When she arrived, Hayden sat on the veranda, feet propped on the railing, his laptop open on a round table. A glass of Miss Julia’s peach tea waited, half-gone, at his elbow. Bingo, Julia’s Australian shepherd, sprawled in the shade beneath the eaves behind him.
As she exited the car, Hayden glanced up and smiled, and her heart turned over.
“You look like a fine Southern gentleman surveying his plantation,” she said, coming toward him across the grass, glad she still wore the navy pencil skirt she’d worn to the memorial. She looked nice. Even Nikki had said so, mostly because the crepe skirt and white top had come from her boutique. Carrie would not, however, unbutton the top two buttons on her blouse.
“Ah, if only it was so. I like it here.” Hayden dropped his feet to the wooden porch with a thud and stood. “Think Julia will sell?”
“Not a chance.”
As she stepped up next to him, he kissed her lightly. “You look...beautiful. You and that sexy ankle bracelet. A good choice, even if I do say so myself.”
Carrie never knew what to do with compliments. “Silly.”
“You’re beautiful, Carrie, and you distract me. Like this inn and that orchard and these peaceful surroundings.” He smoothed the back of his index finger down her cheek. “So, did you deliver the cookies and chicken?”
She suppressed a delicious shiver. Even if his words weren’t true, they fed her confidence. He made her feel special. “I did.”
“How was Brody doing?” He pulled out a chair for her, and she sat across from him.
“Surprisingly well. I gave him your message, and he seemed thrilled. What was that all about?”
Hayden hiked one eyebrow. “You didn’t read the note?”
“I wouldn’t do that. It wasn’t mine to read.”
He appeared genuinely surprised. “I would have. But since your curiosity is not quite as overpowering as mine, or perhaps you simply have better manners, I’ll tell you. I offered to take him to a riding stable in Shelbyville on Sunday afternoon.”
“Hayden, that’s a wonderful idea. An outing will help get his mind off—” she waved her hand vaguely “—this tragedy.”
“My thinking, too. He told me he’s always wanted to ride a horse.”
And you’re making it happen for him. So thoughtful. So kind. No wonder she’d fallen hard.
“He talks to you about a lot of things—doesn’t he? And I have a feeling you talk to him, too.”
“Sure.” His shrug was casual, but his eyes were shuttered. “Guy stuff.”
“Do you ride?”
He scoffed. “Not a bit, but I’m always in the market for new experiences. Book fodder. Want to join us?”
Carrie laughed, but the joke was on her. “Horses are big and scary.”
“The place I contacted promises the gentlest animals in a controlled environment. We can do this. For Brody.”
“Oh, you don’t play fair, mister.”
“Never said I did. When I want something, I find a way. And I want to spend Sunday afternoon with you.”
“And Brody.”
He grinned. “Uh-huh.”
“This may sound odd, but he seems happier since he learned about his mother, and he and his dad—I’m not sure how to describe it other than they seem to be relating. I even saw Mr. Thomson pat him gently on the back, and Brody stood close, as if he was...supporting his father.”
Hayden’s nostrils flared. “Surprising indeed.”
“I think things may be improving.”
“You’re an optimist.”
“Maybe, but people can change, Hayden. There were several people coming and going while I was there, offering condolences, dropping off casseroles. The mood was somber but cordial. Thomson was sober and polite, and Brody, bless his heart, is hopeful.”
“Why?” Hayden’s expression remained dubious.
“A preacher and a man from Thomson’s work were there. The man said he’d been an alcoholic, too, with anger issues like Clint’s.” Heat rushed up her neck. “I don’t usually eavesdrop, but I overheard. They invited Brody’s dad to an AA meeting at the Baptist Church and promised to help him.”
“AA meetings? At a church?” Hayden almost laughed. “Seeing Clint Thomson in a church would require more than optimism. That would take a miracle.”
“He said he would go. He seemed sincere, almost eager, as if grasping a lifeline. Maybe the death of his wife shook him up enough to change his ways.”
Hayden made a face. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.”
“Brody’s had enough disappointments. Don’t get his hopes up.”
“‘Hope is the thing with feathers,’” she quoted. “Brody won’t ever stop hoping that his father will be the man he needs him to be.”
Hayden sighed and glanced toward the orchard, where leaves slowly faded toward yellow. A peach-scented wind drifted from the house.
“Most likely true. Let’s hope, along with your feathery Dickinson poem, that he follows through with the AA meetings and gets sober for Brody’s sake.”
“That’s exactly what I hope.”
“But I’m still keeping an eye on him.”
For now. But what about after he left?
That was a path she didn’t want to follow today, so she motioned toward the laptop. “Any progress?”
“I took your advice about putting the dreams down. I’d already written the first ones but decided to purge them all. Maybe once I do, I can let go of them and focus on the paying job.”
“What about your research? Do you need more? Want me to show you more nooks and crannies and places to hide the body?” She was pathetic, searching for reasons to keep him in Honey Ridge.
“I’m thinking the gristmill is the perfect place. Maybe I’ll crank up the waterwheel and grind someone—”
“Hayden!” She clapped her hands over her ears.
He laughed. “No grinding today. I’ll wait until I get back to New York to do the evil deed.”
Back to New York. Soon. Carrie tried to keep smiling.
Hayden closed the laptop and stood. “Today a charming woman is distracting me, and I’d rather spend time with her than work.”
“Ooh, smooth talker,” she teased, trying not to take his words seriously, but her heart fluttered anyway.
A cell phone buzzed, and Hayden fished a smartphone from his back pocket, frowned at the screen and said, “I should take this. Will you excuse me?”
He moved away, walking out toward the orchard. Bingo rose, shook himself and trotted along with him, his dog tags jingling.
The cadence of Hayden’s voice drifted back to the porch, though Carrie couldn’t make out the conversation. Eavesdropping once today was more than enough.
Watching a handsome man, on the other hand, was not bad manners.
She admired the easy grace of his movements and the manly stretch of his shoulders. She thought of his tenderness when he held her and the way his kiss, light and gentle, could make her whole being sing for joy. She considered the silver bracelet sliding against her skin, a constant reminder of him, the man she’d fallen in love with.
Love was a funny thing. She hadn’t wanted or expected to fall in love, certainly not with someone so out of her league, but Hayden wasn’t like that. He was natural and easy to be with, as if she was the special one.
He stopped talking and stared down at the phone in his hand. The sun peeked from behind a cloud and glinted off the screen. He didn’t turn around, didn’t even move for long enough that worry tingled at the back of her neck.
“Hayden?” She stepped off the porch and started across the dying grass.
He turned her way. Lines of concern creased his forehead.
“What’s wr
ong? Bad news?”
He inhaled deeply, releasing the breath in a gust. “Yes.”
“What is it? How can I help?”
“It was... My mother’s in the hospital.” His expression was pinched and anxious, as if he didn’t want to share such news but felt he must because she was there and asking.
The realization stung a little. He’d rarely confided, except about the dreams. And those seemed to worry him, as if he thought she’d think less of him because of an interesting dream.
A sick mother, however, was too important to keep inside.
“What happened? She’ll be okay, won’t she?”
He shook his head, rammed a hand through his hair, blew out another breath. “She’s very ill. I’ll have to go to Louisville.”
Hayden, usually so smooth and together, was frazzled.
Carrie moved close and slid her arms around his waist. She laid her head on his chest and held him, offering her librarian calm.
His arms embraced her in a crush. She felt his anxiety, the slight tremor in his body, a manly body that smelled of Hugo Boss cologne and sun-warmed skin.
“You’re worried about the disagreement the two of you had.”
She heard him swallow, his heart thudding mightily beneath her ear. He hurt, the love for his mother apparent in his strong reaction to the disturbing news.
“She’s your mom, Hayden. She loves you. She’ll understand you still love her even if the two of you disagreed. Mamas always forgive you. It’s the way they are.” She stroked his back in small circles, wishing she knew more about his family, longing to know the woman who’d given birth to this wonderful man, and sorry that she lay in a hospital far away.
For several minutes they stood in each other’s embrace, with the sun playing peekaboo with the clouds above and the moist, decaying coolness of early autumn sneaking in from the woods.
“I should pack,” he said. “Make a plane reservation. I dread this.”
The insight touched Carrie. “She’ll be okay, Hayden. Don’t worry so much, not until you know more.”
“You’re right. You’re right.” He loosened his hold, retreated a few inches but didn’t step away. His anguish moved her to action.
“Would you like me to go with you?” The thought had come from deep inside, the place that loved him, the place that wanted to be there for him. As much as she hated airplanes, she gulped down the dread for Hayden’s sake. “Sometimes having a friend along makes things easier to handle.”
Her offer appeared to startle him. He took another step backward, already shaking his head. “No. No.”
She followed, grabbed his hands to say, “Are you sure, Hayden? You’re very upset. You need someone...who cares about you.”
He seemed to compose himself then, and the sophisticated Hayden regained control. He pulled her close, kissed her softly. And though she tasted his worry, he said, “I’ll be fine. Don’t concern yourself. I’ll call you when I know more.” He kissed her again and whispered, “I love you for caring.”
Then he walked quickly toward the inn, leaving her alone to wonder if he’d refused out of consideration for her, or because he hadn’t wanted her with him.
I love you for caring.
Perhaps she’d been too forward, too obvious.
At the front door, Hayden paused and turned back. He looked so alone.
He stretched a hand toward her. “Help me pack?”
A cord of tension released in Carrie’s neck. She followed him into the house.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
HAYDEN DEBATED BETWEEN driving and flying. When all was said and done, he flew, needing the time to shut out the world with his headphones on and his eyes closed to collect his thoughts.
Carrie had shaken him with her offer to come along. He’d longed to say yes, and that had shaken him more.
He’d come so close to breaking his own vow.
I love you for caring, he’d said when he’d really meant, “I love you. I need you. Come with me.”
She would have.
Carrie loved him. Or rather, she loved who she thought he was.
With dark humor he mocked his thoughts. If she came with him to Kentucky, she’d learn the ugly truth. She’d know who he really was. How would she feel about him then?
Better to keep the facade in place, protect her from the seed of insanity, the roots of addiction, the man behind the mask.
Upon arriving in Louisville, he’d gone straight to the hospital. He didn’t know how his mother had ended up in this city or this hospital and didn’t ask. Nothing about Dora Lee ever surprised him.
Overdosed and malnourished, she suffered from a host of complications caused by her addiction. The doctor, a thin, graying woman whose glasses were bigger than her face, had asked if Hayden knew his mother was an addict. He’d been too angry and humiliated to laugh. He’d stood with his head down and arms limp at his side like a scolded boy, helpless and guilt-ridden.
Later, after consulting with the physicians, he’d stood at Dora Lee’s bedside, staring down into her pale, emaciated, unconscious face while machines whooshed and beeped around her greasy blond head. He’d wondered if he’d ever outgrow the need to rescue her or the need for his mother to care one iota about him the way he did about her.
Love and hate, like creativity and insanity, two sides of the same coin.
He remained at Dora Lee’s bedside through the night while she slept on, oblivious to her son’s presence or his deep concern.
By the time he reached the hotel late the next morning after meeting again with the doctors, he fell across the bed, too exhausted and tormented to undress.
Sometime later his cell phone awakened him. He jerked upright, grabbed for it, fearing the worst. Without even reading the caller ID, he choked out, “Hello.”
“Hayden? Are you all right?”
Blinking sleep-glazed eyes, he fell back against the standard-issue pillows, heart rattling in its cage. “Carrie.”
“Yes, it’s me. I’m worried about you. You sound... Are you okay?”
Her voice was the sweetest music, a soothing melody that he desperately needed right now. “Long night. I was asleep.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ll hang up so you can rest.”
“No, no. I’m glad you called.” He found the hotel alarm clock and checked the time. “I need to get back to the hospital soon.”
“How is she?”
“Unconscious.”
A stunned pause before she asked, “What happened, Hayden?”
She partied herself into oblivion. She’s a pillbilly.
He didn’t, of course, admit that. Carrie couldn’t begin to relate to a mother like Dora Lee. She’d proved as much when she’d tried to comfort him with promises that his mother loved him and would forgive their disagreement. Not all mothers were like Mary Riley.
She didn’t know, could never know the degradation and rage he’d lived with for sixteen years and run from all his life.
“Kidney and liver issues. They’re running tests.” That much, at least, was true. The overdose had damaged both. “University is a good hospital. If anyone can help her, they can.”
“I wish there was something I could do to help.”
“Hearing your voice helps. Talk to me, Carrie.” He propped the phone between his shoulder and ear and rested his head against the headboard.
“Have you eaten anything?”
He blinked at a pastoral painting on the wall of racing Thoroughbreds, trying to remember. “Yesterday, when I landed in Louisville.”
“No food, but I bet you’ve had gallons of coffee, probably from a machine.”
“The nursing staff shared theirs, but it wasn’t as good as yours.” Still, they’d keep him plied with coffee so he co
uld maintain his bedside vigil, and for that he was grateful, especially since not one of them knew he was Hayden Winters, author. People saw what they expected, a pillbilly’s frazzled son in grungy jeans and a beat-up ball cap.
“How much sleep did you get?”
“Enough.”
“Hayden, you sound exhausted. You have to take care of yourself. Do you have other relatives who can come and help you through the crisis?”
“Not a soul.” Having Carrie fuss over him even if she was prying into things better left uncovered filled a dark place inside him. He wished she could be here. He needed her. Wanted her.
But the thought of fresh and innocent Carrie discovering the truth about his drug-addicted wretch of a mother, a woman he was too crazy to stop loving, created an earthquake in his brain that shook him to the soul. Not that Carrie would spread the word and sell him out to tabloids. She wouldn’t do that. Not Carrie.
But she’d know, and knowing would change everything good between them. Better that he left her believing the best thing about him, the facade that was Hayden Winters.
“How’s Brody?” he asked, intentionally switching the subject. “Have you seen him today? Did he go to school?”
“No school. But he was here at the library for a short time, long enough for me to tell him about your emergency.”
“I’ll call him tonight if his old man will let me talk to him.”
“I think he will. He came to the library with Brody. First time ever.”
“Shocker. Can the cretin read?”
She laughed softly. “Hayden.”
“I’ll never be a fan.” He thought of his own mother, lying in the hospital, and made the easy comparison. Parents who hurt their kids deserved no concession.
He hated being in Kentucky because it made him remember, made him feel out of balance. The moment he touched Kentucky soil, he started to shake inside the way he’d done that day when Dora Lee had proved how much she hated him.
The emotion oppressed him in dark, heavy waves, pressing in until he couldn’t breathe. Like going under the water too many times.
The Rain Sparrow Page 43
