Roots of Wood and Stone

by Amanda Wen

  Sloane wrapped her arms around herself, warmed by the homey scene. I play a little piano, he’d said. Ha. To play that fluidly would take years of lessons or a boatload of natural talent. Probably both. Eyes closed, he swayed slightly with the rhythm, and the words to the old hymn slipped dreamily from his lips, as if the music he pulled from those rickety keys had carried him along with it.

  She’d known for a while that Mr. All Business had a heart in there. Now here it was, on full display, and it filled her own to the point of precious pain. This side of Garrett she’d never seen was bringing up feelings she hadn’t known in quite some time. If ever.

  Could she be … ?

  No. Not this soon. She couldn’t be.

  Could she?

  As the hymn approached its end, the truth settled into her heart with the gentle fluttering and folding of wings.

  She could very easily be falling in love with Garrett Anderson.

  “That was beautiful.”

  Garrett startled at the words. It sounded like a low, husky version of Sloane’s voice, behind him to his left. But she wasn’t here. Was she?

  Still enveloped in a musical fog, he turned, and there she was. Real as anything.

  “Oh, Sloane. Hi.”

  Her dimples deepened. “Hi.”

  “When did you get here?”

  “Couple minutes ago.”

  “Couple minutes ago.” He’d become a parrot.

  “Relax.” Her hand landed on his shoulder, warm through his shirt. “You sounded wonderful.”

  “Are you kidding, Auntie Boop?” Grandma piped up. “He sounded sensational.” She tossed him a wink he’d expect from a much younger, more flirtatious person.

  He squirmed on the piano bench. “Thank you.”

  Sloane sat beside him, her concerned gaze flitting over his face. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “It’s just …”

  “Your mom?”

  The weight of grief settled in his chest, and he fixed his attention on the keyboard. The ordered pattern of ebony and ivory.

  Sloane gripped his hand. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was low and soothing. “I can’t imagine how painful that was, or how hard it must be to play now. I’m honored to have heard you.”

  He stole a quick glance toward Grandma. As confused as she’d been today, he didn’t want to take any chances, but she seemed content watching finches flit around outside, so he gave in to his heart and pulled Sloane close.

  When she slid her arm around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder, he blinked in surprise at how right it felt. The warmth of her body snuggled against his. The sweet fragrance of her shampoo. The whisper of her thumb over the back of his hand.

  And yet. He didn’t live in Wichita. She did.

  And he didn’t have room in his life for the kind of relationship he wanted with her. Not now. Not until Grandma was settled and his career more established. Sloane couldn’t be more right, but the timing couldn’t be more wrong.

  She stirred in his arms, and he pulled her closer. He didn’t want to lose her. He couldn’t lose her.

  He’d sort out the details later. You’re smart, Garrett. You’ll figure it out. You always do.

  He feathered a kiss to the top of Sloane’s head. “Thank you.”

  The door banged open, a stark contrast to the silent way Sloane had slipped inside. Lauren appeared with an armload of bags from the drugstore, and Sloane lifted her head from his shoulder.

  “Hey, all.” Depositing the bags on the sofa, Lauren scooped up a handful of windblown blonde hair and attempted to corral it into a ponytail.

  “You get caught in a hurricane?” Garrett asked.

  “Starting to get a little stormy out there.” She quirked a brow. “Of course, it looks like you’ve been too busy to notice.”

  Garrett tossed his sister a withering glare, but she wasn’t wrong about the weather. Though it had been sunny when he arrived after lunch, the western skies were now thick with dark, rain-swollen clouds.

  “You probably aren’t aware we’re under a tornado watch either.” Lauren gave her ponytail a final tug.

  Garrett reached for his phone, neglected on the coffee table. Sure enough, he’d received a couple weather alerts during his private concert with Grandma.

  Sloane waved a hand. “They always go overboard with the gloom and doom. The first ‘severe weather alert day’ of any spring is always so melodramatic.”

  “Especially since it’s so late this year.” Lauren glanced at the clock. “You give Grandma her meds yet?”

  Garrett frowned. “It’s three already?”

  “I don’t believe it. Mark this down. Mr. Punctuality lost track of time.”

  “Grow up.” Grinning, he stood. “I’ll get her meds.”

  “I got it.” Lauren was already helping Grandma up from her chair. “She’s supposed to take them with food, and you look like you were busy. Or were about to be.” She gave a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows on her way to the kitchen.

  Resisting a juvenile urge to stick his tongue out at his sister, he turned to Sloane. “So what was it you wanted to tell me about? Your text said you had some developments.”

  She retrieved a colorful tote bag from a doily-covered end table, then pulled from its depths a piece of paper not unlike a March Madness bracket. “Ta-da.”

  He glanced at the names and dates covering the paper. “Is that a family tree?”

  “Yep. For Jack and Annabelle and their kids. I finally got enough info to put one together.”

  A web of lines radiated from Jack’s and Annabelle’s names at the top. “Wow. That’s a lot of kids.”

  “They ended up with six plus Oliver. Just like Jack predicted. And this guy is of particular importance.” Her fingertip tapped a name amid the sea of lines. “John Patrick, Jack and Annabelle’s fourth child. He was born in 1881 and went to optometry school in Cleveland, where he married this woman.” Her finger slid to the name joined to John Patrick’s.

  “Domenica Giordano. Sounds Italian.”

  “Domenica’s family came from Sicily when she was a toddler. She and John Patrick had four kids of their own.”

  Garrett squinted at the names below John Patrick and Domenica, all in Sloane’s slightly messy cursive. “Four girls?”

  “Four girls.” Sloane’s voice trembled. “And one of them—not sure which one—”

  “Is related to me somehow?”

  “No.” Frank, gold-flecked brown eyes held his. “She’s related to me.”

  Garrett’s jaw unhinged. “Wait a minute. Jack and Annabelle are your ancestors?”

  “Uh-huh. Isn’t that crazy?”

  “That is crazy. And it’s huge for you. You found your family. Your blood family.” He folded her into his arms for a quick embrace, then peeled his attention from her to the paper. “How’d you figure all this out?”

  “My birth mother sent me an old letter from her great-grandmother. Here.” Sloane pulled out her phone and held it for him to see, the slanted, old-fashioned handwriting an odd contrast to the sleek modernity of her phone. “Look at the signature.”

  “Domenica Brennan. Wow.”

  “I found a marriage certificate and some census records to prove it. This is the same person.” The tremor returned to Sloane’s voice. “Jack and Annabelle are my great-great-great-grandparents.”

  Garrett squeezed her shoulder. “Can this information help you identify your birth mother?”

  She shook her head, giving off a new wave of fruity fragrance. “I traced the daughters as far forward as I could, but since I don’t know my mother’s name, I can’t figure out which of them is her grandmother. And they all stayed in Cleveland, so that’s no help.”

  “Still, though. Jack and Annabelle, they’re your family.”

  “They’re my family.” Her wistful gaze caressed the family tree, then rose to his face. Fragility was in every inch of her tremulous smile, but her eyes were nothing but str
ength. That combination must be his kryptonite, because he suddenly wanted nothing more than to kiss that delicate smile, to capture those gorgeous lips with his own—

  “Wait.” He stopped just short of her mouth. “Are we related? Please tell me we’re not.”

  “Nope. Not by blood anyway.”

  Cool relief washed through him as she stretched up and pecked him on the cheek, then flipped the paper over to reveal more lines and brackets. “I got all this off a couple genealogy websites. Here’s your grandma. And if you follow the generations back …”

  He scanned the list. None of these names meant a thing in the world to him, but all these people were instrumental in his existence.

  Wait. That one he knew. “Oliver?”

  “Yup. Jack’s nephew. His sister-in-law’s son.”

  Garrett frowned. “So if Oliver is my ancestor and John Patrick is yours, what’s that make you and me?”

  “Absolutely nothing.” The truth pulled that delicious mouth into a broad smile that sent warmth buzzing to the tips of his toes.

  “Good. Because I’d like for us to be … something else, I think.”

  The look in Sloane’s eyes answered his unasked question, so he bent forward and claimed her beautiful lips.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, and her contented murmur shot straight to his heart. He pulled her closer. They really did fit well together, didn’t they? Like two pieces of a puzzle. Two halves of a whole. Two—

  “Hey, guys, did anyb—oh. Sorry.”

  Lauren’s voice shattered both mood and moment. Garrett jerked away, scrubbing the back of his hand over his mouth in case Sloane had left him a lipstick souvenir.

  “No, you’re fine.” He glanced Lauren’s way, but instead of the mischievous smile he expected, her brow was creased with concern. “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m not sure.” Lauren stepped to the window and brushed back the curtain. “I thought I heard tornado sirens.”

  Over the hammer of his pulse and the thrum of his need to be back in Sloane’s arms … yes. There it was. The unmistakable, chilling wail.

  Confirming what he heard, his phone buzzed. Other buzzes echoed around the room as he reached for it and scrolled through the weather-speak on his screen.

  Tornado warning … northwestern Sedgwick County … rotation … radar indicated …

  Lauren turned on the TV, and Garrett swiveled toward it, his arm draped over Sloane’s shoulders. On-screen, a dark-haired meteorologist chattered anxiously, pointing at an angry-looking red blob on the radar.

  But something about that meteorologist caught his eye too.

  “Lauren? Isn’t that … ?”

  “Carter Douglas. Yeah.” Her voice was flat, her face similarly devoid of expression.

  Sloane leaned in. “Who’s Carter Douglas?”

  “Lauren’s old boyfriend,” Garrett said softly.

  “You okay?” Sloane moved to Lauren’s side and laid a supportive hand on her shoulder.

  Lauren stared, unblinking, at the screen. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “Good. Because look at the storm track.” Sloane pointed at the televised list of locations and times. “This thing’ll be on top of us in about eight minutes.”

  Heart pounding, Garrett sprang into action. “I’ll get Grandma.”

  But Lauren was already halfway to the kitchen. “I’ve got her.”

  “Do you guys have a basement or anything?” Sloane asked.

  “There’s a cellar. Nothing to write home about, but it’ll do.” What else did he need to do? Tornado warnings weren’t as common up in Kansas City. In fact, the only time he’d ever taken cover from an imminent threat was here, the summer after second grade. They’d all huddled under blankets in the dank cellar, Grandpa spinning tall tales and acting like nothing in the world was wrong, even as the storm raged outside—

  “Blankets. We need blankets.” He yanked a red-and-blue crocheted afghan off the back of the couch and handed it to Sloane, then grabbed the cushions for good measure.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “We’ll want to protect our heads just to be safe.” Permission asked and obtained with a glance, he dumped the pile of cushions into her arms and headed for the stairs. “I think there’s a flashlight in the hall closet.”

  Lauren tore into the living room, her face pale. “I can’t find Grandma.”

  “What?” He paused, one foot on the second step. “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said. I can’t find her.”

  Anxiety pricking his chest, Garrett followed his sister to the kitchen. The soft thumps of pillows and blankets on the sofa and rapid footsteps at his back told him Sloane was close behind.

  “She was right there. Finishing her snack.” Lauren indicated the empty space at the table.

  A half-eaten turnover sat on a plate beside a mostly full cup of coffee and three pills of various sizes and colors. But Grandma’s chair was pushed back, and she was nowhere to be seen.

  “Is she in the cellar?” The siren’s wail was even louder here in the kitchen. If Grandma had heard that, she might’ve had the presence of mind to take shelter.

  “I already checked.”

  “Grandma?” Garrett peeked around the corner into the half bath, but it was empty.

  “Rosie?” Sloane called from the laundry room.

  He flipped on the light in his grandmother’s bedroom. “Grandma?”

  But the only voice he heard was Lauren’s, shrill and panicked. “I don’t know what happened. I was only gone for a second.”

  Sloane gestured toward the kitchen stairs. “Think she could’ve gone up there?”

  “She’d have had to climb over the safety gate,” Garrett replied. “Or she could’ve unlocked it.”

  “I’ll check.” Sloane’s footsteps thudded up the stairs.

  “Okay, Lo, start from the beginning.” He looked between the bed and the wall—no Grandma—and forced calm into his voice. “You brought her into the kitchen and gave her another turnover and some coffee.”

  “And her pills,” came the shaky reply. “But I forgot the new blood pressure one, so I went back for it.”

  Grandma probably wasn’t in the bedroom closet, but he checked anyway. “What happened next?”

  “I brought her the pill and put it with the others. Then we heard the thunder. I looked out the window and told her it seemed a little stormy outside.”

  “Grandma?” He peeked into the laundry room. Sloane already looked there, but he needed to see for himself.

  “And then I thought I heard sirens, so I came in to ask you about it, and by the time I came back, she—” Lauren broke off with a terrified gasp. “Oh no.”

  He whirled to face her. “What?”

  “The last thing she heard me say was …”

  His stomach dropped. “Outside.”

  Lauren nodded.

  Garrett glanced at the dark clouds churning overhead. Then he tore out the back door and into the gale.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SLOANE BURST FROM the kitchen into a midafternoon dark enough to pass for evening. The dissonant moan of sirens blended with howling wind and frantic cries of Rosie’s name. A putrid greenish-gray sky roiled overhead, the kind of sky common sense said they had no business being beneath.

  But common sense had no place right now. Rosie was out here, somewhere under this sinister sky. She must be confused. Terrified. Sloane’s gaze darted around the yard, her heart pounding frantic prayers.

  “Where do you think she went?” Garrett peered between the shrubs along the south side of the house.

  “How should I know?” Lauren tossed back on a vicious blast of wind. “She’s in her eighties. She can’t have gone far.”

  “Well, do you see her nearby?”

  “No, do you?”

  “Garrett. Lauren.” Sloane stepped between the warring siblings. “We’ll have a better chance if we split up.”

 
“You’re right.” Lauren sprinted toward the driveway. “I’ll check the front.”

  “I’ll get the back.” Garrett barreled toward the copse of trees by the creek.

  Sloane stayed near the house, peeking around the east corner as fat raindrops smacked her forearms. An old clothesline poked through overgrown trees, and a rusty wheelbarrow lay on its side, half hidden in a patch of brush speckled with pale green leaves.

  No sign of Rosie. But Lauren was probably right. At her age, she couldn’t have gone too far.

  Rain rendering her glasses useless, Sloane slipped them off, jogged to the blurry red barn, and pushed the door open.

  “Rosie?” Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the near-pitch blackness inside. Polishing her glasses on her shirttail, she put them on, and the blurs crystallized into an ancient, dust-covered tractor and various other tools she couldn’t identify. The barn smelled of hay and horses, though she doubted either had inhabited the structure in years.

  No Rosie here either.

  Adrenaline sluicing through her veins, she shut the barn door, slipped off her glasses, and darted through intensifying rain toward a small toolshed. A thick, gnarled tree root caught her by the toe and yanked her off-balance. She braced herself against the rough bark, regained her bearings, and—

  There. A flash of pink through the cracked doorway of the toolshed.

  Pink. Like Rosie’s sweater.

  Sloane jogged the rest of the way and shoved the shed door open. Lightning zigzagged through the sky and lit up the dank interior. And there, cowering in the corner, was Garrett’s grandmother.

  “Rosie. Oh, you poor thing.” Nearly sobbing with relief, Sloane pulled Rosie close and whispered words of comfort into snowy, hair spray–scented curls.

  “Auntie Boop.” Rosie clutched Sloane’s shoulder and buried her head in the folds of fabric. “Thank the Lord you’re here.”

  The door banged open, startling her and making Rosie jump.

  “Grandma. Thank God.” Garrett turned to shout over his shoulder. “Lauren! In the shed!”

  Rather than look relieved to see her grandson, though, Rosie trembled all the more.