Trey helped himself to the food and the family settled in to eat quesadillas, sip sweet tea and catch up on the week’s news.
Her mother revisited the topic of Brody for Trey. When she finished relating the incident, she asked, “Isn’t there anything the police can do?”
Trey chewed, swallowed and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Mama, unless the man breaks a law, our hands are tied. When Carrie first came to me about him, I checked around, talked to Child Services, but they’re in the same boat. Killing a lizard isn’t against the law.”
“What about the way Brody is left alone so much of the time?”
“Latchkey kid. If we yanked every child whose parents have to work, we’d be talking about more than half the families in town. Brody’s eleven, old enough to be alone. Thomson may not be the father of the year, but he’s not committed a crime.”
“That we know of,” Carrie said.
“About that,” Trey said, pushing the grilled tortilla and cheese around with his fork. “Something interesting came over the chatter yesterday. It may turn out to be of no interest in this specific situation, but I’m watching it.”
“What?” All four women leaned in.
“State troopers were testing new sonar equipment at Long’s Lake and discovered a submerged car, a 2004 Ford Focus.” He leaned back in his chair. “Containing skeletal remains.”
A collective gasp sucked the air off the table.
“Trey, that’s terrible.”
He nodded his agreement. “They’re pulling the car up today.”
“Why would Honey Ridge police be interested in something that happened over there? Long’s Lake is miles from here.”
“Because Penny Thomson left Honey Ridge in a 2004 Focus.”
“Oh, my gravy.” Carrie’s fingers touched her mouth. “Do you think it’s her?”
His uniformed shoulders twitched. “We’ll have our answer to that question when the state medical examiner compares DNA.”
“Which means you’ll need DNA from Brody?”
“As the only known blood kin to Penny, it’s likely. But that’s not my area of expertise.”
“You let the state police know, didn’t you, that we have a missing woman who drove a car like that?”
Trey’s smile was patient. “Carrie, I’ve been a cop for a long time. Of course I did.”
She offered a sheepish grimace.
“I don’t know whether to pray it is Penny or pray it isn’t,” her mother said.
“I feel the same way. Brody longs for his mother, and if she’s been dead all this time...” Carrie shook her head, staring at her nearly empty plate. “So sad for him.”
“Finding her would bring closure, sis,” Trey said.
Which was better? Carrie wondered. To know your mother was gone forever? Or to hold on to the hope that she might come home again?
* * *
HAYDEN FOUND CARRIE on her knees beside the front porch, viciously jabbing a trowel into the soft ground.
“Need any help burying the bodies?” he asked, amused, as he exited his car and crossed the small lawn to where she worked.
She sat back on her haunches and smiled. “We divided Mom’s daffodils this afternoon.”
“The way you’re wielding that trowel, I thought you might be hiding evidence.”
“Spoken like a true writer of crime.” Carrie grinned up at him, flashing a dimple. Her cheeks were rosy from exertion, and her eyes glistened a deep, dark, luscious chocolate. He wanted to go to his knees and kiss her right there in the dirt. “But you’ve also reminded me of something I want to share with you when I get finished here.”
“You found a body? Killed someone? Discovered the grave of Jimmy Hoffa?”
She laughed. “You’re in a good mood.”
“I am eternally buoyed by the evil that lurks in the hearts of men and my innate ability to cash in on that voyeuristic predilection.”
“You also have an impressive vocabulary.”
He laughed. “Spoken like a true librarian. The latest royalty check was deposited to my account today.”
She looked up at him, wiping the back of a glove across her cheek. “Must have been a good one.”
“No complaints. Want to go to dinner with me? Somewhere nice. Celebrate?”
She looked up at him and smiled. “I’d love to celebrate with you.”
She poked the remaining bulbs into the prepared hole and covered them. “That should do it. The extent of my gardening skills. Stick a bulb in the ground and forget it. All three of us girls are on our knees this afternoon.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Praying for anything in particular?”
“Absolutely.” She pointed a gloved finger toward the freshly planted ground. “I’m praying Mama doesn’t give me any more bulbs.”
Lighthearted and laughing, enjoying her company, he offered a hand. She whipped off the dirty glove and accepted the quick tug to her feet.
She didn’t ask what he was doing at her house, and he didn’t offer an excuse. He just wanted to see her. Wanted to be with her. To relax in her company and be as real as Hayden Winters could ever be.
The visit to Dora Lee had depressed him, but the confrontation with Thomson had snapped him out of it. The only thing better than seeing the fear in Thomson’s eyes was being here with Carrie.
Feelings for her had crept up slowly, a honeysuckle vine of sweetness. Carrie was about as real as he could get.
“Come on inside, and I’ll make some tea.”
“Water’s fine.”
“Oh, loosen up.” She tapped a finger on his chest. “Get in touch with your Southern roots and have some syrupy sweet tea.”
His Southern roots? That way spelled insanity, but he acquiesced and followed her jean-clad behind up the steps.
“You have some dirt on your—ah—backside.”
Carrie arched her back, dusted her bottom and went on inside the house. Hayden was glad she couldn’t see the admiring grin on his face.
While she made the tea, he entertained her with stories from the good ol’ boys down at the café and shared in depth the encounter with Clint Thomson, which made her brown eyes darken to black.
When the tea was poured, he took a glass and they settled on the couch.
“Trey came to Mama’s house for lunch with us girls today.”
“Yeah?”
“He had some interesting news.” She told him about the submerged car. “Trey thinks it might belong to Penny Thomson.”
The bottom dropped out of his stomach. “No kidding? How could that have happened?”
“Long’s is a huge, deep lake, a reservoir really, with lots of remote, narrow roads and sharp curves. Wildlife, too. If she got lost in the dark in a strange area, she could have missed a turn or dodged a deer and lost control on the curve.”
He rubbed a hand over his jawline, stunned. “I imagined a number of possible scenarios but not this one.” He’d even started a book with the wife-killer premise. “Do you really think it could be her?”
“We’ll find out soon enough. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.”
“Has anyone told Thomson?”
“Not yet. They’ll have to soon if they want to retrieve DNA from Brody.”
“That won’t be hard. A saliva test, a hair from his head.”
“But what if it really is his mother, Hayden? How will Brody feel? I keep asking myself if it would be better to go on believing your mother abandoned you and might possibly return or to discover she’s dead and all hope is lost.”
“Easy answer. Abandonment is far worse.”
“You think so?”
Carrie, in her ivory tower, had no comprehension of a child left alone to fend for himself, worried his
parent wouldn’t return but every bit afraid she would. Certainty was always preferable.
“Sure I do. I’m a writer. We know stuff,” he said lightly. He sat back and sipped his tea.
“Speaking of which, how’s the book going?” She curled her legs beneath her, bare feet touching the couch. The bracelet, he noticed, was in place and her toenails freshly painted.
“There’s not much to tell.” He pushed a hand over his hair with a rueful laugh. “Starts and stops. I murder a few people and then lose interest. The wife-killer premise may eventually go somewhere.”
“Anything I can do to help? Other than shoot someone.”
His mouth twitched. He set his tea on the end table. “Not really. If I could stop having the crazy dreams—”
He caught himself. Carrie, with her easy manner, made him forget to keep his guard up. And if there was anyone on earth he trusted with the dreams, it was her.
Hayden turned the thought over in his head. He’d been moving toward this, trusting her, wanting to confide, believing that Carrie had some magic he could believe in. He couldn’t decide if he should run or give in.
“What kind of dreams?”
She ran her fingers down the moist outside of the tea glass, interested but not overly so, unaware she’d stepped into the realm of his most secret fear.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” As soon as he asked the question, he wanted to suck it back inside.
A tiny frown tweaked her eyebrows.
“Ghosts?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Lots of people in Honey Ridge do. The Southern thing, you know. Do you?”
“No. I don’t know, but something decidedly unusual is happening in my dreams.” The need to talk through the bizarre occurrences with Carrie was as thick as the sugar in her tea. “Have you noticed the display of artifacts in Julia’s entry hall at Peach Orchard Inn?”
“The old things they found during the renovation? Sure. They’re fascinating.”
Hayden fiddled with his glass, contemplated only long enough to take a sip.
“I dream about them and about the people who owned them. Over and over.” He breathed deeply through his nose, holding in the air, holding in the worry. “The scenes change each time I have the dream, like a chapter-by-chapter retelling.”
She leaned toward him, interested and puzzled but not calling him crazy. “As in a book?”
“Exactly.” He shared a synopsis of the dreams, ending with the latest. “This sounds crazy. Don’t think I’m crazy, Carrie.”
“You’re the least crazy person I know.” Her lips curved. “Except for the lightning fetish.”
A bit of his anxiety edged away.
“It’s as if a book I didn’t write is being read to me in my sleep,” he said. “As if I’m privy to a real-life movie that took place more than a hundred fifty years ago.” Spoken aloud, the thing sounded even more insane. He rammed damp fingers through his hair. “How could I know those things?”
“Don’t laugh, but there are rumors about the inn having an...angel...or something.”
“Julia hinted at that.”
“You should listen to her. Julia isn’t one to chase goblins.”
“I found an antique marble.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the clay ball.
Carrie touched the marble with her fingertip. “I’ve heard about these. Valery says they appear when the house is trying to help someone. I’ve never noticed anything weird when I was there, but some say they’ve heard music or a boy’s laughter.”
“But I had the dream when I was out of town, too.”
“Maybe the dreams are trying to tell you something.”
“You mean like a message from my subconscious?”
“Or whatever.”
“That’s what Julia said about the house.”
“There you go, then,” she said.
“I thought you weren’t a ghost believer.”
“I’m not, but the Bible tells of men who dreamed prophetic dreams. Even if it’s not that, and you don’t want to believe in angels or spirits or what have you, you have a powerful sense of fantasy, Hayden. You’re a novelist who thinks in scenes and chapters. Being in the inn, seeing those cool old antiques and visiting the mill stirred something inside your psyche.”
“Maybe.” In fact, he was certain those things played a part. But how did he explain the rest? That the dreams began the very first night they’d met before he’d been to the mill or noticed the display? Before he’d found the marble or learned of the inn’s reputation?
“You’re seriously worried about this, aren’t you?”
He forced a laugh. “Sometimes I think I’m losing it.”
She set the glass down and touched his arm, her tone gentle. “It’s only a dream, Hayden.”
Was it? Or was it, as she’d suggested, some kind of message from the past creeping into a weakened mind? Or worse, a sign that he was losing it?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
1867
TOM’S MOTHER MET Josie at the door and drew her into a loving embrace. Margaret Foster was a comely woman in her late forties with Tom’s golden hair, though hers had faded to white at the temples from the years of war and worry. Shorter and rounder than Josie, she was still an attractive woman, and Josie thought it such a shame that there were so few eligible men left to appreciate her. With the young women vying for every remaining male in Tennessee, women of an age stood little chance. Even the old men married the younger women.
But if Margaret longed for another husband, she’d never said as much. A widow for fifteen years, her missing son was the only male in her conversations.
“There you are, my dear. I’ve missed your visits.”
Guilt sent a flush of heat up Josie’s neck and over her ears. Time with Thaddeus took time away from Margaret. She’d not been here in days.
Supper at the O’Connor farm had been lighthearted fun, something sorely missing in Josie’s life since the war. She and Thad had stayed late into the night, talking and playing parlor games until long after the O’Connor children fell asleep on the floor.
Some, like Mrs. Stockton, would be scandalized to know Josie had set foot in the home of an Irishman. But Josie found the O’Connors cheerful and kind, and Mr. O’Connor played a lively, toe-tapping fiddle.
The O’Connor children jigged and high-stepped while she’d laughed for joy. Laughter, as Thaddeus had once told her, was good medicine.
When she and Thad had arrived home to the squawk of the hateful old gander, she’d helped Thad put away the wagon and horse. Then he’d walked her into the house and kissed her good-night at the bottom of the stairs.
Mrs. Stockton would be scandalized if she knew about that, too, and frankly, Josie didn’t care. Margaret, however, was another matter. After Tom had marched away with the army, she and Tom’s mother had come together in mutual love for their soldier boy.
“I’ve been working at the mill more,” she said, aware that the rehearsed words fell from her lips in a nervous burst of explanation. “And the harvest is coming in. Beans and beets and corn and okra. You know how a farm is, Margaret, especially without the slaves. Work is never done.”
Though the excuse was honest, a nagging sense of disquiet grew in Josie’s chest.
To hide her worry, Josie hurried to the worn horsehair settee. Seeing the threadbare couch, she exclaimed, “Oh, I forgot to bring the coverlet Patience knitted for you!”
Tom had been his mother’s soul provider, and now with him gone, Margaret eked out a living from her large garden and chickens. She had no money for coverlets or doilies.
Margaret waved her off. “Never you mind about that. We’ve other important things to discuss.”
Josie slithered onto the sofa, her mouth going as dry as cotton. She sq
ueezed both hands into her cotton skirt. “What things would that be, Margaret?”
Margaret’s brown eyes rested on Josie with such curiosity that Josie squirmed.
Something was amiss? Did Tom’s mother know about Thad? About the late-night kisses?
No, no, it wasn’t possible.
But Mamie Stockton knew, and she was the biggest gossip in Honey Ridge.
The worry hammered against Josie’s temples until her head began to ache.
“Would you like me to make tea, Margaret? I’d be happy to do so.” Josie hopped up, eager to do something besides squirm beneath the weight of her own guilt.
Margaret pointed at the sofa. “Sit down, Josephine. I’m quite capable of pouring tea.”
Stung at the tight, sharp tone, Josie slid back into place. Her pulse began a hard, steady thrum.
Had Margaret gotten wind of Mamie Stockton’s tirade at the mercantile? Was she angry? Hurt?
Guilty as Judas, Josie watched her dear friend fidget with two glasses.
“I brought the quilt top I promised, Margaret, to get your opinion on the backing.” She patted the folded top lying next to her.
“That’s very kind.” The reply was stiff, not the usual happy repartee she and Margaret enjoyed.
She knows. She knows. Be sure your sins will find you out.
Was it a sin to enjoy Thad’s company? Was it a sin to take supper with the Irish O’Connors?
Jumpy, nervous, she sought for anything to say and rattled the first news that entered her mind.
“Priscilla Duncan is marrying Franklin Wellburg. Patience has been asked to play a special piece she wrote, though the wedding is to be small and held at the Duncan home.”
Thinking about the wedding only made her remember Tom and the wedding she would never have. She should have kept her nervous mouth shut, and the thought intensified when Margaret seemed preoccupied and didn’t reply.
Was her guilty conscious at work, or was the atmosphere growing increasingly stiff and uncomfortable?
By the time Margaret returned with two glasses of blackberry tea, Josie’s hands were sweating and she wished she’d not come to visit.
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