by Becky Wade
As far as she was aware, no one had used that road in the last week but her and Sam.
The evidence suggested that Sam was more alone, much more alone, than she’d realized. She’d asked him once if he got lonely, and he’d said no. However, she’d been living and working in the cottage for just a short time and already she comprehended the profound quiet of these acres.
Pushing up the sleeves on her baseball-style shirt, she knelt in an area of the garden that looked suitably weedy. Within ten seconds, she wished for some sort of pad to cushion her knees and protect her jeans. She had on her oldest, most casual pair. But even these couldn’t be considered work pants.
She weeded. Moved down the row. Weeded some more.
When she heard the rumble of a car’s engine, foolish hope jumped into her throat. She raised her head in time to see Sam’s truck through the tree line.
When he drew even with her, she waved with her whole arm. She probably looked like a stranded person flagging down a plane. But honestly, that’s kind of how she felt. If he kept on driving and didn’t stop, she’d chase him down, intercept him before he entered his house, and wring as much conversation from him as he’d allow.
He brought the truck to a stop, thank you, Jesus. Then made his way toward her position.
He’d donned his baseball cap and an extremely soft-looking navy shirt. The shirt wasn’t tight at all. Loose, even. However, the very thin fabric accentuated the easy strength of his torso. No doubt he’d pulled the shirt on without giving it a thought. He wasn’t trying to look sexy, which was part of his appeal.
Sam wore his clothes—and his personality, for that matter—with understated confidence. She frequently wondered what others thought of her, but she’d bet Sam almost never did.
“Are your pants made out of twill?” she asked.
He regarded her with confusion tinged with amusement as he neared. “What kind of question is that?”
“An honest one?”
“I have no idea what my pants are made of.”
“Well, I think they’re made of twill. That makes three things I know about farming.” He didn’t bother to ask what the first two things were, robbing her of the opportunity to tell him about sunscreen and ponytails.
He peered down, obviously assessing her efforts.
“I’ve simply been pulling weeds,” she told him. “I figured I couldn’t go wrong pulling weeds.”
“Right. Except these”—his work boot nudged a pile of shoots she’d uprooted—“are chives.”
“Oh!” She looked from the chives to him and started to laugh. “I’m sorry.”
“Apparently, you can go wrong pulling weeds.”
“Yes. It seems that way. My apologies. Perhaps we can replant the poor chives?”
“Doubtful.”
“I’ll do it—”
“Allow me,” he responded firmly, dropping to his knees. The disapproving grimace he sent her incited a giggle. She knew he already thought her unbalanced. Another fit of the giggles like she’d had at Dr. Quinley’s wasn’t going to improve her standing in his eyes.
“Are you sure you’re feeling up to gardening?” he asked.
“Yes. I told you that I’d help in your garden, and I’m a woman of my word.”
“Your use of the word help is debatable.”
“Touché.”
“I didn’t expect you to start volunteering for me this soon.” His attention settled on the soil he was working. “I don’t want your health suffering because you’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“If either of us is in danger of pushing themselves too hard physically, I don’t think that person’s me. Before Dr. Quinley’s plan, the most strenuous exercise I got some days came from lifting Jelly Bellies to my mouth.”
“So you’re feeling good?” he asked after a time, seeming to need double confirmation.
“As good as can be expected.”
“How about mentally? Emotionally?”
She ripped a small weed from the earth, minuscule clods of dirt clinging to its roots, then tossed it aside and met his eyes.
The sight of his masculine body against the backdrop of trees caused her to swallow. His neck ended in defined collarbones. His olive complexion turned his green eyes luminous. The breeze rustling through the plants carried snatches of the scent of his soap to her. He smelled like eucalyptus and sun.
She resumed pulling weeds the way she imagined a good farmer woman might in order to compose herself and buy time before answering his question.
Sam could clearly see that Gen didn’t know what she was doing. She was yanking out weeds so violently that half the time, she was breaking them off and leaving the roots. The other half of the time, she was “weeding” actual produce.
“Hey,” he said. “Steady on. Like this.” He demonstrated, his movements careful, patient.
She imitated him.
They finished weeding the area before them and scooted down to work on the next section.
As usual, she was stealing all his peace. This garden should be his therapy. Only, not today. She’d overtaken every inch of it. And because she hadn’t answered his question about her mental and emotional health, worry was now needling him.
Despite himself, he’d begun to hope that Gen would remain clean. He didn’t want to hope in that, couldn’t let himself hope in that, after what he’d gone through with Kayden. Each time, his hope had been demolished.
He took stock of her as they worked. Her skin was still pale, but no longer dull. Pink now brightened her cheeks. The dark shadows under her eyes hadn’t gone away, but they’d lessened. Her glossy hair swung down her back. She wore another pair of large earrings, which made no sense. Why would anyone garden in big earrings?
“So?” he asked. The word came out more demanding than he’d intended. “How are you feeling mentally and emotionally?”
A hesitation. “Decent.”
“Just decent?”
“Isn’t decent sufficient?”
“Yeah. I mean, I think it’s normal not to feel okay right now.” He continued his work, arguing with himself over whether or not to drop the subject. “Is something in particular bothering you?”
Taking a break from weeding, she plopped cross-legged onto the grass, facing him.
He sat, resting his forearms on his upraised knees. He didn’t want anything to do with her crazy. Why, then, was his heart thudding as he waited to hear what she was about to say?
“I could answer your question in numerous ways. In order to protect the last remaining shred of my pride, I’ll tell you the one thing that’s bothering me that’s not actually about me.”
“Okay.”
“Something . . . weird is going on with my family. It’s sort of troubling.”
Don’t ask about it. Just go back to weeding and ignore it at all costs. “Tell me.”
“I received a strange letter about my parents before I left Nashville.”
“What did it say?”
“It said, ‘I know what your parents did. And after all we’ve suffered, it’s hard to watch you bask in your fame and money. Your parents aren’t going to get away with it.’” Her lips pursed. “That’s it.”
“What did your parents say?”
“That the letter has no basis. But I believe that it does. So Natasha and I searched their house.”
“Looking for?”
“Secrets.”
“And?”
“We didn’t find any.”
Genevieve Woodward had a talent for jumping from the frying pan into the fire. No doubt, she’d spend her whole life like this. Rebounding from one drama into the next.
“But you’re not going to give up,” he guessed.
“No.” She adjusted the gardening gloves she wore. They were his gloves, and seeing her wearing them distracted him so much that he lost his train of thought.
“I’m going to drive to Clayton tomorrow to see if I can find records on my parents,” she said.
“To Clayton?”
“Yep.”
“You will?”
“Yes,” he said curtly, warning her with a glare not to ask follow-up questions.
“I’d like that.” Her attention traced down his cheek to his lips.
Heat dove all the way through him, as hot as a comet. “Stop checking me out, Gen.”
“Hmm?” Her hazel gaze jerked guiltily to his eyes.
“You can’t fancy me, remember?”
“No, no. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Sam’s truck was no luxury vehicle, that was for sure. It had to be at least fifteen years old. A tree-shaped air freshener that read Royal Pine dangled from the rearview mirror and emitted a scent that might be piney but didn’t strike Genevieve as royal. He kept his truck clean, just like all his other belongings, yet the vehicle gave off the impression of utility over comfort and age over beauty.
Earlier, when they’d met to embark on their trip to Clayton, she’d suggested that she drive, since she was the one on a mission to dig up her parents’ past. Also, secretly, because she had a newer car. He’d insisted they take his truck. At which time, she’d offered to drive his truck. At which time, he’d told her she was insane if she thought he was going to let her drive his truck. They’d climbed into his Dodge, and he’d given the dashboard two fast, affectionate pats before turning the key in the ignition.
A cloudy afternoon sky watched over them as they zipped along the ribbon of highway past meadows, occasional roadside shops, and orchards. As it turned out, the passenger seat was the best seat in the house because it allowed her to study him as he drove.
His hat was gone, revealing thick, short-cut brown hair. Muscles, ligaments, and veins corded his forearms and wrists—
“I heard the other day that you’re one of the Miracle Five,” he said.
Regret burst the bubble of her musings.
She supposed she should feel grateful that it had taken him this long to learn of her status as a Miracle Fiver . . . but she couldn’t quite manage gratitude. Sam hadn’t viewed her as an oddity, at least any more so than her very odd actions had demanded. Now he likely would.
He sliced a brief look at her. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“I suppose because I liked being just Genevieve with you.”
“You’re still just Genevieve with me. Why didn’t you tell me that you were one of the Miracle Five?”
“When? In between my bouts of fever and vomiting?”
“Anytime would have been fine.”
“I worried I wouldn’t seem very miraculous to you while recovering from prescription drug withdrawal.”
He didn’t respond for several beats. “I was under the impression that God was the only miraculous one involved in the Miracle Five rescue,” he finally said.
She flourished a hand in his direction. “Yes! Exactly. If you start expecting me to be miraculous, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
“I don’t plan to set myself up for disappointment.”
“Good!” She consulted her phone’s GPS. “Take the next exit and turn left.”
“I have questions.”
“About the directions?”
“About the Miracle Five.”
“I . . .” She straightened her posture. “I don’t tend to answer questions about the earthquake.”
“Why not?”
“Because two thousand people died. Thousands more were injured. Thousands more lost their homes. Police and firefighters risked their safety to save others. But somehow, even though we deserved the spotlight the least, we were the ones everybody wanted to talk to the most.”
“And did you talk about it?”
“For two years straight.”
“To?”
“At first, the news media. Then churches, so many I can’t count them all. We talked to the author assigned to write the book about us. Documentary film producers. Movie producers. We spent two summers and all our school vacations traveling. When the movie about us came out, the four of us went to Los Angeles for interviews—”
“Hang on. What happened to the fifth?”
“Luke’s always refused to be involved. With the media and with us. We tried to include him over and over, without success.”
“Where is he now?”
“Prison.” That hard word . . . that hard fate . . . sat between them like a landmine. As always when she thought of Luke, sorrow, love, and guilt knotted her stomach.
After a long moment, Sam spoke. “You were saying that the four of you went to LA.”
“Right. We were together in a hotel room in LA one night and had a long discussion. We were only fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen, but we were mature enough—and maybe weary enough at that point—to agree that we’d spoken about the earthquake enough.”
“How come?” He took the off-ramp, then eased to a stop at a red light, adjusting to assess her.
“Back when we started talking about the earthquake, it was obvious that God was giving us a chance to tell everyone what He’d done. Over time, though, we no longer felt a sense of peace about what we were doing. It seemed like the big corporations behind the book and the movie were only interested in making money. The travel and the attention put a strain on us and our families. Basically, God was telling us as a group to step back from it.”
“Do people still ask you about it?”
“All the time. New acquaintances ask me about it. Reporters and writers contact me about it. A producer reached out to me about it a week ago.” She consulted her GPS.
“I know where we’re going, Gen.”
Should she trust him? Or was he the type of man who had a wretched sense of direction but always imagined he knew the way?
He delivered groceries and made bread. A grocery-delivering, bread-making man deserved the benefit of the doubt. She clicked off her phone.
The light turned green and the car slid forward. “You turned the producer down?” he asked.
“We all did. God hasn’t let any of us know He wants us to start talking about it again. If He does let me know that, then I’ll talk about it.” She was holding on to her faith the way she’d hold on to a branch protruding from the sheer side of a canyon. She had to wonder, sometimes, if God was still holding on to her. Had He dropped her because she was too much bother?
Sam parked and set his wrist on top of the steering wheel.
He had the most endearing face. There was something mournful about his eyes. The rest of his features were serious and pensive. On those rare occasions when she’d seen him smile, solemnity and joy had collided into an explosive result.
She’d been talking about her natural disaster, but irrationally, she had an urge to comfort him.
The weight of his gaze warmed her skin like the heat from a fire. Her pulse ticked up. Her mouth went dry.
You’re not stable enough to develop a crush at this particular catastrophic moment, Genevieve! She had a long way to go before she could even contemplate—
Abruptly, Sam exited the truck. He opened the passenger side door for her before she’d gathered her wits.
They walked side by side into the building that housed the records for their slice of northern Georgia. First stop, vital records.
An employee helped Genevieve access documents concerning her mom and dad. It didn’t take long to confirm that everything was completely in order, just as it had been at her parents’ house. No surprises. Nothing out of the ordinary.
They moved on to the probate office. This time, a middle-aged, red-haired clerk assisted them as they ran searches for court proceedings involving either Caroline or Judson Woodward.
“I don’t see anything at all,” the woman told them with a smile.
No doubt she imagined the lack of court proceedings against DA Judson Woodward must be good news.
In a way, it was. So far, the evidence proved her parents to be upstanding people without skeletons in their closet.
Genevieve thanked the woman, who left her and Sam alone at a utilitarian office table. Genevieve contemplated the textured ivory wall opposite her, trying to think.
Her judgment had been clouded by Oxy back when she’d received the threatening letter. Had it struck her as ominous because of the drugs in her system?
No. The drugs had helped her view everything in her life as less ominous, not more.
The letter hadn’t upset Natasha the way it had upset Genevieve. So why had it had such a jarring effect on her?
Intuition.
It was the only explanation she had. Even now, in the face of today’s dead end, she wasn’t ready to call off the search.
“The two offices we’ve just visited,” Sam said, “only have records for Rabun, Habersham, and Stephens Counties. Have your parents lived anywhere else?”
“Yes.” She overlapped her hands on the table. “My mom grew up in Athens, and my dad grew up in Augusta. Then they both attended Mercer University in Macon. Their paths didn’t cross there, though. My mom was a freshman when my dad was a senior.”
“And then?”
“After he graduated, Dad went into the navy. After she graduated, Mom taught second grade for a year or two. Then she moved to Savannah and taught first grade there. By that time, my dad was in law school in Savannah. They met at a church social. He asked her out that night, and they’ve been together ever since.”
“Did they move straight from Savannah to Misty River?”
She nodded. “They got married in Augusta while my dad was still in law school and my mom was still working in Savannah. After he passed the bar exam, a job offer brought them to Misty River.” She considered their history. “Maybe I’ll look at records next in my mom’s hometown of Athens. It’s the closest of all the places they’ve lived.”
Sam followed her to the clerk’s desk. The redhead raised her face with pleasant inquiry.