“Hey,” he said, running his large hand across the surface. “There’s my flowers—and your sky.” He smiled in reverie. “I still remember you sayin’ that the sky’s never really one color. That it’s nuanced. Lots of shades and colors, like people.” He looked up from the artwork and locked eyes with Harley. “You were right.”
“I’d like you to finish it,” she said. “That’s all I ask.”
He nodded and hugged the canvas to his chest, gazing up at her. “I will.”
He rested the canvas in the swing beside him and reached into his jacket pocket, removing an envelope. “I have something for you, too,” he said, handing the envelope to Harley. “It’s just a little somethin’ from some of the members of the community.”
Harley opened the thick envelope and thumbed through a series of twenty-dollar bills.
“We know you’ve had to be out of work since everything happened,” he said. “And we wanted to help you out a little financially.”
“Thank you, but this wasn’t necessary.”
Before Jed could reply, a second car pulled into the driveway. This time it was Eric Winston’s navy BMW. He rose from the car, and he smiled when he saw Harley and Jed on the porch.
“Good morning,” he called across the yard. He reached into the back of his car and lifted a covered casserole dish from the seat.
“What’s that?” Harley asked, her face lighting up.
“Just lasagna I made.”
Jed snickered. “Yeah, and what’s in it?”
Eric made his way up the path, listing the various ingredients. “Bolognese sauce, slow-cooked for ten hours, porcini mushrooms, sautéed with truffle oil, egg pasta made in my pasta machine, and homemade béchamel.”
Jed snickered again and poked Harley. “Yeah, so among his many other talents the man’s a gourmet chef.”
“Where would you like it?” Eric smiled at Harley as he stood on the porch.
“You can just take it in the kitchen.” She held open the screen door for him. “Give it to Aunt Wilma or Tina.” She smiled as she watched him progress past the living room to the kitchen, charming the two women with a cheerful greeting.
“Now, I don’t want you gettin’ your hopes up about Eric,” Jed said, behind her from the swing.
Harley looked over her shoulder as she stood in the open doorway. “What?”
“About Eric. I’ve seen the way you look at him, how your face lights up every time you see him. I know you’re gettin’ sweet on ’im.”
“Jed, I’m not—”
He held up his hand to stop her. “It’s okay, Harley. It’s okay. And I’m not sayin’ this to be mean or hurt your feelings. Goodness knows, I’m not—not after everything you’ve done for me, for this town. But I want you to know that Eric’s got a girlfriend. She’s still in Connecticut, but she’ll be movin’ here soon. And Harley, she’s incredible. Gorgeous, accomplished, smart, educated.”
He repositioned himself in the swing and changed his tone to one of empathy. “Look, I just don’t want to see you get hurt. Eric’s a nice guy, and he wouldn’t do it on purpose, but he’s charmin’, Harley, really charmin’, and his attentions could be taken the wrong way.”
Harley’s heart sank, and she worked to conceal her disappointment. “I understand,” she said quietly, easing the screen door closed.
Jed was right. After all, she had already told herself to be realistic regarding her feelings for Eric, that he was out of her league, that he could never feel romantically about someone like her.
“Thanks for telling me,” she said.
60
Restored
Within the half hour, the seven of them, not counting Matilda, sat down at Harley’s dining room table for a noon meal, a smorgasbord of lasagna, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Hardees cheeseburgers, pinto beans, cornbread, and a vintage Merlot also courtesy of Eric Winston.
Opha Mae Shaw arrived in time for dessert, offering a case of piña colada wine coolers and a pack of Virginia Slims, which she added to Wilma’s collection of expired Little Debbies and Twinkies. The Little Debbies and Twinkies remained untouched until Matilda, some hours later, raided the kitchen and carried them back to her little house.
When everyone had left, and Harley and Wilma had finished wiping down the kitchen, Wilma said it was time for her great-niece to write thank-you notes for the presents she had received in the hospital.
“I’m not sure anyone’s really expecting that after what happened.” Harley dried a dish and placed it in the cupboard. “I mean, I did almost die.”
Wilma cocked her index finger in the air. “This is the South. You always send a thank-you note. Always. Even if you’re dead, you still find a way to send one.”
“How would you do that?”
Wilma rolled her eyes. “Why, through a psychic, of course.” She plopped a box of cards and envelopes on the table in front of Harley. “And I even got you your own stationery. Monogrammed.”
“Monogrammed?”
“Of course, it’s monogrammed. You don’t use nothin’ but monogrammed.” Wilma glared at Harley, narrowing her eyes. “Are you sure you’re really a Southerner? Are you sure I helped raise you?”
And so they commenced, Wilma going through the table full of gifts in the living room and Harley scribbling messages of appreciation on her stationery. They had worked their way through most of the gifts when Wilma paused, looking down at the table, a perplexed expression on her face. “Now, where’d this one come from? Don’t believe I saw it there before.”
Wilma lifted the gift from the table, and Harley surveyed the rectangular, flat package, wrapped in plain brown parchment and tied with kitchen twine. “I remember it being at the hospital. It must’ve gotten buried under the others.”
Wilma handed the present to Harley. “Well, why don’t you open it already?”
Harley returned to her seat and rested the package in her lap, carefully removing the paper from what was clearly a book. A flash of green emerged from the parchment, then a little boy raising his arms to a tree.
Harley placed her hand over her mouth. The Giving Tree. She opened the inside cover and ran her finger down the page, finding the inscription she couldn’t believe was there.
To my darling baby girl,
My sweet angel love,
Our giving tree.
Love you always,
Mama
But how? That book had been destroyed by Kevin Grazely and Spider Buttle, she was sure, destroyed all those years ago when they’d invaded the Johnsons’ backyard and had stolen it from her, tearing out the pages, throwing it in the mud puddle.
But there it was. Restored. She fanned through the pages, studying with amazement what an excellent job the restorers had done. It must have cost a fortune.
A note fell from the spine and landed in Harley’s lap.
Come to Briarcliffe, it read.
61
A New Beginning
All was quiet in the early morning hours on Main Street as Harley parked her truck in the lot behind Smoky Mountain Spirits. The shop stayed closed during her sabbatical and, with the pomp and circumstance of Pioneer Days at an end, Main Street was observing a day of rest. The stores, the bars, and the restaurants were recovering from the celebration, the hay bales, pumpkins, and chrysanthemums sagging outside their doors.
Harley entered the back room and traveled into the shop area and to the row of hardback novels stationed above the bar. She retrieved the copy of Great Expectations and, as she placed it in her bag, she saw a car pull up outside the shop.
Hazel Moses rose from her green Volvo, the car’s luggage rack covered with suitcases and trunks. She approached the glass windows and, placing her hand over her brow, peered inside. Upon seeing Harley, she waved and smiled with enthusiasm, beckoning the young woman to let her inside.
“Hazel?” Harley unlocked the front door and opened it. She gazed over Hazel’s shoulder to the packed Volvo. “And your car. You’re moving?”
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br /> “I am,” she said, still ecstatic. “That’s why I stopped by. I was hoping to say bye before I left.”
“Where are you going?”
“Well, first let me explain.” She walked past Harley through the open doorway and entered the shop, taking a seat in one of the chairs beside the potbellied stove.
When Harley had taken a seat across from her, she said, “He left them to me. All of them. His first editions. Patrick did. Every single one.” She crossed then uncrossed her legs with excitement. “And a small inheritance too! Can you believe it?”
“I do believe it. That’s wonderful.”
“You were right, Harley. I wanted to come by and tell you that you were right. About Patrick. He did love me. He really did. Not in the way I thought I wanted, of course. No, not in a romantic way, but in a way that now I think was even better, more special.”
“You were a true friend to him.”
“I was,” she said, exhaling. “And now I can finally leave Notchey Creek like I always wanted, do whatever I want, be whoever I want.”
“And what are you going to do? What are your plans?”
“New York. At least at first. And then, well, I don’t know—wherever the notion takes me.”
She reached into her bag and removed a book which she then handed to Harley. “Patrick wanted you to have this. He left me a note, asking me to give it to you. He said it had shared meaning for the two of you, from when you were a child.”
Harley gazed down at the first edition printing of Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poems. She opened the book and paged through, stopping when she found “The Lady of Shalott.”
“Yes.” She smiled at Hazel over the book’s cover. “Yes, it does have special meaning.”
Afterward, when Harley had said farewell to Hazel and wished her well, she closed the shop and began her pilgrimage to her next stop, the county homeless shelter.
“I’d like to make a donation.” She placed the envelope of money Jed had given her on the front counter. “Anonymously, please.”
The female volunteer behind the desk looked at Harley, then at the envelope, a quizzical expression on her face. Then she proceeded to open the envelope and count the succession of twenty-dollar bills. “But there’s hundreds of dollars here. Are you sure you want to give away all of it?”
“I’m absolutely certain, and I want it made in memory of Army Private Martin Evans. He was a veteran, and though he didn’t die in battle overseas, he fought his own personal battles when he came home.” She paused and looked at the volunteer intently. “Martin fought a lot of demons, but he was a good man, and he chose to do the right thing before he died, the best thing he could’ve done.”
“I’ll see it’s put to good use.” The volunteer closed the envelope and smiled at Harley. “And thank you.”
Harley returned to her truck, thinking of Martin Evans as she drove along Briarwood Avenue, passing the ditch where she and Tina had found him on that fateful morning, when he tried to tell her about Beau Arson, about the boy who’d been innocent.
She slowed the truck when she spotted Savannah Swanson ahead, wearing a pair of old jeans, a sweatshirt, and a hard hat. Her long blond hair was tied in a ponytail, and her face free of makeup. She stood at the edge of Briarwood Park, watching as two men surveyed the land.
Harley stopped her truck and Savannah rushed over.
“Harley? I’d heard you were on the mend. Did you get my gift?”
“I did,” she said, remembering the beautiful set of notebooks and pens. “Thank you.”
“The museum’s going forward.” She gestured to the green space behind her. “Beau Arson’s bought the land, and he’s decided to move forward with the construction, as specified by Patrick’s plans. It’s going to be called ‘The Patrick Middleton Museum of Appalachia,’ and I’m going to be the curator.”
“I’m so happy for you.”
She yanked the hard hat down on her forehead and grinned. “And guess what else? Beau Arson’s giving his entire inheritance to the National Park. Can you believe it?”
“I can believe it.”
A thought occurred to Harley, and she looked at the line of trees at the edge of the park. “Would you mind doing a favor for me? Those trees,” she said, pointing. “Can you make sure they stay there, untouched?”
Savannah gave Harley a quizzical look. “Sure, but can I ask why?”
“Because they were planted by the town’s World War II veterans, and it would mean a lot to … well, many of us if they remained there—as a memorial.”
“Sure. I think that can be arranged.”
Harley gave a smile of appreciation, and Savannah lowered her head into the open window, her excitement settling to seriousness. “Hey, I was wondering if I could maybe stop by your shop sometime. Maybe we could have lunch? I’d like to get your thoughts on the history museum and I don’t know … maybe catch up on the last nineteen years.”
“That’d be great,” Harley said. “And I can’t wait to see what you’ve got in mind for the museum.” She rolled up the window and after waving goodbye to Savannah continued along Briarwood Avenue, making a right-hand turn into the exclusive neighborhood.
Cars with out-of-state license plates lined both sides of the street, and numerous people, all unknown to Harley, milled about on the sidewalk holding microphones and cameras, eager to get a shot of Beau Arson.
Three police cruisers cordoned off the remainder of the drive, blocking the portion leading up the hill to Briarcliffe. Harley stopped her truck in front of one of the cruisers and rolled down the window. One of Jed’s deputies approached the Chevy and lowered himself into Harley’s view. She wasn’t sure of the young man’s name, as he was new to the force, but she hoped he might recognize her.
“I’d like to go to Briarcliffe, please,” she said. “I’ve received an invitation from Mr. Arson.”
“You don’t have to ask permission, Harley,” the young officer said with warmth. “You’re free to go wherever you like. Jed’s orders. And besides, Mr. Arson already told us to be expecting you.”
He motioned for the officers to move their police cars temporarily, allowing Harley’s truck to pass through them. In her rearview mirror, she could see them watching her truck as it ascended the street toward Briarcliffe.
But Harley wasn’t in the clear yet, for as her truck approached the tall iron gates of Briarcliffe, Boonie Davenport appeared behind the bars, his muscled arms crossed at his chest. He gave her a smug look, and she drew in a deep breath, preparing herself for an experience similar to the one she had with him at Muscadine Farms. Instead, the gates opened and Boonie stepped aside. As her truck passed him, he raised his hand to his brow in a salute.
Miracles never cease, she thought.
The truck continued through the tall pines lining the drive, and then to the clearing where, in centuries past, a family of timber barons had leveled hundreds of trees, the same barons who had leveled millions more in what was to become the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the profits used to erect the immense limestone mansion of Briarcliffe, overlooking the small town of Notchey Creek.
Harley parked her truck near the servants’ entrance, and as she opened the door, Stevie ran from the terrace, waving to her.
He was breathless and smiling, his cheeks rosy from the cold. “It’s so good to see you.” Still catching his breath, he extended his right hand and shook hers. “You okay? I mean, I heard you were in the hospital.”
“All better.”
He dropped his gaze to the paved driveway and shook his head. “I can’t tell you how much this means to us, to Beau. I think maybe he’s finally found his other bookend, you know, so to speak. Finding out about his real family, his home is … it’s priceless.
“Well,” he said, “I’m sure you’ve probably come to see him, not me, so I’ll let you get about your visit.” He motioned to a wrought iron gate behind them, one leading into the backyard. “He’s out back, down by the creek. You�
��re free to go through there if you want. He’s been expecting you.”
62
Home
Harley bid Stevie farewell and made her way through the iron gate and to the vast expanse of green, littered with fallen leaves, the lawn rolling and gliding to the creek and the row of pine woods beyond.
Harley stopped beneath an oak tree and rested her back to the trunk. In the distance, a solemn, lonely figure lounged beside the creek beneath a weeping willow, the autumn sun casting threads of sunlight through the trees, his golden hair falling in careless waves over his forehead. He peered down at the shimmering water as if casting a spell over the currents, a spell that traveled across the expanse of grass and beneath the tree where she stood.
Suddenly she was a little girl again, surrounded by a sea of lilies beneath the oak tree in the Johnsons’ backyard. She lowered her eyes to her lap, where in her tiny arms, browned and scraped from endless days climbing trees and skipping rocks, she held The Giving Tree, the last present she had received from her mother, a book she had promised her mother she would read before summer’s end. She pushed her finger along the open page, studying the text.
Once there was a tree and she loved a little boy. And every day the boy would come and he would gather her leaves and make them into crowns and play king of the forest. He would climb up her trunk and swing from her branches and eat apples. And they would play hide-and-go seek. And when he was tired he would sleep in her shade. And the boy loved the tree.
The wind whipped through the oak tree’s branches, its limbs waving toward the heavens, leaves rustling in crescendo. The sweet redolence of coming rain filled the air, blending with the scent of freshly laundered linens as they flapped on Pearl Johnson’s clothesline and of fresh-cut grass forming ridges behind Angus Pruitt’s lawn mower as it droned across the yard next door. There, beside the Johnsons’ Tudor-style home was Patrick Middleton’s three-story brick mansion, the home’s shutters gleaming from a fresh coat of black paint, the foundation framed by flocks of white hydrangea bushes. A screen door creaked open and sandaled feet clomped across wooden boards, their impact then silenced by pads of grass.
Murder Comes to Notchey Creek Page 22