Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  “I have to run a small errand first,” he said. “Could you maybe go in, say, thirty minutes?”

  Her stomach did another flip. This was really happening.

  “Sure,” she said. “That will give me a chance to clean up.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  As he pulled out of her driveway, he smiled larger than she could ever remember seeing. She did, too, although a flock of butterflies battled in her stomach. She rubbed the back of her neck and felt her dirty sweatiness. Her dingy yellow work shirt was filthy, her nails were awful, and the rest of her was sticky. But thirty minutes wasn’t enough time to haul in water for a bath, let alone air-dry her hair.

  Dashing inside, she threw on her less-ripped jeans and her mom’s blue blouse. Then she stepped into the bathroom for a washrag. The second she caught sight of herself in the blue blouse, thoughts of Oliver fled, and Greg filled her mind. He once told her to wear this blouse to his mom’s wedding because it “brought out her eyes.” Greg insisted Oliver would love her in blue, and maybe Oliver had, but she loved the way Greg had looked at her that night, how he’d called her “beautiful.”

  “Quite stunning, actually,” he had said.

  She dipped the washcloth in the bathroom water bucket and did her best to clean up. Then she pulled the elastic out of her hair and grabbed a brush.

  “What are you doing?” Amber said, standing in the bathroom doorway.

  “Doing my hair,” Carrie said. Or at least trying to tame her honey-colored locks after a long, windy day.

  “Yeah, but why?”

  Carrie almost didn’t say but she had nothing to hide. “Oliver is taking me to dinner.”

  “He what? Why the heck did you say yes?”

  “We’re just going to dinner.” And she felt nervous enough without Amber pestering her. “Oliver said I’d be perfectly safe. I trust him.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Amber said. “Why are you going out with him? You don’t even like him.”

  Carrie shot her a dark look. Amber had been a beast ever since her encounter with Braden. It didn’t help that she kept seeing Braden—seeing, but not speaking. The curse of living in a small neighborhood.

  “Just because you don’t like Oliver,” Carrie said, “doesn’t mean I don’t.”

  “Yeah? Prove it. What do you like about him?”

  “What do I like about Oliver?”

  “Yes.” Amber folded her arms. “What do you like?”

  Stalling, Carrie admired herself in the mirror. The blue blouse definitely brought out her eyes. How was she supposed to eat if her stomach didn’t calm down? She pulled the brush through her thick hair with hard strokes.

  “I like that he’s kind and always thinking of others,” Carrie said. “He risked his job to help Mariah, a woman he barely knew. I also like how he ponders something before he speaks, and how he—”

  “Fine,” Amber said. “You respect him, but you don’t love him, and I swear you don’t even like him enough for a date. Feeling sorry for someone isn’t a good enough reason to date them.”

  Carrie turned. “I don’t feel sorry for Oliver.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Look, I don’t have time for this,” Carrie huffed. “Please let me finish getting ready. He’ll be back any minute.”

  She walked into her bedroom and knelt in front of her basket to find a pair of socks that weren’t too holey. Amber followed, unable to take a hint.

  “I can prove that you don’t like Oliver.”

  Carrie rolled her eyes, but Amber just broke into a wide, mischievous smile. When Amber spoke again, she said one word and one word only.

  “Greg.”

  Heat rose up Carrie’s cheeks.

  “I knew it! So…” Amber’s expression turned victorious, “what do you like about Greg?”

  Clamping her mouth shut, Carrie dug through her basket. Then she pulled on each sock as if it required her complete and utter concentration.

  “And that’s why I know you don’t like Oliver,” Amber said more gently. “Because you can talk about him. You can’t even talk about Greg.”

  “I’m not twelve, Amber. I can talk about Greg.”

  “Really? Then what do you like about Greg?”

  “What do I like?”

  “Yes. What. Do. You. Like?” Amber grinned. “I dare you to say it.”

  Sitting back on her heels, Carrie thought about Greg’s ability to say what he wanted when he wanted and exactly how he wanted. She loved how close he’d always been with his mom, plus his ideas for the clan. There was his confidence, his sense of humor, or his ability to take any situation and improve it. She even liked when he teased her—most of the time. Not to mention that he really was something to look at. There was the moment he’d saved her and Zach from Jeff without a single hesitation, or how he looked at her, held her close, and a million other things. But for the life of her, she couldn’t seem to utter a single one.

  “Carrie, Carrie, Carrie.” Amber walked over to the corner of Carrie’s bedroom and picked up the pillow off the floor. A blue NY Yankee’s baseball cap sat there, flat and smashed underneath, convicting her.

  Carrie’s mouth dropped. Amber knew she slept with Greg’s hat under her pillow. Amber, the biggest gossip in the world. Maybe Carrie really was twelve.

  “Carrie,” Amber said, “why are you going out with Oliver when you’re obviously in love with Greg?”

  “I don’t know, but I am, okay?”

  “And how would Greg feel about you going?” Amber waved the hat around, torturing Carrie with the memories of receiving the hat and what Greg had asked her to do.

  Crossing the room, Carrie took it from her. “This date was Greg’s idea, okay?”

  “What? Why?”

  To alleviate his own guilt. So he didn’t have to try anymore.

  Carrie rubbed the rim of the navy-blue cap. It was darker than her blouse, but she was tempted to wear it to dinner anyway. Instead, she tossed it in her basket in the closet, determined to give it to Zach once and for all.

  “Please don’t tell anyone I had his hat under my pillow,” she said.

  “I haven’t yet, have I?” Amber snapped. “You know, if you’d actually talk to me once in a while, I wouldn’t have to sneak around trying to figure out what’s going on with you. I wouldn’t feel like an idiot all the time.”

  “I talk to you,” Carrie said defensively.

  “About what? Chickens? Getting water? I tell you everything about Braden, but you won’t tell me anything about Greg.” Amber’s dark eyes suddenly filled with tears. “We’re sisters, remember? We’re supposed to stay up late at night giggling and crying about boys. I swear something’s up with you and Greg, but you won’t tell me, and now you’re going out with Oliver, and nothing makes sense, and you don’t even care that you don’t confide in me.”

  “Amber…”

  Face flushed, Amber hugged herself. “I feel like you don’t even like me. Nobody does. Am I really that awful?”

  Carrie wrapped her arms around her. “I’m sorry. I’m just a private person, that’s all.” And strangely, the only one she’d ever opened up to about her love life was in Naperville and possibly never coming back.

  Tears fell down Amber’s olive cheeks. “But we’re sisters.”

  “I know.” Carrie took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Honestly, I could use your advice right now because I’m impossibly confused, and I think I might be messing everything up.”

  “So…there is something going on with you and Greg?” Amber asked.

  “Maybe.” Only she’d never be able to explain it in a few minutes. “But I really am late right now. Can I explain it later? I promise to tell you everything.”

  Amber’s beautiful eyes glistened. “Can we talk after your date?”

  Carrie smiled. “We’ll stay up late giggling and everything.”

  “I won’t hold my breath,” Amber said, but then she
nudged her playfully. “Hey, want me to ‘smoke’ your eyes for you?”

  Amber had lined Carrie’s eyes with charcoal for Mariah’s wedding—which Oliver and Greg had noticed. But right now, going into public, Carrie needed to blend in, to be invisible. “No thanks. By the way, how long have you known that Greg’s hat was under my pillow?”

  “Probably since he gave it to you. Or did he give it to you?” Amber’s hands flew to her mouth. “Carrie, you little devil, did you steal Greg’s hat?”

  Carrie’s cheeks felt hotter than the room. “No. Greg gave it to me before he left. Well, he gave it to me to give to Zach. I…sort of forgot to pass it along.”

  Amber threw her head back and laughed. “I love it. Does it still smell like him?”

  “Okay, you’re done.”

  Carrie grabbed her arm and escorted her to the doorway. Maybe opening up to Amber was a mistake.

  Amber stopped at the top of the stairs. “You know, I love seeing you this way, Carrie.”

  “What way?”

  “Totally whooped. You shouldn’t go tonight. It’s not fair to you, Oliver, or Greg. I might not know much, but I’ve seen the way Greg looks at you. He likes you.”

  “Please,” Carrie begged. She couldn’t hash this out anymore, especially now. “I’ll explain everything later. I promise.”

  As Amber left, Carrie’s head fell against her bedroom door. She stared at Greg’s hat in her closet, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Wondering what advice her mom would give right now if she was here. Wondering if any part of Greg loved her on his own without urging from his mom. Wondering so many things her head hurt.

  Whatever state her hair had been in was as good as it was going to get because she heard Oliver’s car pulling down the street.

  Her time of wondering was up.

  thirty-three

  MCCORMICK’S GUY DROPPED Greg and Isabel off a few miles from their first destination on the outskirts of West Chicago. From there, they were on their own. McCormick had contacted patrol precincts in the area and ordered all government sweeps to be suspended until further notice, giving Greg and Isabel plenty of leeway to do what they needed.

  “Get in. Assess. Move on,” McCormick hammered into them. Usually with the follow-up of, “And don’t die.”

  Comforting.

  In Greg’s mind, this was a suicide mission. The rebels weren’t stupid. Then again, neither was McCormick.

  This morning, the commander pulled Greg aside for a final warning. “If you pull any stunts or if anything happens to my niece—and I mean, if a single hair on her head is touched—I will make you pay for the rest of your life, Pierce. You, your dying mother, your grandparents, and anyone else you’ve ever cared about. I will cut them to pieces. Slowly. Right before your eyes.” He had patted Greg with a smile. “Bring both of you back safe, and you and I will stay friends.”

  Greg and Isabel carried two bags each: a ratty old backpack with smelly clothes—normal squatter things—and a heavy-duty bag with guns, maps, radios, green cards, first aid kits, and plenty of other stuff that was sure to get them killed. They planned to bury their second bag in the woods outside of each clan.

  After rushing around to pull things together and getting enough immunizations to warrant an African safari, Isabel had sufficiently squattered up. She braided her dark hair in a messy do and smudged dirt over her clothes and face in a natural, living-in-the-backwoods way. Her nails were hideous, and her clothes looked like they’d been washed in the Amazon. Smelled like it, too. She still had more curves than the average starving illegal, making her look like a woman who’d recently fallen on hard times, but hopefully with her experience, nobody would know the difference. Greg was just happy to be back in his UNC shirt and ratty jeans, feeling more like himself than he had in six weeks. He hadn’t showered in a few days either. Combined with a beard he detested, that was all he needed to squatter up.

  Admittedly, his impression of Isabel had improved. She could shoot a gun like nobody’s business, and in the brief moments she dropped the seductress act and talked strategy, he’d seen her potential. She was skilled. Intelligent. But annoying as all get out.

  She talked non-stop as they followed an overrun deer path, making Greg appreciate the peacefulness of his walk north with his mom. Isabel told him every detail of her life: messed-up parents, jerky boyfriends. She also invented a story for them as a couple, how they’d met in college—University of North Carolina—at a sports bar where she waitressed. But when she ventured into some story about how they’d been captured and branded, he chimed up. They fought for the next mile. Greg didn’t want to be a bully about it, but neither did he want to end up dead.

  A stream wound lazily through a field to the side. Greg stopped. “We better drink while we can.”

  “Oh, so now you want to drink?” she said teasingly. “Good plan, although I can’t let you get too plastered.”

  Unamused, he said, “We should also eat our last good meal. Probably bury our stuff now, too. That big tree over there is a good marker.”

  “I think we still have a ways,” she said. “We’ll want our things more accessible.”

  “If they’re smart, the rebels are posting guards closer than McCormick thinks. I say we set up base here.”

  Isabel put a hand on her ample hip. “Are you ever going to trust me? I’m the expert and senior officer on this mission.”

  Refusing to answer, he splashed cool water on his face. It felt heavenly after—

  He jumped as something slid onto his thigh. Isabel squeezed his leg with a suggestive smile. “Well, are you?”

  “Don’t touch me,” he said, swatting her away.

  “Brrrr.” She gave a shiver and tried to sidle up to him again, but he jumped to his feet and moved further upstream. “You know, handsome, you’re going to have to warm up to me at some point. Otherwise, we’ll never convince anyone that we’re newlyweds.”

  “Newlyweds considering divorce,” he muttered.

  Making sure she kept her distance, he leaned down for another drink from the stream.

  She watched him for a long moment. “What’s her name?”

  “Who?”

  “The girl back home who has you wrapped around her finger.”

  He didn’t want to say, but maybe she’d back off if he did. He wiped the water from his beard. “Carrie.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  Yes, only in a way a dark-haired seductress wouldn’t understand. Because Carrie wasn’t just beautiful, she had quiet dignity. She was self-respecting and other-people-respecting, too. She didn’t play games other women did, and he liked that. Loved it, actually. Plus, her blue eyes drove him—

  He stopped his thoughts before they ran away from him. Thinking about Carrie was too painful. For all he knew, she and Oliver were happily married and living in government housing already. A lot could happen in the six weeks he’d been gone. The thought churned his stomach.

  Straightening, he glanced around. The sun was lowering in the sky but was still hotter than he thought Illinois sun could be.

  “You ready?” he said. “We should head out so we have time to scope out the first clan before nightfall.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Isabel shouldered her two bags as she fell in line beside him. “So tell me about Carrie. How long have you two been together?”

  “Not long enough.”

  He meant to say it under his breath, but Isabel laughed. “Ah, I’m sorry you’re stuck with me. With any luck, you’ll see your precious Carrie soon. Just impress my uncle on these missions, and he’ll let you do whatever you want. I always do.”

  Was that where Greg was headed? Isabel’s unabashed freedom? He mulled that over as they traipsed over a railroad track. How much betrayal would get him a pass home? Was it worth ratting out some rebels to see his mom again? Carrie again? Or was it already too late for both of them?

  “By the way,” Isabel said, “my guy is named Pete. Thanks for askin
g.”

  Surprised, he glanced sideways. Isabel Ryan seemed like the type to have forty guys, not one. Plus, he figured something like that would have come up in her tortuously long life story.

  “Y’all dating?” he asked. “Engaged? Married?”

  “No.” Her large, dark eyes lost some of their sharpness. “Pete’s dead.”

  “Oh,” Greg said, unsure what else to say. “Sorry.”

  She nodded, and for a time the only sounds were the soft chirps of nature and their tennis shoes rustling the grass. It explained some of her recklessness with life—and men. At some point, a person stopped caring what the future held when the only thing worth living for was gone.

  Part of him, narcissistic as it was, wondered if Carrie would tell the same story some day: I loved a man once. He’s dead now. She had loved Greg once. He was just selfish enough to hope she still did.

  “Pete could make me laugh anytime, anywhere,” Isabel continued softly. “I miss laughing.”

  Greg couldn’t remember the last time he’d made Carrie laugh. She’d smiled plenty of times, but laughed? She deserved more laughter in her life, and he vowed that if he ever made it back, he’d make her laugh again. Assuming she wanted him to.

  Assuming she was still in Logan Pond.

  His shoulders hung.

  Isabel grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop. “Don’t tell Uncle Charlie about Pete. He doesn’t know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…” She chewed her bottom lip a moment. “Pete was an illegal. I met him on one of these missions.”

  “Seriously?” No wonder her uncle didn’t know. “How’d he die?”

  Starting off again, she hugged herself, even though it was plenty hot outside. “My uncle planted me in a clan with this real jerk of a partner, some arrogant sharpshooter. We were only there a month, but it was long enough to fall head over heels in love with Pete. When the government came into arrest everyone, Pete didn’t run. I warned him. The night before I told him who I was and why I was there. I told him what was coming and that he should run. But he just looked at me like I was the devil.” Tears filled her eyes. “I’ve never seen anyone look more betrayed.”