Stay with Me (Misty River Romance, A Book #1)

by Becky Wade

  “Um . . . something about the Atwell family?”

  Natasha rolled her eyes. “You’re so infatuated with your new boyfriend that you’re incapable of focusing on anything else.”

  “Shhh.” Genevieve leaned quickly toward her sister and lowered her voice. “He’s not my boyfriend.” The last thing she wanted was for one of Sam’s employees to overhear and inform Sam that she’d given him that title.

  “If he’s not your boyfriend, then what is he?”

  She didn’t want to go there, either within the quiet of her own mind or verbally with Natasha. “He’s Sam,” she answered. “And he’s great.”

  “‘A lady’s imagination is very rapid . . .’” Natasha dangled the quote from Pride and Prejudice, brows lifted meaningfully.

  “‘It jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment,’” Genevieve finished grudgingly. “Except, not in this case.”

  “Then what is happening between you two? In this case?”

  “When I know, you’ll be the first person I tell.”

  Natasha leveled a troubled look at her.

  Genevieve waved a hand. “I’m on cloud nine. I don’t need to give Sam a label.”

  “Bull.”

  “Anyhoo, will you look at that. He just emerged from the back.”

  Never the queen of subtlety, Natasha twisted in her chair and waved.

  He immediately crossed to their table.

  The stark details of him—simple black T-shirt, wide chest, short hair slightly mussed—flashed a thrill through her.

  “Good morning,” he said to them both.

  His serious eyes with their frame of dark lashes met hers. She could disappear into those eyes like Alice down the rabbit hole. The quick, searching look he gave her held tenderness. Communication passed between them. How are you? he asked.

  I’m doing well, she assured him. You?

  I’m doing well, too.

  Natasha asked him friendly questions while Genevieve got lost in memories of their kisses and the sweep and swirl of her emotions.

  “Anyone need more coffee?” he asked.

  “I’d love another latte,” Genevieve said.

  “I’m still working on my tea,” Natasha told him.

  He moved toward the coffee bar.

  “As I was saying,” Natasha said. “Russell’s family moved to Atlanta after his death. His father died there in 1986. As far as I can tell, his mother and his two younger sisters still live there. I searched and searched. I made a few phone calls. But I haven’t been able to find out anything about them online. I’m guessing that they lead quiet lives.”

  “Hmm.” Genevieve’s attention tracked Sam as he worked the espresso machine. The woman who stood behind the to-go line cash register, Star, slid glances at him from beneath her lashes when he wasn’t looking. If Star could have shot love beams out of her eyes, Sam would have been reduced to vapor.

  “Genevieve.” Once again, Natasha broke into her reverie. “Honestly!”

  “Sorry!” She grinned apologetically. “What’s our plan going forward?”

  “I’m going to see if I can find an address for Russell’s mother. If I can, I thought I might reach out and ask for a meeting. She may be able to shed more light on what Mom and Dad and Russell were up to the weekend of Russell’s death.”

  “I don’t know, Natasha. Alice Atwell lost her son. I’d hate to stir up her grief. I can’t imagine we’ll comfort her if we show up and announce that our dad once dated her son’s wife in college.”

  Natasha exhaled with frustration. “I’m not sure what else to do, then. The yearbook picture of Mom and Dad is the only shred of evidence I can find linking the two of them prior to when they started dating years later in Savannah. You and I have both hunted for information on their time in Savannah, and nothing unusual has come up. It seems that everything that happened in Savannah happened just the way Mom and Dad always said it did.”

  Genevieve had come to Misty River because of the first letter. For the past several days, though, the mystery involving her parents had lessened in urgency for her as Sam had overtaken the top spot in her list of priorities. “Don’t forget that I’m going to see Nanny.” She’d called Aunt Jolene and set up an appointment to stop by and see her dad’s mom day after tomorrow. “Who knows? Nanny may have a lucid moment and be able to tell me something about Dad’s relationship with Mom while he was in college.”

  “She’s a sweetheart. Unfortunately, I don’t think she has many lucid moments anymore.” Natasha tightened her ponytail. “I took her to an outdoor class last summer where instructors were teaching the steps of a quadrille. I wanted to get her out of the house, and Wyatt and I were terrible at the quadrille, so I’m sure we were extremely entertaining to watch. She seemed miserable the whole time.”

  “She was probably highly confused to find herself surrounded by Americans twirling to the steps of an English dance.”

  “If you don’t find anything out from Nanny, and we decide not to pursue a meeting with Alice Atwell, then we might need to admit that we’re done . . . that we’ve found all the information we can.”

  “What about reopening our investigation into Angus Morehouse?”

  “We researched him as much as we could and didn’t come across a single clue.”

  “Perhaps we can find a friend or family member of his that we could talk to?” Genevieve suggested.

  “I’m not opposed to that.”

  “I’ll make a note to call Birdie Jean and ask her if she could suggest someone. What if that doesn’t pan out?”

  “Then I think it’s time to confront Mom and Dad.”

  Sebastian

  We need water, and this pipe might hold water—so no matter what, I’m going to break it.

  When it’s my turn again to hit the pipe, I raise my rock over my head and throw it at the pipe with all my strength.

  A metallic sound explodes through the space. The pipe cracks. Instantly, water gushes from its broken end. The girls and Ben cheer.

  Water’s coming out fast, spilling all over the floor.

  I lift the broken end up as high as I can. Water continues to bubble from the top, drenching me.

  Gradually, it slows to a trickle. “Girls, come have a drink.”

  The sisters approach. Natasha pushes Genevieve forward. I tip the pipe down carefully and let her have a turn drinking from it. Then Natasha.

  “Now you,” I tell Ben. I hold the pipe for him, too.

  “Now you,” I say to Luke.

  “I don’t want any.” His brother’s probably dead, so Luke’s willing to die, too. I hate him—this boy who has everything that I don’t have.

  I narrow my eyes. “Get over here and drink some water.”

  “Or?”

  “Or I’m going to make you.” I’m big for my grade, but Luke’s a year older and stronger than me. I don’t care. If I have to fight him over this, I will.

  An awful smile breaks across Luke’s face. He stands and takes hold of the pipe. “Save your energy, Sebastian. You might need it.” He drinks.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Two weeks had passed since he’d kissed her in the grocery store coffee aisle. Every day of those two weeks had been paradise for Sam. Every one of them torture, too.

  He stood at the far end of his dining room, staring out the window at the dark of early morning. The exterior lights revealed frost crusting the contours of his land. Mist hovered above it like an overprotective mother.

  Exactly the thing he’d known he couldn’t let happen was happening.

  All his focus, passion, and meaning were narrowing and narrowing to one small person.

  It left him feeling stupid. He had no idea what she felt for him and no sense of their future, which meant that he couldn’t adjust his own emotions accordingly.

  He made a rough scoffing sound.

  Even if he did know how she felt about him and had a sense of their future, what chance did he have of adjusting
his own emotions? He’d already been trying his best to hold them back. He’d already kept himself apart from her as much as he could stand.

  He didn’t want to keep himself apart from her.

  She was the best thing in his days. She was the joy in his dull, gray, lonely life.

  He refused to stop what they had.

  Yet his gut kept whispering to him over and over that he was setting himself up for a fall.

  What time is it?” Grandma Woodward asked Genevieve the next day.

  It was the third time Nanny had asked the question since Genevieve had arrived for their visit. “It’s 11:40.”

  “What time is my appointment?”

  “Let’s take a look at your schedule.” Genevieve rose from where she’d been sitting near her grandmother’s wheelchair. She drew the older woman’s attention to the small whiteboard resting on top of the bureau in her aunt and uncle’s living room.

  Months ago, her grandmother’s caregivers had begun listing her daily schedule on the whiteboard. Not only did it keep everyone on the same page as to the day’s calendar, it calmed Nanny’s anxiety to know how her day was constructed.

  Both Genevieve and her paternal grandmother depended on their daily schedules, it seemed.

  Nanny didn’t respond to the whiteboard with either an affirming word or gesture. Her expression went blank.

  Genevieve returned to her chair.

  Her dad had taken after his mother in many ways. Both were wise, mellow, friendly. Genevieve had never seen either one of them fly off the handle and lose their temper. Never.

  Tall, willowy Gloria Woodward had married a comptroller at a paper factory, raised four children, and taught at her church’s preschool for fifty years. Through it all, she’d dressed sensibly and comported herself humbly.

  The death of her husband a decade ago followed by a dementia diagnosis several years later had eventually landed her here, in the home of her oldest child, Jolene.

  A pale pink scarf encircled Nanny’s neck. A cream sweater and a pair of brown slacks swathed her body. She wore her white hair trimmed short. Always on the slender and stiff side, Nanny had become both of those things to a painful degree over the last two years.

  Genevieve could still smell and taste the butterscotch pudding Nanny had made for her every time she’d come to stay at her house when she’d been young.

  Nanny’s memories had deserted her. But Genevieve remembered.

  “May I hold your hand?” She’d learned not to take Nanny’s hand without asking first. The older woman didn’t have many opportunities to express her will these days. Genevieve wanted to give her as many chances to do so as possible.

  Nanny turned her chin to Genevieve slowly.

  Genevieve rested her hand on top her grandmother’s wheelchair armrest, should she want to take it.

  Grandma looked at her as if she couldn’t place her.

  “I’m Genevieve. Judson’s younger daughter.”

  “Judson.” Recognition sparked in her face.

  “Yes.” She’d stated her identity when she’d first arrived, but this time it seemed to penetrate better. “Your son, Judson. He’s doing well, and I’m doing well. And you’re doing well, too, here at Jolene’s house. You’re safe and well cared for.”

  Her grandmother wrapped her bony hand around Genevieve’s.

  Genevieve tried to pour all her affection into the simple touch. “Do you recall Judson’s college years, Nanny?”

  No answer.

  “He went to Mercer,” Genevieve said. “I’m guessing he occasionally introduced you to friends and girlfriends.”

  Nothing.

  “Perhaps you met my mother then? Caroline?”

  No reply.

  So much for the hope that a memory of her parents’ college romance might shake loose from Nanny’s brain.

  They’d learned that they could sometimes connect with Nanny through songs, so Genevieve started singing “Amazing Grace.” She moved her grandmother’s hand gently from side to side in rhythm with the song.

  Nanny’s attention stayed on Genevieve the whole first verse before it drifted away. Across the second and third verses, her grandmother’s lips moved every so often, framing one of the familiar words.

  Tears sheened Genevieve’s eyes. It was beautiful to sing of God’s grace with Nanny and so difficult, at the same time, to see her in this condition.

  Nanny’s caregiver was preparing lunch in the kitchen. The sounds of her movements formed a backdrop as Genevieve sang “The Old Rugged Cross” and then “How Great Thou Art.”

  Near the end of “How Great Thou Art,” her grandmother slipped her hand from Genevieve’s and returned it to her lap.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Genevieve asked when she finished the song.

  “Yes.”

  “Is there anything I can get you?”

  No answer.

  “Judson, did you say?” Nanny asked.

  “Yes. My father is your son, Judson.”

  “So tidy.”

  “Yes. He’s still tidy. He helped me clean up two nights ago when we had dessert at the cottage where I’m staying.”

  A long pause.

  “What time is it?” Nanny asked.

  Genevieve stayed until her grandmother sat down to eat lunch, then drove back to Misty River tinged with melancholy. She envisioned Nanny and Pop Woodward singing to her on her birthday the year she’d had the unicorn cake, clapping for her after the fifth-grade school play, driving her and Natasha to the community pool in their wide Lincoln Continental.

  She’d choose to focus on those times and on the positive things that had happened during today’s visit. Nanny had sung a little with her. And she’d not only remembered her son but also remembered that he was her tidy one.

  Nanny had always been complimentary of her son’s tidiness. In fact, back when Genevieve had looked through her parents’ family photo albums shortly after arriving in Misty River, she’d come across several photos of her father’s boyhood bedroom that Nanny had taken. Her father in his tidy room. His books, meticulously shelved. Bed tightly made. Floor clean. Toy action figures . . .

  Her stomach gave a slow, sickening roll as a thought occurred to her.

  Her immediate response was to thrust the thought far, far away. It didn’t mean anything. It was nonsense.

  Yet, her anxiety wouldn’t listen. It grew and grew.

  Genevieve turned her Volvo in the direction of her parents’ house. She’d take another look at those albums. Her dad would be at work, of course. Her mom may or may not be home; she spent a good portion of every day outside the house meeting friends, volunteering, spending time with Millie and Owen, playing mah-jongg.

  When she reached the house on Swallowtail Lane and clicked the garage door opener, she saw that, blessedly, her mother’s car wasn’t parked within. She let herself into the house, feeling more like a thief than she ever had before upon entering her childhood home.

  Upstairs, she had no difficulty locating the albums Nanny had made. She selected an album, paged through it—nope. This wasn’t the right one. She slotted it back into its place and pulled free the next album. About a third of the way through, she came upon the set of bedroom pictures she’d been seeking.

  The specific picture she’d recalled in the car just now was situated in the center of its page. A shallow wooden box held nothing but Dad’s boyhood collection of action figures. He hadn’t tossed them inside. He’d carefully placed them within, every one of them facedown, arms at their sides, legs straight and centered at hip width.

  It was as if she was looking at an old, old omen. Each small inanimate object prophesied the future positioning of Russell Atwell’s dead body exactly.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off the picture.

  Dizziness beckoned at the fringes of her vision. Her mother might return home at any second. Yet her brain failed to send her muscles the command to move.

  It was a coincidence that her father’s act
ion figures so perfectly mirrored the positioning of Russell’s body.

  Except . . . She knew that her parents had lied to her about when and how they’d met. And she knew they’d covered up Mom’s first marriage. Why do that unless they had something to hide?

  Her father had been in Camden the weekend of Russell’s murder.

  Also, Russell’s body had been found in a pose unlike that of the Shoal Creek Killer’s other victims. Facedown, with arms at his sides, legs straight and centered at hip width.

  Lord God.

  She’d just been thinking earlier today that she’d never seen her father lose his temper. The most controlled man, the best man, the most trustworthy man in her life could not have been mixed up with Russell’s death in any way. It made no sense. Yet suspicion was growing deep inside, like a seed splintering open and extending its roots. This seed was confusion and its roots were fear.

  Her hands seemed to belong to a stranger as she returned the album to its place.

  Typically, she grabbed lunch at this time of day, then worked for the rest of the afternoon at the library, a coffee shop, or a bookstore. But today’s schedule was now hopelessly lost to her. The very last thing she could deal with? Public scrutiny.

  She drove to her cottage and clicked on two lamps. Set her teakettle to boiling. Checked her phone and email. Started a fire. The kindling didn’t want to catch. She tried twice before throwing down the box of matches.

  She paced, her body’s movement tense with desperation.

  Even imagining that her father—her father!—had somehow arranged Russell’s dead body felt like a betrayal of him. He’d read Chrysanthemum by Kevin Henkes to her approximately a million times. He’d coached her terrible first-grade soccer team, of which she’d been the most terrible player. He’d escorted her to a father-daughter Valentine’s Day dance in seventh grade and convinced her that she was beautiful even though she’d been an awkward girl with tragic bangs.

  Over and over, she pulled up Natasha’s number on her phone. Each time, she hesitated before activating the call. She needed more time to consider her concerns and determine whether or not she was crazy before calling Natasha.