The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond

by Jaime Jo Wright

  “Are you okay?” She diverted attention from herself. He’d just seen a text with a picture of his baby girl. The first time he’d seen her. Okay probably wasn’t going to be his word of choice.

  Garrett shook his head, and his honesty stunned her. “No. I’m not.”

  Their eyes locked.

  “I’m torqued. At Darrow, at the invasion of privacy.”

  Oh. Annalise could only stare at him. Where had this Garrett been twelve years ago? He lifted his hand off the couch, and his thumb picked at a snag on his index fingernail. Garrett glanced at it, then at the floor where her pad of paper lay. He bent over and picked it up, reading her notes.

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “I’m trying to figure all this out too.” Garrett tossed the notepad onto the couch.

  There was so much that he could have said, so much that maybe should be said, but Annalise sensed he wasn’t ready, and for certain neither was she. She opted for the other volatile topic that somehow, while more frightening, seemed less intimidating. She was reminded of her discovery with Christen a few nights ago, before she’d been attacked and before the paper had stolen her attention.

  “Did you know you’re related to Eugene Hayes?” she blurted out.

  Garrett pulled back. “Uhhh . . . no?”

  That went well. Annalise tried not to roll her eyes at herself. She reached for her tablet that sat on the coffee table and flicked the screen. She loaded the ancestry site and showed Garrett the family tree she’d created. He eyed her for a second, then looked back at the genealogy map.

  “How does all this stuff get online?” He seemed taken aback that the Greenwood family tree was as exposed as it was, even though he’d already mentioned his mother had her own account on the ancestral site.

  Annalise smiled and gave him a No duh sort of look. “I know you’re one with the earth and all, but you’re a bit behind on technology. Any public records are loaded online, because they’re public. So old censuses are some of them. Then any cousins, distant relatives you have, they all can upload birth certificates and such too. Even if your family wanted to keep this under wraps, they can only do as much as they can control.”

  Garrett gave a quick waggle of his brows. “I don’t know why anyone would want to study this stuff.”

  Annalise bit back a chuckle. “Well, some people are history buffs. Others, like us, have other reasons to look it up.”

  “Truth.” Garrett redirected his attention back to the table. “So, Eugene’s a cousin?”

  “Eugene’s father, Lawrence, would have been your great-great-grandfather Harrison’s nephew.” Annalise nodded. “Perhaps that’s why Eugene was researching Harrison. Me, even. I mean, he must have figured out I’d had your child.”

  “But how? And why?” Garrett’s face reddened.

  “He had a photograph of me when I was pregnant at Aunt Tracy’s in Connecticut. Tracy took that picture and it was the only one that existed.”

  “Then why not have pictures of me in his trailer?” Garrett frowned. “Why Harrison Greenwood? And how did he know your aunt?”

  Annalise rolled her eyes. “And why did someone hit me over the head at his trailer? And why did he also have pamphlets of a revival that took place the same time frame that your great-great-grandfather died?”

  “No joke.” Garrett reached into the pocket of his jeans. “I’m going to call Mom. I wonder if she knows about our relation to Eugene.”

  “You’re going to get her involved?” Annalise shrank back. The idea was akin to asking Godzilla for a favor. No. Not Godzilla. Lord Voldemort.

  “If she knows half this stuff, why take forever to get the answers by combing through piles of junk at the historical society?”

  He had a point.

  Garrett tapped the speakerphone icon on his cell and held a finger to his lips to indicate she needed to stay silent. The phone rang, and Garrett’s mom answered, her tone decidedly warmer than when Annalise last saw her.

  They exchanged a few brief comments and then Garrett went straight to the point. “So, do you know anything about Harrison Greenwood?”

  Silence. A sigh. “Is this because of Annalise?”

  Annalise reached for a blanket folded over the arm of the couch and pulled it over herself like a shield.

  Garrett glanced at her, then back at the phone. “It’s because of everything.”

  Another sigh. Her voice chilled, dropped in volume, and sounded resigned. It was as if she couldn’t tell her baby boy no, yet had no desire to give him what he wanted.

  “That’s the Greenwood side of the family, Garrett. I married into it, so I only know so much.”

  “Have you heard about us being related to Eugene Hayes?”

  A brief intake of breath expressed her indignation. “Who told you that?”

  Garrett answered firmly, “An online genealogy site.”

  “Oh.” Her tone indicated she remembered. “Yes. But it’s a very distant relation, and your father wasn’t even grieved when he heard Mr. Hayes had died. There’s no reason to bring it up.”

  “According to the website, Harrison Greenwood and Eugene’s grandmother were brother- and sister-in-law.”

  Garrett’s mom must have turned on a faucet. Annalise heard water running in the background, and then it stopped. “The Greenwood history in Gossamer Grove can be traced back to your great-grandfather times four. When the town was first settled. The genealogy tree more than likely has branches that span many different families.”

  “What do you know, Mom?” Garrett might as well have said Get to the point.

  “What I know is . . .” His mother sounded irritated again. “Harrison Greenwood’s son, Elijah, became the first Greenwood mayor in Gossamer Grove. Then your grandfather, your father, and now Nicole. Those are the important people. The ones I recall. Other family members, I’ve little knowledge of and I know your father has even less. I learned what I know from your grandmother.”

  She’s dead, mouthed Garrett, reading Annalise’s quick surge of hope that someone old enough might know more details. Have more knowledge of the past and how it wove its way into their present day.

  “Nicole told me about that text from Annalise. The baby’s picture and Tyler Darrow?” Displeasure laced every nuance of Mrs. Greenwood’s voice. Annalise pulled the blanket higher, staring at the smartphone that lay on the couch between her and Garrett, as if his mother could materialize through the phone. “I don’t know what Annalise thinks she can gain by sending it to you. It’s inexcusable. If it comes out you were the child’s father, it will rip through what remains of your career and have horrific implications on Nicole’s position as mayor. I find it—”

  “Stop.” Garrett’s command had instant results. He rarely came across authoritative, and Annalise stared at him. He reached for the phone. “Don’t blame Annalise. If you don’t know anything else about how we might be tied to Eugene Hayes, then I’m finished here.”

  A stillness settled over the room. If she could pull the blanket over her head without looking ridiculous, she would. Her head was pounding. She wasn’t even certain how to interpret this different side of Garrett. Standing up to his mother, putting his foot down firmly. It was a changed type of self-confidence than he’d exhibited years before. It wasn’t cocky or reckless. It was mature. It was definitive.

  “I’ve nothing else.” Mrs. Greenwood’s response was low, hurt.

  “’K.” Garrett moved to end the call when she interrupted.

  “Wait. No. There is something else you should know.” Maybe it was Garrett’s forcefulness that made Mrs. Greenwood want to somehow bridge the tension between them, or maybe it was guilt.

  “Yeah?” Garrett inquired.

  His mother sighed. “Back in the early 1900s, the paper published an obituary about Harrison Greenwood.”

  Annalise caught Garrett’s eye.

  Mrs. Greenwood was still speaking. “The owner of the paper at the time apparently had a reputation for being quite blatant in
his articles. Pot-stirring and all. He published Harrison’s cause of death as a suicide. Later, there were rumors circulating that his death was suspicious.”

  “You mean a murder?” Garrett asked.

  “Yes. At least that’s what your grandmother told me. Greenwoods don’t like to talk about it, even though it happened well over a century ago.”

  “Sure,” Garrett smiled, but it was sideways and bitter. “Gotta keep that Mr. Clean appearance.”

  “Garrett,” Mrs. Greenwood’s voice chided.

  He didn’t respond.

  His mother cleared her throat. “You have to understand, the Greenwoods are a founding family. We set the bar, the standard by which this community thrives. Our economy is built on our community, our reputation, our classical town.”

  “Yeah.” Garrett gave a curt nod. “Grew up hearing all that, Mom.”

  Mrs. Greenwood reacted, her tone rising in frustration. “Don’t be disrespectful. You don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand what?” Garrett cast Annalise a quick look. She could tell he was ticked. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he glared at the screen of his phone like it were his mother.

  “It’s important we’re discreet.” Mrs. Greenwood’s words were tight. Firm. Reprimanding. “Whatever did happen to Harrison Greenwood, his death set in motion this chain—a history. Greenwood men have never been good, and it’s the women who’ve had to be the strong ones. We’re the foundation on which Greenwood men stand. And Nicole? She is our crown.”

  Annalise stared in shock at Garrett, whose face had gone as white as his climbing chalk. His jaw worked back and forth until finally he gave a customary flippant response.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  A flustered breath followed. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Sure. I know. I slept around. Partied hard. Heck, I even dabbled with drugs, Mom. Is that what you want to hide? That your son smeared the Greenwood name, which was why you wanted me to hit the climbing circuit when Annalise got pregnant? Conveniently disappear for a while?”

  “I never said that!”

  Garrett didn’t let up. “What, did Dad screw up too? Have an affair? And Grandpa? What are you saying? Are all Greenwood men messed up?”

  “Your father—this isn’t about your father.” Exasperation filled the line. “This isn’t a conversation to have over the phone.”

  “Definitely not.” Garrett reached again to end the call.

  His mother’s voice stopped him. “Garrett! Garrett, honey, listen to me. History is—it’s messy. It’s dirty. It’s not who we really are, who we’re supposed to be. And Mr. Hayes’s death, it’s all bringing things to the surface that the Greenwood family has moved on from. Our standing in this community, our good efforts, our faith—that speaks far more to who we are than old stories and past wrongs.”

  Garrett sniffed. He didn’t reply. Annalise wondered if she should breathe or keep holding it in. She hadn’t expected this. But then she was certain Garrett hadn’t either.

  “Faith.” Garret sniffed and drew in a deep breath. “Mom, faith is only real faith when it’s honest. It seems to me, the Greenwoods haven’t been honest for a long, long time.”

  “Garrett—” His mother started again, but this time Garrett interrupted.

  “Good to know we have a thick armor-proof front, Mom. ’Cause apparently the idea of authenticity hasn’t been a brand of the Greenwoods for years.”

  His finger swiped the phone and ended the call.

  Chapter 26

  Libby

  When had she personalized the murders? Libby wrapped the cord of her purse around her gloved wrist as she minded her steps down the walk. The first obituary had inspired in her a horrific concern for Elijah and his family. For Deacon Greenwood’s reputation. But then the obituary written and subsequently retracted for Paul caused Libby to question everything with bewildered confusion. The type of confusion that, when analyzed, the stark truth lay beneath it all, although the mind and soul were desperate to deny it. Dorothy’s death was the final push that launched Libby over the cliff of question and denial. Now the obituaries, along with their insinuations, had evolved into something darker, repetitive, and frightening. It was the repetitive element that had Libby’s insides quivering with an uneasy compulsion to look over her shoulder.

  Libby stumbled on a crevice in the walkway. What if she had been assessed? Repentance was an imminent demand. But to confess, she would open so much hurt and pain, not just for herself but for Elijah and for . . .

  Her skin crawled with the sensation of being watched. She looked down the street, lined on one side with two-story buildings with narrow alleyways between them. A mix of red brick and crème brick brought warmth to the community. Familiar shopping places, a street where one might run into a neighbor. To the left was the town square. A courthouse rose in the middle, constructed of white granite, which was rather marvelous. A cannon honoring Yankee soldiers from Gossamer Grove sat in the courthouse yard, along with a park bench of cast iron. A block down and to the right of that was the newspaper building.

  But this was what she could see. Seeing the world around her, one would conclude Gossamer Grove to be welcoming and peaceful. For the most part, it probably was. Filled with good people, and people who needed saving by the message the Corbin brothers were attempting to bring. But to Libby, Gossamer Grove had seemed dark. Ever since she was fifteen.

  She squeezed her eyes shut as she walked, blocking out memories. Libby had no ability to judge one’s soul. To dive into another’s spirit as if to understand what sins were hiding there that were an affront to God. So then, who in Gossamer Grove identified enough with God to believe they could read souls? That they could pass judgment on others? Death was a terrible thing to come face-to-face with. She certainly wasn’t ready. She wasn’t willing to die. She didn’t want—

  “I don’t want to die!” The words tumbled out of her as she careened into a hard chest and collided toe-to-toe with a pair of black shoes and long legs. Libby raised her head knowing the full weight of her fear was reflected in her dark eyes. After all, it had been a week since Dorothy’s death. If the judger of souls moved in a pattern, wasn’t it time for another obituary? And if so, then she was terrified it would be hers.

  Libby stepped back, mumbling an apology. She stared up at the tall man. He didn’t respond. Jacobus Corbin’s blue eyes blinked. That was all. They just blinked at her. Libby swallowed hard, almost as if she had a gumball lodged in her throat. But it was unadulterated fear. Fear of being alone, of being ashamed, of being dead.

  He was one man who seemed to read her soul. Trusting Jacobus Corbin as a man of God made Libby wonder if she were staring into the eyes of the serpent of Eden himself.

  Jacobus studied her. His face narrowed at the chin, his almond-shaped eyes shrewd and scrutinizing. Finally he spoke, ignoring the bustle of passersby, who murmured their greetings to the revivalist twin who just last night had helped his brother baptize seventeen parishioners from the Presbyterian church. Like tick marks on a chart of holy successes.

  “One should always be ready to die.” His words were grim with no inflection to his voice. “It’s a reasonable assumption that it will come sooner rather than later. It is foolish to leave such a future to fate.”

  She should run. Flee. Fly away as fast as her feet would take her. Yet, Libby froze in place. As much as he terrified her, Jacobus Corbin compelled her at the same time. His eyes drew her in. The kindness—feigned or authentic—that hinted at their corners caused Libby to trip over her sense of caution and instead question whether in fact she was desperately wrong and that being with Jacobus Corbin was the safest place to be. They were irrational emotions. She wasn’t thinking clearly. But then she could never claim she ever had.

  “Excuse me.” Libby made an effort to continue forward, to a place she’d rather not go.

  Jacobus stepped in front of her, tilting his head up and eyeing her down the length of his nose. “May I help
you, Libby?”

  Libby. It was informal. Personal. She’d never invited him in.

  She tried to muster some of the ever-elusive courage. It was just long enough of a pause for Jacobus to lean his tall frame toward her, his gaze magnetizing. He was dangerous. Whether a wicked or good dangerous was yet to be determined. But something in his expression told Libby that inside of this man boiled a fire that, once released, would explode and consume all those around him.

  “You needn’t do this alone, you know.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Libby shook her head. “No. No, I’m fine.”

  Jacobus didn’t move. “What must I do to earn your good faith?”

  “Good faith?” Libby’s startled expression betrayed her.

  Jacobus cleared his throat. “I mean you no harm. I know your father is quite taken with the stir my brother has aroused in Gossamer Grove. I must assure you, my brother—I—have our spiritual passions, but our methods of delivery are normally at odds. I stay with Jedidiah merely to try to keep him under some form of control. Please, do not draw conclusions about me, and I . . .” He raised an eyebrow, and for the first time there was a tiny flicker in his eyes. “I will not draw them about you.”

  Libby swallowed. A threat, or perhaps a reassurance? She moved closer to the storefront window of the drugstore, allowing a clear line of escape without Jacobus blocking her way.

  “You will not draw conclusions about me?” she managed to ask. “Is it your right to cast judgment?”

  Jacobus’s smile was thin. “Cast judgment? No. Throwing the first stone is not my forte. Although there are some—many—who will.”

  “But doesn’t God condemn?” Libby couldn’t help but challenge him, though the wobble in her voice belied her courage.

  Jacobus’s face softened, and he drew in a deep sigh. “Ahh, yes. The ever-condemning God. Mankind’s excuse to turn their backs on Him because He dares to enact discipline and consequences for sin.”