The Road She Left Behind

by Nolfi, Christine

  Beside her, Samson stirred.

  At the edge of the sweater’s soft folds, drowsy brown eyes flecked with amber blinked slowly. “Good morning, ugly lady,” he murmured.

  “Samson, morning is long gone.”

  “Where are we?” On a yawn, he struggled into a sitting position.

  “In the middle of nowhere.” She nodded at the trees bowing leafy arms as they drove by. Spirals of dust lifted from the road. “Hungry? I got off the interstate to hunt for somewhere to eat.”

  “I’m starving.”

  “Me too,” she lied. Reflecting on her nephew’s disappearance had dampened her appetite.

  The sweater she’d draped over Samson clung to one lean shoulder. He eyed the garment with interest. “How long did I sleep? Feels like forever.” He folded the sweater into a neat square and placed it in the back seat on top of his duffel bag. “I sure need something to help me wake up. Sweet tea, or coffee.”

  The traces of sleep made him look much younger. “Best guess, you slept for about an hour,” she said. “Maybe longer.”

  “Want me to drive for a while?”

  “I’m good.” A red-shingled diner rose into view. Darcy sighed. “Finally.”

  Empty picnic tables surrounded the small roadside diner. Aside from a chubby brunette at the takeout window and a bearded man working the grill, the place appeared deserted. A country barbecue shack, miles from civilization.

  Samson ordered a pulled pork sandwich and sweet tea. Darcy ordered the same, swatting him back when he reached for the wad of cash he’d received from Big Bud’s generous staff. She made a mental note to suggest he let her stash the envelope in her purse for safekeeping once they returned to the car. It was doubtful Samson had ever possessed so much cash before.

  They found a seat in the shade. Samson dug in. He made short work of his sandwich.

  “Want another?” Darcy placed a ten-dollar bill next to his untouched napkin. “My treat.”

  “I already told you. I’m not indignant.”

  “You mean indigent.” She smiled. “No one implied you’re a charity case, pal. You are just out of high school. There’s no shame in letting me spring for lunch.”

  “There’s no pride in it either.” When she pointedly stared at the napkin, he snatched it up to wipe away the barbecue sauce rimming his mouth. Lowering his elbows to the picnic table, he leaned forward. “Why don’t you let me wake up properly before you get ugly?”

  “You love when I get ugly,” she teased.

  “Not right now, I don’t.” Samson balled up the napkin. Playfully, he tossed it at her head. “For your information, I’m all grown up—just like you. We’re traveling partners, that’s all. I don’t need you mothering me every minute of the day.”

  With that, he sauntered off to order more food.

  The mouthing-off was impressive, like something she would’ve done at the same age. Darcy watched him go, her emotions lifting. Who knew what potential lurked beneath Samson’s agreeable nature? An unforeseen element, something strong and worth cultivating. Once they settled in, she resolved to check out the universities in the Cape May area. Lots of adults earned a degree through night courses. It was worth lobbying Samson to consider the idea.

  By the time he returned, Darcy’s appetite was flaring back to life. Licking her lips, she pressed the plastic knife through the middle of the sandwich’s doughy bun. The idea of her unexpected traveling buddy carving out a future of more than odd jobs and handouts from well-meaning coworkers made her giddy—and ravenous.

  Samson slid onto the bench opposite. He nodded at the two perfectly equal halves she’d made. “Why do you do that?” He unwrapped his sandwich.

  Darcy took a tentative bite of the half she’d reserved for herself. “It’s not important.”

  “It’s a weird habit. Before we ran off from Big Bud’s, you always left half your sandwich growing stiff by your keyboard. Weirdest thing I’d ever seen. Tell me why you do it.”

  Stalling, she picked up her sweet tea and took her time sipping. “We didn’t ‘run off’ from Big Bud’s,” she said, returning the beverage to the table. Under no circumstances would she reveal the meaning behind a private, and very painful, ritual. “I gave three weeks’ notice, remember? You insisted Bud and Irma didn’t mind if you quit on the spot.”

  “They didn’t care. They want me to find my North Star.”

  “Let me eat in peace.”

  “What’s wrong with discussing my star while we eat?”

  “We’ll chat about your star later on. We still have a long drive ahead of us.”

  “Why are you grumpy all of a sudden?”

  “I’m not grumpy.”

  “You are. And you’re looking for ways not to explain why you waste food.”

  Reaching across the table, he poked the untouched half. She swatted his hand away. Then she sighed.

  “Fine,” she relented, fearful he’d wheedle the truth from her. “Let’s discuss your special star. How does hitching a ride to New Jersey get you any closer?”

  “You’re really interested?”

  “My day won’t be complete until you tell me.”

  “I hate when you get sassy.” He bit into his sandwich, a gooey mess of pork and melted cheddar. Chewing thoughtfully, he added, “My North Star sits near yours in a pretty patch of the universe.” He bounced a thumb skyward. Clouds scudded across the bright dome of blue. “Those stars are real friendly with each other. They might be best friends.”

  “Just like us?”

  He grinned. “Now you’re catching on.”

  There was no sense pointing out that stars didn’t have emotions, or the fact that there was only one North Star. “Change of plan,” Darcy said. “Hold off on your silliness until we reach New Jersey. My stomach has been twitchy since daybreak. I don’t need indigestion before we get back on the road.”

  Samson harrumphed with mild disapproval. “Go on, now,” he chided, grabbing up his iced tea with a flourish. “Get defensive. I can tell when I’m poking a bear with a stick. You’re laying on the insults because you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “My ritual?” she snapped. She crossed her arms. “No, Samson—I don’t. Can we please talk about anything else? Mystical journeys? Or mean dogs? I’m too queasy for another discussion of female aggression but, hey, if you don’t have a better topic, I’m in.”

  The outburst put a slow smile on his face. In record time, he wolfed down the remainder of his meal.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said when he finished. “Wasting food is a ritual? You could’ve just clued me in. If you’ve got some weird beliefs, who am I to judge?” His expression veered from curiosity to mirth. “One question. Will I insult your religious beliefs if I eat the sacred offering?”

  The suggestion put horror in her gut. A fleeting inconvenience, because anger chased it away. The habit was nearly sacred. It provided a means to remember Elizabeth, a reminder of all the food she’d gladly shared with her little sister. All through childhood, and even into high school, they’d shared sandwiches and summer pears and the crisp apples they’d both loved, all of which Darcy had painstakingly cut into perfect halves.

  She pushed the uneaten half toward him, aware he didn’t understand the odd form of grieving. “If you’re still hungry, don’t let me stop you. Enjoy.” She rose in a fine fury. “I’m going to the restroom. If you need anything else, there’s money in my purse. Get whatever you want.”

  The restroom possessed all the typical charm of a roadside stop. The scent of mold hung thick in the air. Graffiti marred every surface. Thankfully the main door had a proper lock, because the door on the stall was MIA. Ripped from its hinges, it leaned against the wall by the leaky sink.

  Darcy put stock in cleanliness, and a pampered childhood had left her a wee bit phobic about germs. This didn’t stop her from hiding in the restroom for long minutes, splashing water on her face and staring at her reflection in the grimy mirror. Distracte
d, she combed her fingers through her tangled hair.

  Why do I continually snap at Samson? He’s a good kid. I did agree to take him along to New Jersey.

  Today marked her sister’s and father’s deaths—an event Samson knew nothing about. Granted, she usually experienced whipsaw moods on the anniversary. Lots of tears, and a bone-deep feeling of exhaustion.

  Which is my problem, not his.

  Determined to keep her emotions in check, she trudged back toward the picnic table. Several paces off, she froze.

  Samson was chatting with great animation, the phone pressed close to his ear.

  Her phone.

  His phone was out too. He was scrolling through Google maps, sliding the image northward, peering at highways and state lines while sharing the information with the person on the other end.

  Darcy neared, slack-jawed. He waved.

  “It’s Latrice calling,” he announced. Then his eyes darkened with a mild rebuke. “Darcy, I can’t decide if you take more stupid pills or ugly ones. The secrets you keep! Poking fun at my beliefs, and pretending our stars don’t align. Why didn’t you tell me your second mama is black?”

  Chapter 4

  Ornella Varano tugged on her rubber boots. She went out the mudroom door.

  For a woman in her early fifties, Nella looked much younger. Only a few strands of silver glinted in the dark-brown hair fanning across her shoulders. She was still trim and energetic, and she strode around the side of her large stone-and-glass home at a brisk pace. The warm June air carried the scent of tomatoes ripening in the vegetable garden abutting the slate walkway. Beyond the rectangular patio with its abundance of clay pots brimming with summer flowers, the acre of mown grass smelled bright and green.

  Grass crunched underfoot as Nella strode in the general direction of the forest. The trees rustled, as if in greeting. Shielding her eyes, she scanned the long sweep of lawn for her adult son and his scruffy rescue mutt. Birdsong drifted across the empty expanse of grass.

  It seemed likely Michael was back down by the river, helping the police. At last count, six officers from the Hunting Valley and Chagrin Falls police departments were scouring the deep woods and a good mile of riverbank. Since Emerson’s disappearance yesterday, officers from five jurisdictions had been taking turns working shifts in search of the boy.

  Emerson was still missing.

  In the past, when Latrice secretly called from the Goodridge estate next door, worried because Emerson was gone again, finding the boy had proved easy. The housekeeper—unlike her stern employer—understood why the normally obedient child went to great pains to slip out undetected.

  The fatherless boy had discovered a father figure next door.

  For Nella, the blossoming relationship between her son and Rosalind’s grandchild was a source of joy—and trepidation.

  Judge Rosalind Goodridge despised Nella, for long-festering reasons. If Rosalind learned her grandson had befriended Nella’s adult son, she’d put an end to it. Such an outcome would crush Emerson.

  Nella feared it would crush Michael as well.

  Turning away from the forest, she tamped down the nervous tension cramping her muscles. Only last year, Michael had moved back into his childhood home. Scarred by a short, unhappy marriage and a recent divorce, he’d left behind Chicago’s fast pace and a successful career in banking. In a pursuit of a simpler life, he now built cabinetry for upscale homeowners in Geauga County with rare, sustainably harvested woods. Until his return, Nella, long widowed and sharing the rambling mansion with her aging mother, Tippi, barely noticed how much she’d missed having a man around the house. She’d always been close to her only child, but now Michael—mature, even-tempered, and every bit the responsible adult—had become more like a trusted friend.

  Soon after Michael had returned to Ohio, Rosalind’s grandson began crossing the hilly terrain separating the two properties. Nearly twenty years of betrayal simmered between the Goodridges and the Varanos. Emerson traipsed across the dividing line as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Unannounced, without an invitation—a lonely boy drawn by the sharp whir of power saws and the clatter of men on the barn roof as Michael redesigned the space for his new business. The rapport between the boy suffocating in a privileged life and the man determined to get past his personal heartache was instantaneous.

  Since then, Nella had become ridiculously attached to Rosalind’s grandson. The mannerly boy with the wheat-colored hair took over a space in her heart not yet occupied by grandchildren. He loved fireflies, her homemade lasagna, and helping her elderly mother, Tippi, pluck handfuls of basil and ripe tomatoes from the garden. Emerson peppered the patient Michael with a flurry of questions. When Nella had first lured the child into the kitchen to fill his bottomless stomach with spaghetti and Italian pastries, he’d informed her in his soft, polite voice that she was too young to have a grown-up son. In his bolder moments, he enjoyed showing off for Michael by mimicking birdcalls whenever they explored the woods together.

  Sometimes, when Michael trudged into the house after a long workday, covered in sawdust, he’d share amusing bits of their conversations. Michael, Nella, even Tippi—all three of the adults in the Varano household were smitten with the child.

  Still, Rosalind’s animosity for her next-door neighbor was long established. Nella’s thirty-one-year-old son knew nothing of the reasons—but he knew enough to persuade his young admirer to return home quickly.

  Most of the time.

  There were days when Emerson seemed especially troubled. Boys picked on him at school, and his grandmother’s sharp tongue wasn’t easy to bear. If Michael sensed the child’s distress, he gathered up hot dogs, buns, and marshmallows from the kitchen. Then he led his young charge to the far edge of the lawn to build a campfire and talk while the hot dogs sizzled over the leaping flames.

  Yesterday, Emerson had broken his usual habit. He’d marched off into the forest without stopping by first.

  Worry crept into Nella’s blood.

  Is Emerson lying injured in the forest? Unable to call for help?

  She wove her fingers into a tight knot until her knuckles sang out with pain. Nightfall was only a few hours off. The child might spend a second night outdoors.

  Jasper’s excited barking cut through the air. On a property ten acres in size, it took a moment to zero in on the dog’s whereabouts. When she did, Nella veered away from the forest. At a jog, she went across the south lawn, toward the barn.

  Before her husband died, they’d joked about owning a horse farm with no horses. The previous owner had built a big red barn, complete with a riding arena. When they tore down the original farmhouse to build the spacious, stone-and-glass palace they’d hoped to fill with children, Nella had insisted on keeping the barn.

  The decision was purely sentimental. She liked the idea of owning a modern house on a country property, complete with a rustic barn. Now Michael, his carpentry business thriving, was putting the barn to good use.

  More barking rolled across the property. Following the sound, Nella strode into the riding arena. In the far corner, the rescue mutt dug frantically in the soft dirt.

  “Old fool, you’ll never catch a possum.” She stroked the dog’s brindled coat. He stopped digging to give her a look of patient incomprehension. “Where’s your master?”

  Straightening, she called out for her son.

  Michael’s sharp whistle resounded through the riding arena.

  A second, smaller barn hugged the back wall of the arena. Flecks of dust floated through the dim, slatted light. A scent reminiscent of mushrooms wafted up from the earthen floor. Nella strode past the four stalls, each brimming with supplies for her son’s carpentry business.

  Angling her neck, she peered up the wooden ladder nailed to the outer wall. “Michael, are you up there?”

  “Thought I’d check one more time.”

  “Find anything?” She climbed the ladder to join him.

 
Once a storage area for hay, the loft was now a cozy nook for her favorite child. Board games from Michael’s long-ago childhood were stacked in the corner. Adventure books were strewn about. Lately, Michael had been purchasing new books at the bookstore in Chagrin Falls as fast as Emerson devoured them.

  The loft’s ceiling angled sharply. Michael, over six feet in height, prowled the perimeter, taking care not to bang his head on the rafters.

  He held up the shiny wrapper from a granola bar. “I found this.”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t here already?”

  “Positive. I scoured the loft first thing this morning.”

  Hope sent a dizzying wave through Nella. “If Emerson stopped by earlier, he made it through the night without harm.”

  “Why do you doubt the kid’s ability to make it through the night?” The loft’s dim light shimmered through Michael’s halo of dark curls as he scooped up a blanket. Finding nothing underneath, he tossed it aside. “He’s fine. I’ve taught him how to stay safe when he’s camping.”

  “Meaning you condone his unauthorized camping trips?”

  “Meaning boys will be boys. Besides, I’ve given him lots of pointers. He knows how to stay out of harm’s way.”

  The fatherly pride in his voice squeezed Nella’s heart. Shame followed—the sort of deep, black shame reserved for a woman whose actions had unwittingly harmed her adult son.

  It seemed yet more punishment for the sins of the past. Nella bore the blame for Michael’s childhood friendship with Darcy ending when she was in sixth grade and he was in seventh. When they had met again, right before Darcy finished college, circumstances forced them to keep their relationship a secret.

  Now Michael’s growing relationship with Emerson was at risk. If not for Nella’s blind choices so many years ago, the boy’s affection for Michael would have been welcome, rewarded. Their special chemistry would have been celebrated, even by Rosalind.

  Out of habit, Nella returned her regret to a hollow chamber of her heart. “There are countless dangers in the forest,” she said, focusing on the present. “It’s one thing for Emerson to spend a single night outdoors. Granted, he’s smarter than most children. But he’s been gone for too long now.”