gossip stirred by someone with a dislike for the subject, but Reece had a right to hear it. It was up to her what to do with it.
He gestured with his beer bottle to her iced tea. “Do you drink?”
“Not really.”
“Is that on moral, religious or medical grounds?”
She shook her head. “My parents drank wine every evening and always celebrated special events with champagne. Grandmother liked wine with meals, too, while Grandfather drank good ol’ Kentucky bourbon. The evening glasses of wine stopped for Valerie after my dad died. I guess it reminded her too much of him, that it was something they’d shared. I tried booze a few times, as most kids do in their teens, but I never liked the taste of it.”
Jones watched a black Charger cruise past, then pull into the last parking space before River Road. Tommy Maricci got out, and Jones’s nerves tightened. I’ll be in touch, Maricci had told him. Was that his reason for stopping?
The detective walked up the sidewalk, giving them a polite nod as he climbed the steps and went inside. Through the open screen door, Jones saw him greet a pretty blonde with a kiss, then take a dark-haired child from her and give him a hug and a tickle. He was just meeting his wife for dinner. He had no news about Glen.
Jones breathed and refocused on Reece. “I ran into Mark again this afternoon. After we left the tire store.”
“Lucky you. Trying to bribe you to leave Copper Lake?”
“No. He, uh, mentioned your mother—how she suddenly came back that summer and took you away. He said it was unexpected. She blew in and blew out with you in tow.”
Her expression was thoughtful. “Did he say where she’d been?”
“He’d heard the same explanations you had. But, uh, his mother thought that your mother might have, uh, been…well, in rehab during that time.” There. He’d said it. It had been harder than telling a client he was looking at a six-figure overrun. But with Lori keeping a tight control on the budgets, major overruns were almost always the clients’ fault, and that was strictly business. He didn’t get emotionally attached to clients.
And he was getting emotionally attached to Reece.
Reece’s expression shifted—surprise? Understanding? Acceptance? “Rehab… That would explain…”
A lot. Why Valerie had given Reece’s care totally over to strangers. Why she’d stopped having those evening glasse
s of wine. Why she refused to discuss the subject with her daughter all these years later.
“Rehab,” she repeated. “She was so distraught about Daddy. You see families on TV, when a loved one dies, and they’re sad but composed, dry-eyed, coping. That was Grandmother. She was stoic, like a proper Howard, but not Valerie. She sobbed for days. She was so fragile. The doctor had to sedate her after the ashes-scattering service in Colorado, and she didn’t even get out of bed for a week after the memorial service here. She rarely came out of her room for more than a few minutes, and when she did, she was a mess. Rehab makes sense.” She nodded slowly as if confirming it to herself.
He reached for her hand, cold and stiff, and folded his fingers around it. “Which means she didn’t abandon you. Not intentionally.”
She didn’t say anything to that—just gazed into the distance—but her fingers tightened just a bit around his. Did hearing her aunt’s gossip offer any comfort? Or was abandonment abandonment, no matter what the reason?
She didn’t look as if she’d reached a decision on that when Gina brought their food. Squeezing his hand again, she murmured, “Thank you,” before sliding her fingers loose and unrolling the linen napkin next to her plate. She didn’t say anything else until they were halfway through their meal. “What kind of mother was your mom, other than fertile?”
“Fertility runs in the family. That’s why Big Dan taught us boys to never even go near a female without condoms at hand.” He took a bite of hamburger and chewed it while his mind wandered across the state line into South Carolina, to the big house just off Highway 25. They’d built the house when he was fourteen, but he’d never gotten to live in it. Tradition required a new house remain empty for a year before the family could move in, and by the end of that year, he’d been gone.
His mother had been proud of the fancy house, the new cars, the jewelry, of her husband and her children. She’d protected them fiercely, as fiercely as she’d protected the family traditions. He figured Big Dan would come closer to forgiving him than his mother ever would.
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