The Rain Sparrow

by Debbie Macomber

  “Intriguing, isn’t it?” a cultured voice asked.

  He straightened to find Julia at the base of the staircase. The blonde innkeeper looked cool and refined even with a load of towels in her arms.

  “Very. To think these items survived more than a hundred and fifty years.” He pointed. “The watch interests me most. I can’t quite make out the engraving.”

  She came up beside him to look in at the memorabilia of former residents’ lives. Peaches, the prevailing scent of the inn, clung to her.

  “The inscription says, ‘Forever and always, I will love you.’ Incredibly romantic, I think.”

  A chill ran through him, as if a ghost had trailed icy fingers up his spine. Last night’s dream flickered behind his eyes.

  He swallowed, stunned. “Thaddeus.”

  Julia cocked her head. “I’m sorry?”

  Hayden shook away the cobwebs of the dream. He didn’t want her to think he was crazy, though he was beginning to wonder if his greatest fear had begun its insidious work, if his mother’s genes had finally come to life and even now ate away at the only thing of value he possessed. “Who owned it? Do you know?”

  She shook her head. “Eli found the watch, along with some of the buttons and coins, buried in the backyard when he was excavating for Michael’s garden. An antique appraiser confirmed it dates back to the 1800s. Perhaps one of the early owners of Peach Orchard Farm lost it there.”

  “Who were they?” With dread as strong as the need to know, he waited, suspecting before she spoke that he would not like her answer.

  “The original owners were the Portland family. We’ve found letters and artifacts from Edgar and his wife, Charlotte, and his sisters, Josie and Patience, along with others. Every time we renovate something, we find more.”

  The hairs stood on the back of Hayden’s neck. Familiar names, but all of them were figments of his imagination. They were dream people.

  Yet, according to Julia, they weren’t.

  He cleared a throat gone powder dry. “Interesting.”

  The telephone jangled, and Julia hurried to answer, leaving him reeling from the news that his dream people were real. And if they were, this watch could very well have belonged to Thaddeus Eriksson.

  But how would a novelist from the mountains of Kentucky know any of that?

  He was pondering the bizarre turn of events when a knock sounded behind him. He turned to see Carrie through the front glass and suffered an overwhelming desire to tell her about the crazy dreams.

  Carrie stepped inside, a frown between her eyebrows. He must have looked as shell-shocked as he felt because she said, “Are you all right?”

  Hayden couldn’t tell her. She’d think he was losing his grip on reality. And he feared she might be right.

  He forced a smile. “Perfect. And yourself?”

  Her face was glum. “Not so perfect.”

  In dark jeans and a fitted yellow shirt, she looked as beautiful as a daffodil in spring.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Brody.”

  He let the dreams go for now. The present was more pressing. He could go crazy later.

  “Did something happen?”

  “I think I messed up.” She blinked at him, all big brown eyes and worry lines.

  He touched her arm. A light touch that only meant empathy, but it shimmied up his sleeve and into his chest, easing him somehow. “Come in and tell me what happened before you chew your bottom lip off.”

  “Oh!” Her hand went to her mouth. Then she laughed a little and lightened his mood. The problem couldn’t be too severe if she could laugh. The kid was okay. He had to be.

  “Want some coffee?” he asked. “I’m a pretty fair barista, and I happen to be friendly with a former professional.”

  “I’d rather have some of Julia’s peach tea if she’s made any.”

  Julia stuck her head into the parlor, her gaze bouncing from Hayden to Carrie. “I thought that was your blue Bug out there. Are you looking for me or Valery?”

  Carrie shook her head and pointed. “Hayden.”

  Julia’s warm hostess smile radiated at both of them. “He told me you’d been introducing him around. Well, help yourself in the kitchen. Fresh tea in the pitcher, and you know where the coffee carafes are.” She started to leave and then popped back in. “Oh, I was going to call you later. What are you doing tomorrow after church?”

  “The usual.” Carrie made a cute face as if Julia knew exactly what she meant.

  “Good. I talked to your sisters. All of us are getting together tomorrow afternoon to pick out flowers and colors and such for the wedding.”

  Carrie’s face lit up. “You’ve set a date?”

  “December 14.”

  Carrie ticked the months off her fingers. “Julia, that’s less than three months!”

  The innkeeper didn’t seem the least rushed. “We’re not getting too elaborate. Already booked the venue.” She looked lovingly around the inn. “Since I own the perfect place for a wedding, that part was easy. So, we have plenty of time for decorations, cake and all the rest.”

  “I’m really happy for you, Julia. Eli’s a great guy.”

  “Isn’t he? You’ll be here, then? To help make plans?”

  “Nikki and Bailey are the mavens of fancy events, flowers and fluff, but I’ll do whatever you want. Happy to take part.”

  “Tomorrow at one.” With a jaunty wave, Julia disappeared again.

  Once they were alone, Hayden pointed toward the parlor. “Sit. I’ll get the drinks.”

  “Let me help. We can talk as we work.” A tiny smile pierced the worry lines around her mouth. “Just like at Starbucks.”

  While he primed the coffeemaker, she relayed the visit to Brody’s house.

  “I realize now that going there with boxed groceries was a mistake. I insulted the man, and I’m afraid I made things worse for Brody.” Taking a glass from the cabinet, she turned to lean on the counter. “His little face was as white as new paper.”

  “Do you think Thomson will hurt him?” Hayden’s whole body tensed. He wanted to drive into Honey Ridge now and squeeze the truth out of Clint Thomson.

  “I don’t know. I did my best to convince him that the boxes of food were my idea alone and that Brody hadn’t told me anything.”

  A knot formed in Hayden’s belly. He put the lid on the French press and set the timer before taking his own spot against the opposite counter to face her.

  “Brody’s talked to me a little.”

  Her eyes grew wider. “What did he say?”

  Hayden held up a hand. “First, let me be clear about what he didn’t say. In fact, he was guarded and careful not to say his father hits him, but he admitted Thomson gets mad and yells a lot. According to Brody, he says mean things, especially when he’s drunk.”

  “How did you get him to tell you that?”

  “I’m a nosy writer. I pry.” And he knew which buttons to push, when to push and when to back off. He knew the way of kids with secrets. “He was showing me around Second Street, and we passed the bar.” He glowered at the coffeemaker, hurrying it up while remembering the hurt on Brody’s face. “Thomson gets drunk every Friday night and stays that way pretty much all weekend.”

  Carrie’s face was stricken. “Oh, Hayden. The night he was on Julia’s porch during the thunderstorm was a Friday.”

  He was tempted to touch her again, to reassure her, though he had no reassurances to offer.

  “Whether Brody is being hit or not, and even if the refrigerator is full, his home life isn’t a good place.”

  “Being drunk in your own house isn’t a crime.”

  It was in his book. Especially when a child was involved. A man with serious mother issues understood the damage emotional
and psychological abuse could do. Any kind of abuse. He’d studied it. He’d lived it. He didn’t go swimming because of it.

  “He agreed to let Brody spend time with you, and he’s already coming and going as he pleases,” he said. “You’ve given Brody a way out of the house safely.”

  “You’re still thinking about what the twins said.”

  “Can’t get it off my mind. No matter if it’s writer’s curiosity, I’m poking around. Thomson’s a creep even if didn’t kill his wife.”

  “He didn’t seem to care at all where Brody goes as long as he isn’t a bother.” Her shoulders slumped. “I feel like such a failure.”

  “You were trying to do a good thing, and you did receive permission for us to hang out with him. That’s a big score.” The timer dinged. Hayden pressed the plunger and poured himself a steaming cup, the smell alone worth the time and effort.

  Carrie exhaled a long sigh. “I’m glad I drove out to talk to you.”

  “Even if I think murderous thoughts?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re not so bad. You listen and you make a good cup of coffee.”

  He toasted her with the bold brew. “Glad to be of service.”

  In truth, he was glad she was here. She kept him from thinking too much about the watch and the man who had worn it. Carrie was a ray of sun in his darkness.

  He frowned, troubled by the random, needy thought. He’d worked hard to never need anyone again.

  Suddenly, the coffee tasted bitter on his tongue.

  What was happening to him? What was this place doing to him?

  “I’m going to invite him to a family gathering,” Carrie said, interrupting his troubled thoughts. “We’re having a cookout for Dad’s birthday. An afternoon of food, family and fun, Honey Ridge style, that I think will be good for Brody.” She dropped her gaze to the condensation gathered on her glass. “Would you like to come? We’d love to have you there, and I’m sure Brody would be more comfortable. Plus, you might pry some more background on Penny Thomson from my brother.”

  A zing of anticipation shot through him. He studied it, worried over it before closing the sweet emotion carefully behind the door of caution.

  A desire to spend time with an interesting woman was normally not an issue, but Carrie Riley came from a close-knit family in a small town. She was a sweetness-and-light kind of girl who deserved more than a writer of darkness could offer. He’d go, but he’d have to be careful.

  * * *

  BRODY’S HANDS TREMBLED as he opened the shoe box, lifted Max out and held the little lizard against his cheek.

  For once Max was calm as Brody stroked a finger down his slick, lined back.

  “It’s okay, Max,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

  He hoped he wasn’t lying.

  The old man had been really mad when Miss Carrie stopped by with the box of food. Why had she done that?

  As still as possible, he listened hard for any sound that indicated his father had returned. He’d stormed out not long after letting Brody know exactly how unhappy he was with the nosy librarian.

  No stupid whelp of a dog in heat was going to shame Clint Thomson. That was what the old man had said. He worked like a horse to make a good living and if that wasn’t enough for Brody, he could hit the road like his mother had.

  Brody sniffed, long and shaky. Someday he would. He’d pack Max and his clothes and hit the road. He’d find his mama. And she’d kiss him and smooth his hair and tell him how smart he was. She’d never, ever cuss him and call him ugly names.

  The old man had laughed, that mean laugh that smelled like whiskey and made Brody’s stomach sick. He’d reminded Brody for about the millionth time that his own mama hadn’t wanted him, that she’d preferred the company of other men.

  He hated when the old man talked like that because he had no defense and yet he wanted to defend his mother.

  His eyes stung as he eased Max onto the floor, letting him race around the room in the fits and starts that usually made Brody smile. The mean words cut him and played over and over inside his head.

  He rubbed his forearm across his face, still shaking.

  The old man probably wouldn’t be back until late. He’d have peace and quiet now. Maybe Brody wouldn’t sleep in the hideout again tonight. The bunny was mending. He’d be fine until tomorrow.

  He thought of Miss Carrie and how nice she’d been to worry about him. Hayden, too. He wished they’d been his parents, though he didn’t think they were girlfriend and boyfriend or anything as mushy as that. They were friends, and the old man had said he didn’t care if Brody hung out with them as long as he didn’t go whining and begging. Well, that’s not exactly what he’d said. He’d said he didn’t care what Brody did as long he didn’t drag the Thomson name through the mud the way his mama had.

  When his father got like that, Brody always wanted to ask about her. Where had she gone? Why had she left? Why didn’t she call or write or come for a visit?

  But he didn’t. Some things were too scary to know.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON, THE family parlor of Peach Orchard Inn was an explosion of sample books, fabrics and female chatter. Julia’s mother, Connie Griffin, fluttered around with a wedding veil in each hand while Julia and Bailey had their heads together over a bridal book Nikki had brought from the boutique. Valery had disappeared to somewhere a long time ago with the promise to “be right back.”

  After two hours of lists, menus, colors and flowers, Carrie needed a break, too. She slipped out of the room and, smiling a little because no one would even notice she was gone, headed for the kitchen.

  She’d be more use with a tea tray and cookies in hand than being asked if a lace veil was preferable to a garland. She had an opinion, but really, wasn’t Julia’s the only one that mattered?

  Eli, she noticed, had made himself scarce by taking Alex to play in the city park with Bailey’s sons.

  There were four other guests at Peach Orchard Inn this weekend besides Hayden, but they were all out and about enjoying the fading days of summer.

  Carrie wound through the guest parlor toward the kitchen, but movement caught her eye in the small library Julia used as an office.

  “Valery?” She stepped in as Julia’s sister lowered a bottle of whiskey from her lips. Not a glass. The whole bottle. A fifth.

  Valery turned defiant eyes in her direction. She held out the bottle. “Want to join me?”

  Carrie shook her head. “I wondered where you went.”

  “Yeah, well, now you know.” Val’s laugh seemed brittle. “All that sweet and gooey wedding stuff is enough to drive anyone to drink.”

  Carrie was no expert, but from the glassy look in Val’s eyes, she suspected she’d been in here with Jack Daniel’s the whole time.

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Join me, then. We’ll celebrate the upcoming nuptials and the joy of remaining miserably single in this one-horse town.”

  Carrie shook her head. “I don’t do so well with the hard stuff.”

  Valery’s expression hardened. “Oh, don’t be a Goody Two-shoes.”

  When Carrie shook her head again, Valery’s nostrils flared. “I swear your sister is right. You’re as much fun as dental floss.”

  Carrie blinked; her mouth dropped open at the uncharacteristically rude remark. Her sister had said that about her?

  The hurt must have showed, because Valery’s posture changed. She set the bottle on Julia’s tidy desk, shoulders slumped and said, “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I’m stupid sometimes.” Her words slurred. “Stupid and worthless.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not? It’s what you’re thinking. It’s what everyone thinks about that youngest Griffin sister.” She shoved her long dark hair
out of her face. Her eyes welled with tears, and her beautiful mouth quivered. “Isn’t that what they say? Valery is the trashy, worthless Griffin girl.”

  Carrie was out of her element. There was clearly more going on here than she understood. Valery was drunker than she’d been the night of the storm, and she’d been maudlin and crying then.

  “Valery,” she said, touching her friend’s arm. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Is there a problem I can help you with?”

  Valery jerked back and slashed her hands across her tear-streaked cheeks. “The only problem I have is people sticking their noses in my business. Why couldn’t you stay in the parlor where you belong? Why’d you have to come in here poking around? Your mama taught you better.”

  “Our mamas taught us a lot of good things, Valery,” she said softly. “I want to help.”

  “I don’t need your help, Carrie.” Valery gave a bitter laugh. “Trust me—I get enough crap from Julia.”

  This conversation was not going to get better, not as long as Valery was intoxicated.

  “I’ll go, then, and leave you alone.” She turned as if to leave.

  Valery’s voice stopped her, turned her around. “Don’t turn up your prissy nose at me, Carrie Riley. You’re no better than I am. You’re...” She sniffed, her face the picture of dejection, her red mouth pulled down. “We used to be friends.” And then pitifully, “Didn’t we used to be friends?”

  Carrie twisted her hands together, afraid of saying the wrong thing. “We still are, Val, and that’s why I’m worried.”

  Valery reached for the whiskey bottle, took another long drink, shuddered and pressed a hand to her lips. “Nothing to worry ’bout. I’m celebrating. Can’t a girl celebrate a happy occasion?”

  Getting drunk by herself on a Sunday afternoon while her sister was in the other room choosing between poinsettias and roses seemed more self-destructive than celebratory. “You don’t seem very happy.”

  Valery’s snort was harsh. “What’s not to be happy about? I live in my sister’s house. Oh, sure, I own a third, but trust me, this is Julia’s inn. I work for her. She’s marrying a terrific man. A rich man, if you didn’t know. Julia has it all, and I don’t have a frigging thing.”