The Whispered Word

by Ellery Adams

  “I should be the one apologizing,” she said to Nora. “I didn’t even know what was going on with me until June put it into words. I mean, I think about my baby all the time. Even when I try not to. By this point, she’s already lived her whole life without me. Why turn her world upside down? It seems selfish. But ever since my daughter was taken away, there’s been a giant hole inside me. I think I’ve been mothering Abilene to try to fill the hole.”

  The other members of the Secret, Book, and Scone Society understood exactly what Hester meant. A traumatizing experience could do more than cause a scar. It could create a deep and permanent pit in one’s soul. The passage of time couldn’t fill such an abyss. Only love could.

  Friendship was a powerful kind of love. It’s what Nora wanted to offer to these women. The kind of friendship that never faded. The kind that weathered the hard times and highlighted the good times.

  She was about to voice this feeling, but when she searched for the right words, they evaded her, flitting away like moths after the porch lights have gone dark.

  “I don’t know Abilene,” Hester said. “She doesn’t want me to get close. It hurts to admit that, but there it is. All I can tell you is that she’s an incredible baker.”

  “And she can evaluate jewelry and clocks,” Nora said. “She’s also very well-read.”

  Estella gestured toward the front of the store. “And artistic. Don’t forget about the window display she created.”

  June touched Nora’s laptop. “She’s baffled by technology, is afraid to trust people, and she won’t let her guard down. But what is she on guard against?”

  “Or whom.” Nora opened her laptop and showed her friends Amanda Frye’s former house. Next, she showed them the blurred image of the neighbor’s house. “The owner of the fuzzy house is a man named Ezekiel Crane,” Nora explained. “He runs a small business in downtown Lubbock.”

  Estella leaned forward to get a closer look. “Let me guess. He owns an antique store.”

  “Close,” Nora said, shooting her an admiring glance. “A clock and watch store. He sells and repairs old timepieces. His shop is called Master Humphrey’s.”

  June grunted in disapproval. “I bet all the black folks in Lubbock love a store with master in the name.”

  “It’s actually a literary reference, though I doubt many people realize that. I didn’t. I had to look it up,” Nora said. “Charles Dickens wrote a weekly serial called Master Humphrey’s Clock. Master Humphrey was lonely, so he started a club for aspiring writers in order to have companions. Humphrey kept his manuscript inside a clock.”

  Hester stared at Nora. “Maybe Abilene knew the store owner. This Ezekiel Crane guy. Maybe he’s the one who taught her so much about literature, appraising antique watches, and . . .” She trailed off.

  “Cooking?” June finished for her. “Maybe. Maybe he’s also the person she’s afraid of. There’s something sketchy about his blurry house.”

  Nora was relieved that her friends were willing to bat around theories about Ezekiel. “Crane doesn’t seem fond of technology either. He doesn’t have a website or an email address for his business. Only a landline. No one else was listed as a resident of the blurred house other than Ezekiel Crane. However, I did find a different real estate site showing a street view of his house. Look.”

  Her friends crowded around the laptop, taking in the image on the screen. They studied the massive trees on the front lawn, the overgrown bushes partially obscuring the windows, the drawn blinds, and the high privacy fence enclosing the side-and backyards.

  “I bet there’s no welcome mat on that stoop,” June said.

  Estella grimaced. “It wouldn’t help. I didn’t know it was possible for a ranch house in Texas to look haunted, but this one does. Talk about your lack of curb appeal. The bricks are stained with mold, the landscaping is overgrown, and those blinds!” She turned to Nora. “Any interior shots?”

  “No,” said Nora. “Just data about the house, like the year it was built and that it’s still occupied by the original owner. It’s also the only house on the street with a basement.”

  A heavy, contemplative silence fell among the women.

  Watching her friends, Nora believed they were arriving at the same disturbing conclusion she’d already drawn. They were thinking about the basement, of Abilene’s pallor and thinness. And her hospital bracelet. They were asking themselves if the young woman living in the tiny studio apartment above Virtual Genie had once been imprisoned by the man who used to live next door to Amanda Frye.

  “Does Ezekiel Crane have a criminal record?” Hester asked.

  “I’d have to pay for a background check to learn that,” Nora said. “Unless we could convince a certain deputy to check for us.”

  Hester shook her head. “He’ll want to know why, and we can’t go there yet.” She looked at Nora. “We need to talk to Abilene first.”

  Though this was the result Nora had been hoping for, she didn’t feel the slightest bit triumphant. She was still concerned about Hester and had no idea how to offer her comfort. She’d never been a big hugger. After her accident, she avoided physical contact more than before. Unless that contact came from Jed.

  “I’m going to bring her here,” Hester said, slowly getting to her feet. “Tomorrow night. Does that work for everyone?”

  Nora and June nodded, but Estella asked, “Why not now?”

  “Because there’s something I need to do first. I need to make Abilene a comfort scone.”

  June’s eyes widened. “You have a feeling?”

  “I knew what I’d make her the night we met,” Hester said softly. “I just haven’t gone through with it because I think the scone is going to hurt her.” Hester spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “You know that my scones don’t always carry people back to a pleasant memory. Sometimes, the scents and tastes conjure things my customers would rather forget. I try to put positive energy and hope into all my comfort scones, but it’s not a science.”

  “That’s because it’s magic. Culinary magic.” June smiled at Hester. “You’re a beautiful person, Hester Winthrop, and there’s beauty in every crumb of food you make. If one of your scones turns sour in somebody’s mouth, it’s because that person’s darkness is bigger than your brightness. That’s on them, not you.”

  Hester returned June’s smile, but she couldn’t hold on to it and it changed into a grimace. “If Abilene was involved in Amanda’s death, we’ll know. We’ll know the moment she bites into her comfort scone. If she did something bad, the darkness inside her is going to come out. Here, where we don’t hide things from each other.”

  Estella stood up and put her hands on her hips. “We’re the Night Angels, remember? We own the dark!”

  The members of the Secret, Book, and Scone Society broke into laughter. The high, bubbly sounds floated up and outward, eventually roosting in the nooks and crevices in the bookshelves.

  Even after the other women left, Nora could still sense it. Not just the laughter, but the connection between the four of them. It moved through her like a cup of hot, honeyed tea on a cold day.

  She walked around her beloved bookstore, preparing to turn off overhead lights and reading lamps when she was suddenly overcome with gratitude. This place was hers. This wonderful, enchanting, book-filled haven. As was her tiny house. Her perfectly sized parcel of coziness. And now, so unexpectedly, she had these incredible friends. Three strong, smart, scarred women who accepted her exactly as she was.

  She turned off every light but one, and the shop was hushed and dark. It was a comfortable darkness, for Nora could feel the presence of the books. In the company of a thousand stories, of a thousand voices, she felt at peace.

  Nora carried that feeling home where, for the first time in a long time, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  The local paper didn’t have much to say about Kenneth Frye’s lethal fall. The sheriff’s department issued a vague “open investigat
ion” statement, and the manager of the Tree House Cabins was questioned, but neither he nor his staff members had much to add. No one had seen Kenneth enter his cabin and they couldn’t say if he’d entertained visitors.

  “I’d have noticed his car if he passed the office. Even at night, you can’t miss that shade of yellow,” the manager told the reporter. “He must have come back on the late side.”

  The manager went on to explain that he stopped manning the front office desk at nine, preferring to be on call from home. Both the office and his residence were in a small cabin built on terra firma, and the living room where the manager spent an hour or two watching television before bed was located at the rear, safely protected from the headlights of approaching cars.

  Nora didn’t expect to learn much from the paper, but she’d hoped for a few kernels of useful information. Hadn’t anyone else seen Kenneth at the festival? He’d been in Miracle Springs long enough for the locals to recognize his massive figure and hostile personality.

  The ladies of the gossip chain will eat this up, Nora thought, staring at the headline.

  She could picture them streaming out of church sanctuaries into fellowship halls to dissect the news over cups of watery coffee and Lorna Doone cookies. The rest of the chatterboxes would be at the festival, gathering around craft stalls to whisper in mock horror over the death of Amanda Frye’s son.

  Though Nora had the day off, she wasn’t interested in church services or festivals. She didn’t want company. Not even Jed’s. He’d texted several times. She’d sent short replies, but she was too preoccupied by Kenneth’s death and the upcoming meeting with Abilene to have a real conversation with him.

  Because it was her day off, Nora could take advantage of the cool morning and hike to her favorite scenic outlook. This one featured a grassy clearing lined by big, flat-topped boulders. If it was a clear day, a lucky hiker could gaze to the west and see three states meeting in the distance. North Carolina, Tennessee, and Virginia came together in a group of blue-smudged mountain peaks. Standing on the lookout, the invisible borders created by man meant nothing. What map lines divided, mountains united. They stood, ancient and silent, offering solace and renewal to anyone willing to climb them.

  On this September morning, a long hike was just what Nora needed. She brought along her current read, Sharon Kay Penman’s The Land Beyond the Sea, and quickly became lost in the story.

  It was almost noon when Nora applied a fresh coat of sunscreen before turning back toward home.

  She’d just started a load of laundry when Nora heard the text message alert on her phone. It was June, inviting her to bathe in the thermal pools.

  “Estella and Hester are coming,” she’d written, as if Nora wouldn’t show up without them.

  Nora called June.

  “Are you coming to relax with us?” June asked.

  “No,” said Nora. “This is my only day to catch up on cleaning, laundry, and grocery shopping.” She hadn’t wanted to admit to June that she had an aversion to hot springs and thermal pools, but she decided it was time to be honest. “Don’t take this personally, but I’ll never want to go in the pools. Soaking in hot water is uncomfortable for me. Have you ever seen someone with burn scars bathing there?”

  June admitted that she hadn’t. “I’m sorry, hon. It’s just such an effective stress reliever, and I thought you could use some before tonight’s meeting.”

  “I appreciate the invitation,” Nora said. And she did. Which is why she felt she owed June further explanation. “When I was in the burn center, my doctors asked if I wanted hydrotherapy. It’s a controversial therapy in the field of burn treatment. Some physicians believe the sulfurinated hot water decreases scarring, redness, and itching. Others see it as detrimental because of the possibility of bacterial infection. I agreed to the treatment because I didn’t care what they did to me.” Nora paused before continuing. She could remember each session as if they’d happened yesterday.

  “What was it like? The hydrotherapy?” June asked.

  “Painful. Really painful,” Nora said quietly. “During the daily sessions, my dressing was changed and my wounds were cleaned. I was given medicine, but there’s no medicine in the world that could block out the pain entirely. Not with my being awake. I longed to sleep, June. Forever. But they wouldn’t let me.”

  “Well, I can see why you aren’t thrilled by the thought of visiting me at work,” June said. “I’ll make you a special pair of socks instead. The right scent might help you to de-stress.”

  Nora thanked her and got back to her chores.

  The thunderstorm predicted by the local news rolled in late that afternoon and settled in for a long visit. Dark clouds blanketed Miracle Springs, releasing sheets of rain, cracks of thunder, and strobe-light flashes of lightning. The storm put a swift end to the outdoor events at the Fruits of Labor Festival, including the fireworks display.

  Nora loved a summer storm, and it seemed fitting that this year’s summer was ending in a downpour. It had been such a tumultuous season for so many locals, and Nora knew she wasn’t the only one looking forward to autumn—to a new season filled with crisp mornings, golden hues, and invigorating air.

  Influenced by the storm, Nora placed pillar candles on the bookshelves surrounding the circle of chairs where she and her friends always met. She didn’t turn on any lamps, preferring to let the soft candlelight dance over the book spines.

  The members of the Secret, Book, and Scone Society poured in through the back door. Water dripped from their jackets and from the hair escaping from under their hoods.

  Abilene, who trailed after Hester, wasn’t wearing a jacket. Her gray sweatshirt was so wet that it had gone from a pale pewter to a dark charcoal.

  Nora hurried to fetch her throw blanket from under the register. She kept one for those chilly winter days when she was alone in the store and wanted to grab a few minutes to get cozy with a good book. The throw blanket was soft and warm. Nora draped it around Abilene’s bony shoulders and wondered what else she could do to make Abilene more comfortable.

  “Thanks,” Abilene said before Hester steered her to a chair.

  June, Estella, and Hester had previously agreed that Hester should present Abilene with her scone right away. To make the gift seem less obvious, she’d also made desserts for her friends. While Nora served decaf coffee or tea, Hester removed the plastic wrap from a small platter and set it on the coffee table. “Maple butter blondies.”

  “Lord, I am so glad that we’re only a few weeks away from busting out our baggy sweaters and jeans,” June said. “With the way I eat around you gals, I’m going to need elastic waist everything.”

  Hester flashed her a wicked smile. “I added white chocolate chips to those blondies and the maple sauce is made of pure maple syrup, butter, sugar, vanilla, and cream cheese.” She then turned to Abilene. “I have something else for you. A custom treat.”

  Abilene stared at the bakery box Hester offered, but didn’t move to take it.

  “It’s a comfort scone,” Hester said. “You’ve seen me bake these at the Gingerbread House.”

  With obvious reluctance, Abilene took the box.

  Estella, sensing that this was a good time to call attention to herself, picked up a maple butter blondie and took a large bite out of it. She chewed. She moaned. She glared at Hester.

  “If I keep eating like this, I’m going to turn into a sweet person. Being sweet is not one of my life goals.”

  “You gals do plenty of complaining about my food, but I never seem to take home any leftovers,” Hester said. She served blondies to June and Nora and waved at Abilene to eat her scone.

  Though Nora and her friends were doing their best to act natural, Abilene’s expression remained guarded. In the face of Hester’s prompting, however, she had little choice but to raise the lid of the bakery box. Almost against her will, she lowered her face closer to the box. The aroma of the scone wafted over her and she immediately closed her eyes.
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  When she opened them again, they were glistening with tears.

  Estella was prattling on about one of her clients to keep the focus off Abilene, but she needn’t have bothered. Abilene appeared to be lost in another time and place. She broke off a piece of scone and absently put it into her mouth.

  An expectant silence swept over the members of the Secret, Book, and Scone Society. No one could speak. They were all hypnotized by the emotions passing over Abilene’s face.

  One emotion came to the forefront, however. Nora recognized it at once.

  It was pain.

  The memory Hester’s scone had coaxed from Abilene wasn’t at all pleasant. Her eyes filled with hurt and her lips quivered.

  “I’m sorry,” Hester said, reaching for Abilene’s hand. “It was supposed to bring you comfort.”

  Ignoring Hester’s hand, Abilene signaled “hold on” with her index finger, and surprisingly, took a second bite.

  A few seconds later, she said, “My mom used to make cookies with chopped dates. This scone made me remember those cookies. And my mom.”

  The women waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. She just sat in her chair, cradling the white box as if it were a baby.

  “Where’s your mama now?” June asked.

  Abilene looked at her. “Dead. My daddy too. I was really little when it happened. They were in Africa. On a church mission trip. I wasn’t with them.”

  “But they’re with you,” June said. Nora would have gone on to ask more questions about Abilene’s upbringing, but June was wiser. “I bet your mama watches you every day. I bet she wishes she could make those cookies for you. What did they taste like?”

  A tear slipped down Abilene’s cheek. “They were sweetened with honey. And there was another flavor . . .”

  “Was it ginger? Because I added that to your scone,” Hester said. “Just a sprinkle.”

  “I think that was it, yes. Those cookies were warm and light and sweet. Just like my mom.” A second tear followed the first as she turned to Hester. “Can you miss someone you barely remember?”