Patrick Middleton appeared beneath Harley’s oak tree, dressed in low-slung khakis and a white linen shirt, his round spectacles pushing back strands of dark hair from his lined forehead, his smile lighting up his handsome face. He greeted her as he always did. “Ah, tis the fairy, the Lady of Shalott, floating in a sea of lilies, I see.”
Harley hugged the book to her chest and smiled up at him. “I’m reading a book. It’s called The Giving Tree.”
“Exploring a magical world in it, are you?”
“Not really,” she said with a shrug. “It’s just about a tree in a boy’s backyard. It’s nothing special really.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. In The Wizard of Oz, didn’t Dorothy say that if I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than in my own backyard? And if your heart’s desire isn’t there, you never really had it to begin with.”
“Kind of like treasure?”
“Yes, kind of like treasure, treasure in your imagination.”
Harley’s gaze danced around the Johnsons’ backyard, expecting black pirate chests to burst forth in shoots on the lawn, their gold coins clinking to the grass in puddles.
“Well, I didn’t want to disturb you, my lady,” Patrick said. “It’s just that I saw you out here and thought you might like a glass of lemonade or some cookies.”
Normally, Harley would have jumped at the chance for a glass of Patrick’s freshly squeezed lemonade or a plate of his butter cookies, but her stomach was sour, had been sour for weeks. “No, thank you, Dr. Middleton.”
Patrick smiled, watching the little girl as she lounged in the grass. “Well, all right. Keep exploring then.”
“Dr. Middleton …” Harley pointed to the blond boy in the Winstons’ yard next door. “That boy over there. Why is he always so sad?”
Patrick watched the boy as he slept beneath the willow tree, a hardback copy of a book spread across his chest. Tucked inside the book’s spine was a bookmark made by a little girl’s hand, one with a red heart and an inscription that read You Are Loved.
“Because he’s all alone in the world, Harley. He’s always been all alone.”
“But I don’t understand. It looks like he’s got everything over there. Everything in the whole world.”
“I’m afraid not. It’s only for the summer.”
Patrick returned his attention to Harley and forced a smile. “Well, I best be about my work, my lady.”
“Bye, Dr. Middleton.”
“Goodbye, my sweet girl.”
Minutes passed and Harley could hear the sharp rap of typewriter keys emanating from Patrick’s office window. She returned her focus to the boy in the Winstons’ backyard. He had risen from his bed of grass and was standing on the creek bank, gazing down at the water in thought. He lifted his arms over his head and removed his white t-shirt, tossing it to the ground by his feet.
Rays of sun cut through the trees, casting ribbons of sunlight across the boy’s back. There in varying shades of indigo, a pair of angel’s wings traveled from the blades of his shoulders to the small of his back.
“Like the archangel,” Harley whispered. She smiled at the boy, watching as the wings of indigo moved in motion with his back. “Yes, like Michael.”
She was transported back to the Briarcliffe of thirty-two years ago, to the immense, rolling grounds where the townspeople of Notchey Creek gathered on quilts and blankets for the Sutcliffes’ annual summer picnic, waiting for their host, James Sutcliffe, to give a few words of welcome. And there he was, handsome and tailored and tall, holding his baby son in his arms, standing before the microphone on the stage where hired musicians were set to perform.
He welcomed them all, thanking the town for all they had done for Sutcliffe Timber and Real Estate, for his family, and for Briarcliffe, over the years. Then he held up the baby in his arms, and the crowd cheered, and James Sutcliffe, sadness filling his eyes, said that he wanted them all to meet his son, the love of his life, Michael.
But everything had changed after that day, after James Sutcliffe had been killed, after his life had been stolen from him long before its time, his son, too, sentenced to death, only to be saved by a man who thought he had been the infant’s undoing.
Harley directed her eyes to that baby, to the boy of her childhood, who was all grown up, tall and powerful and golden, like his father had been, his eyes saddened by tears, as he lay once again by the creek, gazing down in quiet concentration as he once had, searching for something just beyond his grasp.
Eighteen years had passed between them, eighteen years in which Beau Arson had risen from being an abandoned baby to a penniless orphan, passed from one derelict set of parents to the next, supposed guardians who cast aside the boy they had been paid to love, only for that unwanted boy to be lifted up, through his incredible, God-given talent, to the greatest of heights, achieving money, power, fame, but nothing to fill the hole in his heart.
Nothing until now.
For Michael Sutcliffe was home, home at last.
63
The Mist Rises
Harley approached and rested her hand on Beau’s shoulder, just as he had done to her all those years ago when she was a little girl, after her mother had died and she sat helpless in the mud with the remnants of The Giving Tree falling apart in her soiled hands, lost, she thought, forever. And just as he had gazed down at her with so much compassion in his eyes, so much care, she, too, gazed down at him.
“We need never be ashamed of our tears,” she said, “for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts.”
Beau Arson looked up at Harley Henrickson, and with his dark blue eyes reddened, he smiled and said in his deep voice, “Hey, kiddo.”
“Hi,” Harley whispered back.
“You remembered.”
“I did.”
She knelt and took a seat beside him on the creek bank. “I wanted to—”
But before she could finish, he pulled her tightly to his chest. “Thank you,” he said, whispering the words into her hair as it fell across his folded arms, his chest, his breath warm and comforting on her cheeks. “Thanks for all that you’ve done.”
Then he released her gently and the two sat in comfortable silence, listening to the creek as it babbled happily before them.
“Beau,” Harley said at last. “I wanted to thank you too … for the book. The Giving Tree. I can’t tell you what it means to me to have it back.” She peered at him, emphasis growing in her voice. “But it’s not just the book. Your words of encouragement that day … after Kevin and Spider did what they did … you were the first person who taught me to believe in myself.”
She removed Great Expectations from her bag and handed it to him. “I think I’ve got something of yours to return, too.”
Beau smiled and placed the book in his lap, then leaned his back against the weeping willow, gazing past the creek to the forest. “I still remember it … just like it was yesterday. I still remember that sad, lonely little kid who sat under that oak tree, day after day, all summer long, reading her books, crying for her mama. That same little kid who took the time to leave gifts for me under that willow tree.
“I remembered asking Patrick about you, and he said that you were an orphan like me, that your mother had just died, that she was active duty in the military—killed by a roadside bomb overseas.” He pondered this for a moment and shook his head as if scolding himself. "I felt so sorry for myself back then, you know. So defeated all the time. I thought I’d been given the absolute worst lot in life, going from one foster home to the next, from one set of crap hole parents to another.
“But then there you were, this little kid who’d just lost everything, so tiny and vulnerable and sad, taking time from your grieving to think and care for somebody as undeserving and selfish as me. I never forgot it. I never forgot you. It was a changing point for me. Never again was I going to feel sorry for myself. Never again was I going to feel like I�
��d been given a bum rap. If I wanted to change my life, I told myself, I was going be the one to do it—lift myself out of the hell hole I’d been born into.”
“And you did.”
“In some ways,” he said, “and in other ways I’ve failed horribly.” He turned to look at her. “When I came by your shop the other day, it was you I’d come to see. I wanted to know what’d happened to you, what became of your life. The last I’d heard from Patrick, you’d been awarded a scholarship to Harvard, and you were headed to Boston. I was so proud of you.”
Harley frowned. “I’m afraid my life hasn’t turned out the way I expected it to, Beau. My granddaddy got sick before I graduated from high school, and I stayed here to take care of him. I never left. I never went to Harvard.”
“I hate to hear that,” he said, and she could tell he truly meant it. “But you’re still young. You can still go wherever you like. Become the writer you wanted to be.”
“You remember that?” she said with half a smile.
“I do. And I don’t see why you can’t still do it, right? A person can write from anywhere, can’t they?”
“I guess so.”
He fixed his gaze on the canopy of pines above them. “I’ve decided to stay here. In Notchey Creek. This is my home now, this is where I was always supposed to be, where my dad would’ve wanted me to be.” He paused. “It’ll be a big change for me, I know, but I can’t go back—not now—not to the way things were—not to the way my life was before.” He looked behind them to Briarcliffe, to the home of his ancestors. “And I don’t want to go back.”
And none of them would, Harley realized.
“It’s kind of like that quote from Great Expectations, isn’t it?” she said.
In the distance the blue-gray peaks of the Smokies swept toward the rising sun. The mist had gathered in the foothills and was working its way upward through the trees, to the between place, where the mountains meet the sky.
“‘We changed again, and yet again, and it was now too late and too far to go back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen now, and the world lay spread before me.’”
Books in the Harley Henrickson Mystery Series
Murder Comes to Notchey Creek
The Ghosts of Notchey Creek
Loving and Dying in Notchey Creek (2021)
The Autumn Orchard
1 1/2 ounces Tennessee whiskey or bourbon
1 ounce Jack Daniel’s Winter Warmer or apple cider
1 ounce Jack Daniel’s Honey
1 ounce Apple Jack brandy
1/2 ounce Tuaca or vanilla liquor (optional)
1 dash apple bitters
1 dash black walnut bitters
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Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker, along with a handful of ice. Stir. Strain into a coupe.
Hazel’s Hot Toddy
6 ounces hot water
2 ounces Tennessee whiskey or bourbon
1 tablespoon Demerara syrup or simple syrup *
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
* * *
Pour hot water into a heat-safe mug. Add the whiskey, syrup, and lemon juice. Stir.
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*Recipes on following pages
Demerara Syrup
2 cups Demerara sugar
1 cup water
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Combine sugar and water in a saucepan and cook over medium heat. Stir constantly and do not bring to a boil. Once sugar is dissolved, remove from heat. Allow to cool.
Simple Syrup
Combine equal parts sugar and warm water in a sealable container. Stir or shake until the sugar is dissolved. Allow to cool.
The Seelbach
1 ounce Tennessee whiskey or bourbon
1/2 ounce orange liquor
3 dashes Angostura bitters
3 dashes Peychaud’s bitters
Champagne or sparkling wine
Orange peel (optional)
* * *
Combine whiskey, liquor, and bitters in a champagne flute or coupe. Top with champagne or sparkling wine. Garnish with orange peel, if desired.
Harley’s Midnight Manhattan
2 1/2 ounces Tennessee whiskey, rye whiskey, or bourbon
1 ounce sweet vermouth
2 dashes angostura bitters
brandied cherries (optional)
* * *
In a cocktail shaker, combine whiskey, vermouth, bitters, and handful of ice. Stir. Strain into a double Old-Fashioned glass and garnish with brandied cherries, if desired.
Pioneer Punch Cocktail
2 ounces Tennessee whiskey or bourbon
1 ounce chilled apple cider
1/2 ounce apple brandy
1/2 ounce cinnamon Tuaca or other cinnamon liquor
1 dash apple bitters
1 dash walnut bitters
* * *
In a cocktail shaker, combine the Tennessee whiskey, cider, brandy, cinnamon liquor, bitters and a handful of ice. Stir. Serve in a chilled coupe.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my proofreader, the amazing and irreplaceable, April Schlee, of Proofreading by April, as well as my cover designers, copy editors, and line editors at Bookbaby. You all help me become a better writer.
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I would also like to express my warm appreciation to everyone who took the time to read the book and write reviews. Your kind words, as well as your encouragement, led to my decision to continue this series. I truly write these books for you. Thank you!
About the Author
Liz S. Andrews is a native of East Tennessee and was blessed to grow up near the Great Smoky Mountains, the playground of her childhood and adolescence. She has a professional background in English literature and higher education. She is also an amateur mixologist and whiskey lover. The cocktails Harley Henrickson creates in the book are her and her husband’s creations. When she's not writing, she enjoys reading, cooking, and hiking with her dog, Scout, a golden retriever/labrador mix. She currently resides with her family in Western Pennsylvania near Pittsburgh. The character of Tina Rizchek is a wink to her love for the 'Burgh.
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Please follow her website at: www.lizsandrews.com for book-release updates and more.
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Or connect via email at: [email protected]
Murder Comes to Notchey Creek Page 23