by Irene Brand
Owen didn’t quite know what to make of Van’s bizarre confession, but his mind was flashing the word loon. “This table may not be sterile enough for open-heart surgery, but it’s plenty—”
“Hey, don’t get the wrong idea,” Van said. “I’m not crazy. I’m just a writer. All writers have your basic phobias, obsessions, and compulsive disorders. It’s all pretty standard stuff. Comes with the territory. You know, like birds trying to fly into a pane of glass.”
Owen wasn’t sure how the examples paralleled, but he let it go.
“I guess I’ve heard of that.” Holly pulled the last piece of pizza off the platter. “I suppose those kinds of issues don’t matter as long as they don’t interfere with your life too much.”
Van smiled at her as if she’d handed him a brick of gold bullion. “Thanks for saying what you just said.” He sniffed the air as if it were scented with posies. “It’s sort of liberating to hear those words out loud.”
Owen refrained from rolling his eyes, which was the reaction he’d expected from Holly. But she merely seemed pensive.
“Hope this makes you feel better too.” The waitress handed Van the bill.
Owen leaned against the brick wall and gave Van another study. Guess he seemed harmless enough, but Owen certainly wasn’t going to invite the man to his house. He’d probably want to alphabetize his frozen entrees or sanitize his laptop.
“There’s one more thing I need to mention,” Van said to Holly. “Your life story will be an open book now—not only to me but to tens of thousands of readers. I’m hoping that’ll be something you can live with.”
“Tens of thousands?” Holly stopped mid-bite and looked at Owen.
Was he encouraging her to do something she would forever regret? Owen paused for a moment. Was he dealing with fate or feeble-mindedness? Hard to know. He gave her a nod. God, forgive me if I’m wrong.
Van leaned forward in his chair. “Well, what is your final answer, Miss Goodnight?”
Chapter Five
While staring at her trembling fingers, Holly suddenly remembered Julia Mayfield, her grandmother’s cousin—the one who’d sent the amazing mistletoe ball. Julia had also been an author. Was it a sign? She doubted it. Too much of a stretch. And yet? She slowly nodded her head at Van, hoping she was making the right decision. Maybe sharing her story really would help other women who’d known abandonment. “My answer is yes.” She reached out to Van and gave his hand a good shake. It felt a little like latching onto a giant gummy worm, but his expression seemed warm and genuine.
“Since we’re in agreement, I’ll stay in the area for a couple of weeks. If it’s convenient, I’d like for us to get started right away.” Van whipped out his credit card.
“I’m getting ready for the tourists, but—”
“Tourists?”
“We’re gearing up for the Christmas season. I guess you could ask me some questions in the evenings.” Holly wondered what kind of time commitment Van was talking about.
“Maybe you could take me to some of your local haunts.”
Owen nodded. “Why don’t you take Van out to Short Bottom?”
“Do I even want to know what that is?” Van steepled his fingers up and down like a spider on a mirror.
Holly frowned. What was Owen thinking, giving away their secret place—their little refuge ever since they were kids? “Short Bottom is just this tiny wild cave, you know, way outside of town. It’s not a show cave or anything. Actually, there’re thousands of wild caves in Missouri, so it’s—”
“Short Bottom sounds intriguing.” Van perked up. “But wouldn’t we be trespassing?”
“A friend of ours owns the land, so we’ve always had permission to be there.” Owen grinned.
What was Owen up to? “But there’s always the coffee shop. It’s a great place to meet. It’s quiet, easy to get to, and I’ll buy the coffee.”
Loud voices erupted at a nearby table. Two men were apparently disagreeing about the railroad explosion of '69, a topic that still made the rounds in Noel.
When the discussion calmed, Van turned back to them. “This wild cave, Short Bottom, will give the book some local color. Just like everything else that’s so quaint about this town. Like the winding roads. The signs that read, ‘Noel, Where the River Runs.’ And the American flags everywhere. This is great. Very Mayberry-ish.”
Holly couldn’t have agreed more, but Short Bottom was off-limits. “The cave isn’t very bright. I’m sure you won’t be able to take notes.” She stared at Van over her cup of chocolate, still hopeful to turn things around. “And wild caves are notorious for being dirty.”
Van shook his finger at her. “But it’s nature’s dirt. Totally different thing. I’m pretty cool with that. And I have a digital voice recorder, so I don’t have to write down my notes.”
“Holly, why don’t you want Van to see Short Bottom Cave?” Owen appeared deep-fried in bafflement. “And why are you kicking me under the table?”
Holly rolled her eyes. There were times when men were so clueless, she wondered how they ever navigated spoons to their mouths at mealtimes.
Van beamed like a kid who’d just gotten an adult joke.
Her insides shriveled. “Okay. Short Bottom Cave it is.” She retrieved a hair clip from her purse, twirled her long bob up on her head, and fastened it in place. “But we’ll have to hurry before it gets dark.”
Van folded himself up in the passenger seat of Holly’s Smart Car, and together they rode past the sign welcoming people to Noel, Missouri, past her favorite bluff, and past rolling hills dotted with cattle. Van took in the view with only occasional comments and dictations into his voice recorder, but Holly was reminded once again why she’d never moved away from Noel. It would be such a great place to raise kids. She sighed, not knowing how long the wait would be. “Okay, Van, here we are.”
“So, is the cave in that cliff over there?”
“Yep. We’ll have to walk now. I think your loafers might get muddy.”
“I can handle it.”
“Okay, your call.” Holly retrieved two flashlights from the back of her car, and they started their hike through a grassy field. Once they were near the cliff, Holly lifted a few tree limbs out of their way. They waded through underbrush for a while until they came to the mouth of the cave, which appeared like a black-eyed ogre on the hillside.
Van stayed just behind her. “This really is hidden from the road, isn’t it?”
“Almost no one knows about this cave, and it’s hard to keep a secret in Noel.” Holly stepped along a rocky path and into the grotto.
Van held back for a moment and then followed her into the cave. “Any bats in here?” His voice had a slight echo.
“You scared of bats?”
Van chuckled. “If I came across a bat, I’d get anaphylactic and probably go into cardiac arrest. Nothing major.”
Holly shook her head at him. “How do you live?”
“I manage. But I happen to think there’s a lot to be scared about in this life.”
“True enough.” Holly turned on the flashlights, handed one to Van, and then sat down on a boulder in the middle of the cave.
Van shined the beam around the space, studying each nook and cranny as if he were Sherlock Holmes looking for clues. “I understand the name of the cavern now. Not very deep.”
“It’s just a name Owen and I came up with when we were kids. And it stuck.”
“Kind of damp and musty in here, but it’s at least warmer than that cold wind outside.” Van leaned against the back wall and shined his light through a fissure in the rock. “I see a crack here. And I hear the sound of dripping water. Has anyone ever tried to get through this opening?”
“Even when we were skinny kids we couldn’t squeeze through.”
“I’m surprised no one has tried to break through the rock to see what’s beyond this room. I mean, the largest cave in the world might be just beyond this wall.”
Holly grinned. �
�I’ve dreamed of it too, but the owner isn’t interested in checking it out, so for now, it’s just Short Bottom Cave. Maybe that’s why Owen and I made this our place. There’s mystery in not knowing what lies beyond that wall. And there’s such quiet here.”
“‘Far from the madding crowd’?” Van took out a handkerchief, dusted off the boulder, and eased down next to her.
“Not many crowds in Noel unless it’s a tourist season. But yes, I do like this place.”
Van took off his glasses and slipped them into a pocket. “Do you come here by yourself sometimes?”
“Yes.” She looked over at Van. “Sometimes.” Without his glasses on she could tell he had gray eyes with bits of green, like a pretty stone found in a pool of water.
“Aren’t you afraid to be alone way out here?”
“Afraid of what?” What did he mean? Holly rose and strolled to the north wall of the cave. The heebie-jeebies ran through her as she realized that while Van seemed like a decent man, he was still a stranger. She searched his eyes for any serial killer qualities, but what she saw didn’t seem scary. She saw a writer with some benign neuroses and a ghastly sense of fashion. Amusing combo, but probably not too dangerous.
“Sorry, that’s a city boy talking. I guess small towns really are a sanctuary from all things fast-paced and fearsome.” He rested back on his hands, and for the first time, she saw glimmers of serenity in him. He wore it well.
Holly also mellowed as her gaze drifted around the room. Rays of light from the sunset filtered in through the foliage and fell on the far wall, enhancing the yellow hues of the limestone. The cave took on a warm golden glow—like a topaz. Beautiful. But unfortunately it was just enough sunlight to illuminate the thing dangling just above Van’s head. A small leathery creature.
A bat.
Chapter Six
Holly took in a slow breath to control her emotions. Should she tell Van? Would he freak out? Yes. Van would wind himself up so tightly he’d spin right off the planet. It was a tiny bat, and almost cute, but she was pretty sure he wouldn’t see it that way. What if he never looked up? What if he never knew about the bat? After a few frantic moments spent weighing pros and cons, Holly allowed ignorance to reign in Short Bottom. But her decision still couldn’t keep sweat from breaking out all over her body.
Van reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a musical instrument, which looked like some sort of bamboo flute. He raised it to his lips and started to play.
Now that was about the last thing Holly had expected Van to do—pull a flute out of his pocket like some pied piper. The sweet but woebegone melody echoed through the hollow cave. Lovely and lonely and irresistible. The kind of music that summoned fairies. Holly just hoped it wasn’t the kind of music that summoned bats.
When the tune came to a close, Holly applauded while keeping an ever-present eye on the creature. It apparently wasn’t moved by the music. Thank You, God. “That sounded enchanting. What was the tune?”
“Something I wrote a long time ago. I’ve never played it for anyone until now. Guess I was waiting for the right ears to hear it.” He looked at her. “I’ve waited a long time.”
Holly felt as if she’d burrowed her face into a warm load of clothes straight out of the dryer. “Do you often whip out your flute while wild caving?”
“Only when the spirit moves me—as it does now, Holly Rose.”
The man did have a nice smile. “Oh?”
“I’m not always moved, but I’m always observing.” Van slid the bamboo flute back into the inner pocket of his coat and looked at her. Really looked at her. “I think of myself as a historian of sorts—a recorder of life. Sometimes this calling of mine is a great burden to me, and at other times it’s such an intoxicating pleasure that human terms can’t define it suitably.”
Holly didn’t miss the lush quality of his voice or that smoking-jacket gaze he gave her. “And what are you recording right now, Mr. Keaton?”
“Well, if you were a character out of my imagination, I would place you within the fairy archetype, which is a very good place to be. You have a mystical quality, and people are a little bewitched while they’re around you. Even now, you have an angelic glow about you.”
Holly tossed her head back, chuckling. Yeah, that glow is really perspiration because of the bat suspended over your head!
“There’s more.” He raised his hands. “You think you’re simply Holly, but you’re much more than that. You have gifts of the heart you don’t even recognize. You have the ability to change a person’s life in an instant. You give of yourself, but you’re holding something back. Maybe something you’ve tried to hide even from yourself.”
“But everyone is holding something back. Even you.”
“Even me.” His answer came more as an echo of her words than a confirmation.
Holly put her hands behind her and leaned against the cave wall. “You’ve made me curious about something.” Or maybe she just wanted to change the subject.
“I love curiosity. It’s the fuel that propels my life.”
“I was wondering how writers see the world. Do you see it differently than the average person? Let’s say we were strolling in a rose garden. What would you see beyond the flowers and the sun and the honeybees?”
Van picked up a flashlight and pointed it around the cave, making eerie shadows on the wall but continually missing the bat with his beam of light. “Garden. I might see the drooping head of a rosebud and think—how tragic that the flower never had a chance to bloom.”
“Hmm.” Were all writers so teeming with innuendo? “Well, that’s insightful, but why does everything have to come out so melancholy?”
“Writers should experience life as if they had no skin on, so the world and its inhabitants can be portrayed more vividly, with more feeling. Then, hopefully, the reader can walk into our stories and live them with us.”
Holly couldn’t figure out if she were captivated by his words or merely dodging the interview. “I think I understand.”
He grinned. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions now?” He pulled the tiny voice recorder from yet another pocket in his coat.
“Oh, I get it. You’ve been romancing me so I’ll talk into that little device?”
“Did it work?”
“Maybe, but before you begin, I have one more question.”
“More?” Van dropped his head to his chest. “Fire away.”
“What are you most afraid of in the whole world?” Besides bats.
Van crossed his arms. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’m about to reveal some pretty intimate details of my life, and so it would help if you showed me some vulnerability first.”
He chuckled. “Couldn’t you just ask me about my favorite color? It would be so much faster and easier.”
“Sorry.”
“Okay, okay. I don’t mind really…he said with building apprehension.”
Holly laughed.
“Sorry.” He put up his hands. “I’m used to a lot of emotional bloodletting through my characters.” Van shifted his weight on the rock. “My darkest fear is failure.”
“More than dying?”
“I’ve made my peace with the Lord, so eternity is settled. But it’s the earth-bound trials that cause me grief. Failure feels like this faceless creature pursuing me. The only thing is—the faster I run from it, the more I’m chased.”
“What happens if the beast catches up with you?” Holly reached into her pocket, pulled out “her stone,” and rolled it around in her palm. She’d handled the same stone for so many years, all the edges had been worn smooth.
“Failure and the fear of it has mauled me a few times, but I keep getting up.”
Holly saw sadness in his eyes. What was it like to be Van Keaton? Did people send him hate mail? Worship him? Stalk him? Trash him with bad reviews? She had more questions than ever, but she wasn’t the one conducting the interview. “Thank you for sharing a piece of you
rself.”
“You’re welcome.” Van smiled as he fingered the recorder. “I know this will be hard on you—my writing your story. But I promise you this, Holly. I’ll try to make it as easy as possible. And who knows, maybe it’ll cure you of your nightmares.”
Holly dropped the stone. “How did you know about my nightmares?”
“Just a feeling.”
She hugged her middle. “I’m sorry I haven’t read any of your novels.”
“That’s okay. I’ll give you a few, and I’ll donate some to the local library.” Van shrugged. “But don’t worry if you’re not familiar with my work. Even my parents haven’t read my novels.”
“Why not?”
“They’re just not interested. Never have been. They’re too busy traveling around Europe.”
“I’m sorry, Van.”
“Guess I gave you more vulnerability than you needed.”
“No, not at all.” Holly made another quick assessment of the bat, and since the creature wasn’t fluttering its wings, she continued to let sleeping bats hang.
“I suppose it is getting late. We’d better get started.”
Holly sat down on the boulder next to Van.
He switched on the voice recorder and then asked, “Why do you think your mother left you on the doorstep that Christmas Eve?”
Holly pondered his question while she stared at her hands. “To have done something like that to her own child…I think she must have been desperate. To leave her baby on Christmas Eve. You know—a time when parents are gathering around the tree with their most precious ones, laughing and loving and being thankful. So I think something dreadful must have happened to make her do what she did.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Van cleared his throat. “But in your little narrative just now, you referred to yourself only in the third person. If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem detached from the baby who was left behind, even though that baby was you.”
“I thought you were going to make this pleasant for me…she said with a hint of irritation.”
