The Road She Left Behind

by Nolfi, Christine

  “Stop worrying.” Michael picked up a throw pillow, tossed it onto a folding chair by the wall. “I don’t agree with him taking off without Rosalind’s permission, but he’s not stupid. Emerson isn’t hurt. He’s hiding.”

  The comment pricked Nella with irritation. “Okay, Mr. Psychic. Why is he hiding?”

  “Not sure, exactly. Something’s bugging him.”

  “Are you forgetting the anniversary? That’s what is bugging him.”

  Her son waved off the assessment. “The anniversary isn’t the reason Emerson took off. There’s something heavy on his mind.”

  The onset of summer vacation turned most children into carefree imps. Nella recalled how Michael, during his own childhood, had found more time for mischief than reasonable. If heavy thoughts plagued Emerson during the perfect month of June, it seemed unfair.

  “What’s bothering him?” she asked.

  “Lately I get the sense he’s worried about losing Rosalind.”

  “He is more familiar with death than most children,” she agreed. “He’s grown up knowing his mother died when he was just a baby. His grandfather too. It’s a lot for any child to handle. At eight, most kids believe they’ll live forever. They assume the same goes for everyone they love.”

  “Emerson isn’t like most children. He worries about lots of things.”

  On the night of the accident, Emerson had been an infant—unaware of the brutal change sweeping into his world. Nella wondered if the deaths affected him in subtle ways. Even so, there seemed no logical reason for the boy to worry about losing his grandmother too.

  “Rosalind is only sixty-seven,” she pointed out. “She takes good care of herself. I’m sure she’s in perfect health.”

  “You don’t need to convince me. Reassure Emerson once we find him.” Michael crumpled up the granola wrapper and shoved it into a pocket in his jeans. “Last week, he asked me the average expiration date for old people.”

  “Expiration date? Like on a carton of milk?” Emerson loved milk, preferably with chocolate syrup. Since his arrival in their lives, Nella had been buying gallon jugs. Most weeks, she would also toss chocolate syrup into her grocery cart.

  “I have the sense he’s concerned that Rosalind is curdling. Maybe he overheard her talking to Latrice about a medical issue and got confused. The kid is determined to learn every word in the dictionary. There’s still some language above his pay grade, though.”

  Talk of expiration dates and Emerson’s insatiable curiosity kindled her worry. “What if he’s fallen out of a tree? Or been bitten by a snake? What if he wants to come home, but can’t?”

  Nella wasn’t aware she’d begun rubbing her hands in a fit of anxiety until Michael grabbed them to make her stop.

  “Mom, this isn’t his home.” He eased her hands apart. A grin teased his lips. He did his best to extinguish it. “Emerson isn’t hurt. The kid has more agility than a monkey, plus the brains to avoid snakes. He also has a first aid kit. A nice, portable kit with all the trimmings. I bought it for him.”

  Given Emerson’s penchant for traipsing off into the forest, she wondered why she hadn’t thought to buy him one. Count on Michael to think of it.

  “What if he remembered to pack dental floss, but forgot the first aid supplies?” His fixation on good dental hygiene mattered not a whit if he was lying somewhere, bleeding.

  “I’m sure he remembered to pack the kit. He doesn’t like blood any more than he likes visits to the dentist.”

  “Is this more information from your crystal ball?”

  Michael leaned in for emphasis. “I know how Emerson thinks,” he said. Protective lights glinted in his midnight-blue eyes. The evolution of their mother-son relationship made her grateful for his reassurance when he added, “You’re forgetting his big-time obsession with preparing well. I’m sure he mapped out this foray into the woods for a week straight before taking off. He’s also smart enough to dodge the police. He’s probably found a fishing hole off the beaten path.”

  “Your confidence in his abilities is heartening. But he is just a child. One who’s been on his own for over twenty-four hours.”

  The mild scolding started her son grinning. “You and Tippi both need to relax,” he said of his grandmother. He glanced in the general direction of the house. “Is she still holed up in her bedroom?”

  “Like a molting crow. She’s moping.”

  “Face it, Mom. It doesn’t take much to upset Tippi. If the Cleveland Indians or her poker games go on a losing streak, she hides out in her nest.”

  “True, but she loves Emerson. She’s very upset.”

  At eighty-five, the once-beautiful Tippi had lost several inches in height. Thanks to arthritis, her back curved like a bent sapling. This disagreeable result of the aging process didn’t amuse her. In an indirect way, it did please Emerson—he was catching up with her on height. Tippi remained inordinately proud of her long hair, which was now the color of ash. She seemed unaware of the bald patches sprouting across her scalp like tiny wildfires. Add in Tippi’s penchant for black clothing, and she did resemble a crow—one molting feverishly by the day.

  At least she’d come down for breakfast this morning, sparing Nella worry about her general well-being. While slurping oatmeal in a churlish silence, she fended off Nella’s stabs at conversation. Then she shuffled back across the kitchen floor, scowling, her black knit shawl clenched across her bosom. With all the activity surrounding the search, her decision to spend the day in her suite wasn’t exactly a bad thing.

  By now, she was invariably lighting candles before her statue of Mother Mary. Or burning through the rosary in a vigil of prayer. She’d come to live with Nella shortly before Michael returned home last year. After nearly a lifetime in Cleveland’s Little Italy, Tippi now used Uber to take her to church in Chagrin Falls. When she wasn’t regaling Emerson with stories about the dance hall she’d once owned in Little Italy, she collected friends at church socials and the book club hosted by the assisted living facility in Chagrin Falls. Most weeks, Tippi hosted poker games for the geriatric crowd in Nella’s family room.

  But Tippi was no saint. A killer at Texas Hold’em, she never donated her winnings to the church.

  Nella asked her son, “Best guess . . . when did Emerson stop into the loft?”

  “Around noon. When I came back at eleven o’clock, nothing was out of place. Emerson was probably on the lookout. He must have waited until I’d left the barn before sneaking up here.”

  Michael combed long fingers through his dark-brown hair. Between the unkempt curls scattered across his brow and the heavy five-o’clock shadow, he looked exhausted. Given his determination to find Emerson, she doubted he’d found time for a quick shower today.

  He said, “After I checked the barn, I went down to help with the search on the riverbank. I also walked through a section of the forest north of the river. Emerson’s never been there, but it seemed wise to look anyway. I’ve lost track of how many miles I’ve walked.”

  “We should tell the police we’ve found something.”

  “Already done. I called the Hunting Valley PD right after I found the granola wrapper.” Michael picked up a book and placed it carefully by the board games. He slid her a sidelong glance. “They’ll tell Rosalind her grandson has been hanging out in our barn. Once they do, our little secret is out.”

  Nella shut her eyes tightly. “Rosalind won’t take it well.” She opened them, more distressed than before. “She’ll be livid once she learns how long the visits have been going on. She’ll wring the facts from Latrice.”

  “I’ll go over, explain in person.” Michael rocked back on his heels, a man uncomfortable with the mysterious war between his mother and the dignified judge. “In retrospect, I should’ve talked to Rosalind last year when Emerson began stopping by. The kid would’ve been upset, but it would have been the responsible thing to do.”

  “No, Michael.” The prospect of Rosalind taking her wrath out on him made Nella
queasy. “There’s no reason to put you in the middle of this. I’ll talk to her.”

  “You’re going over?”

  The incredulity on his face pricked Nella with embarrassment. “No, you’re right. If I do, she’ll slam the door in my face. I’ll be reduced to shouting on her front porch.” Frustrated, she started across the loft. “Maybe it’s best if we let the police tell her.”

  Her son’s eyes twinkled. “Gutless . . . ,” he murmured.

  He followed her down the ladder. Jasper greeted them with his tongue lolling and his tail thumping.

  Ruffling the dog’s ears, Michael eyed her appraisingly. “When Dad was alive, you were best friends with the Goodridges. I remember lots of times you got together with them when I was in grade school. Why did everything go south between the happy foursome? You’ve never laid out the real facts.”

  A good question, and one she never planned to answer. The errors Nella made during her son’s childhood were too awful to share. Too shameful. Reveal the truth now, and she risked damaging their relationship. The possibility of losing Michael’s admiration—even his love—sent fear rolling through her. He was her only child, the bright star she revolved around. She’d never manage the fallout if he learned the truth.

  Stepping past, she walked through the riding arena. “Why dredge this up now?” Her voice sounded high and false, even to her own ears. She paused in a long band of light cutting through the barn. “I haven’t been on civil terms with Rosalind since you were in braces. After so much time, her animosity is best categorized as ancient history.”

  Emotion darted through Michael’s gaze. Not censure. More than anything else, he seemed injured by her inability to level with him.

  His reaction illustrated yet another way she’d failed him. The trust he so freely offered was never fully returned.

  The distressing observation made her reflect on Darcy as she’d once been, before trauma scraped off her innocence. Browned by the August sun, dashing into the forest like nature’s original child. Always laughing, inquisitive, and bright—like Emerson was today. Darcy, bounding from the forest with an empty bird’s nest or handfuls of colorful leaves or a lime-green salamander cradled between careful palms. Her sweet, little girl’s voice calling out. An irresistible lure for the bashful Michael, a boy chafing beneath a childhood stutter, long-limbed and unaware of the dark beauty he possessed. During those idyllic days, he hadn’t understood how his striking looks would soon captivate girls and, later, women. Yet he’d never held on to the one girl with a natural claim to his heart.

  Dismissing the memory, Nella strode from the barn. Her belly souring with regret, she inhaled the fresh summer air.

  “I have to start dinner.” Faking a casual expression, she glanced at her son. “How do you feel about clam linguine? It’s that or frozen burgers. With all the activity surrounding Emerson’s disappearance, I forgot to stop by the grocery store.”

  “Clam linguine sounds great.”

  “I hope I can blast your grandmother out of her suite. Tippi needs to eat something. There’s no reason she can’t pray for Emerson’s safe return over a bowl of pasta.”

  “Don’t push Tippi. She’ll come down when she’s ready.” Michael paused midway across the grass, his attention straying to the forest.

  “Aren’t you coming? You must be starving.”

  “Later.” He started off. “If Emerson stopped by earlier, he might still be nearby.”

  Chapter 5

  Shadows painted the winding driveway into the Goodridge estate.

  Halfway up the wide band of concrete, Darcy brought the Honda Accord to a stop. In the semidarkness, the grand brick house with its wide circular driveway seemed to float behind a curtain of heavy dawn mist. Switching off the car’s headlights, she listened to her skittering pulse. Birdsong drifted out from the stand of maple trees lining the drive. A hint of pinkish daylight brushed the treetops.

  On the back seat, Samson remained asleep. Yesterday, he’d bonded with Latrice during the call at the roadside diner in North Carolina. Two against one—Darcy knew she didn’t stand a chance. With the housekeeper egging him on, Samson convinced Darcy to decline the job in Cape May on embarrassingly short notice.

  Once they reached the Ohio border, she caught a few hours of sleep at a rest stop. Then she drove the rest of the way north accompanied by a gently snoring teenager—and a bad case of nerves.

  In the Honda’s cup holder, pearls of condensation raced down the bottled water. Snatching it up, she took a quick swig. Then she sent the text. Latrice pinged back.

  Five minutes later, a silhouette waded through the gloom.

  Darcy leaned toward the windshield for a better view. Rarely did Latrice spend the night at the mansion, and her sleepwear came as a surprise. A shimmery robe of fire-engine red encased the housekeeper’s generous curves. The gown underneath was equally sexy, a turquoise number with abundant lace. Latrice finished off the ensemble with leather boots. The boots were grungy, speckled with mud.

  “I forgot to pack my slippers,” she said, catching Darcy’s expression. Sliding onto the passenger seat, she glanced at the sleeping youth in back. “Mind explaining why you’re driving a chatty teenager around? He seemed awfully nice when we talked, but I still don’t have a clear understanding. I got the impression he views you as a mother figure.”

  “Latrice, I’m thirty—nowhere near old enough to be Samson’s mother. He’s eighteen.”

  “He mentioned his age during our last conversation, when you were driving through West Virginia.” Latrice studied his sleeping form. “He’s small for an eighteen-year-old. Doesn’t look much older than Emerson.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t point it out when he wakes up. He’s sensitive about that. I’m planning to keep encouraging him to drink milk. Who knows? There may still be time for him to gain another inch or two in height.”

  “Where’s his family?”

  “He doesn’t have one.” Darcy gave her a quick rundown of Samson’s childhood in foster care and how she’d met him on the job in Charleston.

  After the summary, Latrice said, “A boy his age is too young to be on his own. Teenagers walk around with skulls emptier than a hollow gourd and enough smarts to fill a thimble. Why, you didn’t start growing brains until you left for college. I can’t say the same for your younger sister. All she got from higher education was a baby she was too young to raise.” Latrice rolled her eyes. “For a woman who never married, I’ve sure raised my share of children.”

  “I’m glad I was the first.”

  “The first and the most difficult. Did you know you bit your mother about ten seconds after your first tooth popped through?”

  The story was unfamiliar. “Are you serious?”

  “Rosalind was furious. You took a nip out of her finger, and that was it. She handed you right back to me. Let’s not go into your toddler years—talk about a child with a mind of her own. I could get you to listen—most of the time. If Rosalind used her high-and-mighty tone, no became your favorite word.” Dropping the subject, she gave Darcy an appreciative pat on the arm. “It’s kind of you to look out for Samson, especially since he’s got no family.”

  “If I’d known he’d help you gang up on me, I might not have agreed to let him tag along. What am I doing in Ohio? I should be in New Jersey, hunting for a new apartment.”

  “Forget about New Jersey. Plan on a nice, long stay. There’s no better time to visit northeast Ohio than the month of June. Once Emerson turns up, he’ll want to spend lots of time with you.”

  Apprehension shuttled through Darcy. Eight years ago, she’d broken a sacred promise to Elizabeth. She hadn’t watched out for Emerson—she’d lit out of Ohio at the first sign of trouble. If Elizabeth’s son greeted her with contempt, she couldn’t blame him.

  She dismissed the worrisome possibility as Latrice nodded toward the back seat. “Are you planning to wake him up?” she asked.

  Wishing for a toothbrush, Darcy ran her tong
ue across her teeth. A toothbrush and a hot bath. With bubbles. She was also famished.

  Reaching into the back seat, she pulled the blanket up to Samson’s ears. “It’s still early. Let him sleep.” He snuggled in. “Besides, he’s innocent to the ways of the world. If my mother goes on a murderous rampage, it’s best if Samson doesn’t watch.”

  Latrice landed her suddenly stern regard on Darcy. “How you carry on. As if Rosalind would do murder.” One brown, one gray, her eyes sat within a starburst of wrinkles. Latrice called them her David Bowie eyes.

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  “No pessimism. You’re here now. You might as well stay positive.” Latrice peered at the mansion. “What’s the plan?”

  The question took Darcy off guard. “I thought you had a plan.”

  “You did?” Her accomplice pulled the sexy robe tighter across her bosom. “Give me a minute. I’ll come up with one.”

  “Latrice, you’re unbelievable. I’ve had less than three hours’ sleep. I’ve been driving since yesterday. I’d give anything for a decent meal and a long nap. You, on the other hand, had ample time to work out a strategy.”

  “Take a deep breath, child. You’re hyperventilating.”

  “I’m not.” Darcy gave her a mulish look. “I’m angry because we’re flying blind. Here I am, working with a coconspirator who doesn’t know how to uphold her end of the deal.”

  “Stop complaining and take a deep breath.”

  A wheeze emerged from Darcy’s mouth. She was hyperventilating.

  “Breathe,” Latrice instructed. Leaning in, she plucked at Darcy’s T-shirt. “When did you get so thin? I didn’t raise you to turn into a scarecrow.” She poked at Darcy’s ribs, drawing a gasp. Then a smile broke across her ebony features. “It is good to see you. Now stop complaining and give me a hug.”

  Further prodding wasn’t necessary. Despite the Honda’s tight confines, Darcy managed to wrap her arms around the housekeeper. A well-worn habit took hold, and she lowered her head to Latrice’s shoulder. The familiar scent of rosewater soothed her frazzled nerves.