“Why would you want to do that?” Drew asked, sitting down beside her.
She picked a dandelion. “Because my mom did.” She handed him the weed in flower’s clothing. “You can be my husband, if you want.”
He took the dandelion with a shrug. “I guess so.”
She sat up then, put her face right in front of his. “Really?”
“Sure. It’s not like you’re a real girl anyway.”
She gave him a shove. “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”
“I meant it as a nice thing. Girls are boring.” He popped the head off the flower, and she laughed.
“That’s true.” She plopped back down, hands under her head. “I’m glad you don’t think I’m boring.”
He lay down next to her, and they stared up at the clouds. “I think you’re awesome.”
They’d spent that afternoon finding shapes in the clouds until their parents called them in to eat.
Now, the air was filled with the smell of lilacs from the bushes all along the side of the chapel. She would’ve been married there. Someone would’ve loved her till death did them part.
But she’d never gotten the chance.
Was he to blame? Could he have stopped what happened to her? If he’d hidden in a different spot that day, would Jess still be alive? Would her parents have lived full, happy lives?
His pulse quickened at the thought, and he started off in the opposite direction from the chapel.
Beth had given him a clear deadline. He hadn’t told her he’d be leaving as soon as he got what he needed from this place. He also hadn’t told her there was a chance they wouldn’t get the farm up and running by late August and she might have to wait another season before they could open at all.
Instead, he kept his head down and checked things off the list.
She showed her gratitude with home-cooked meals and morning coffee deliveries. And the absence of questions, which he appreciated more than any wage.
He walked along the back of the property, forcing himself not to linger at the abandoned barn, willing away unwanted emotions, the same ones that still woke him every night.
Regret. Shame. Sorrow.
He’d never been allowed to grieve. Not really. There had been too much commotion. Too many questions. An ambulance had rushed him off to the ER, where his scalp was treated with four stitches where he’d been struck from behind. Before they’d even finished stitching him up, a detective pulled a stool up next to him and started with the questions.
They came at him fast, making it impossible to remember what had really happened.
He’d been struck. He heard a scream. Jess. He blacked out. He woke to the panicked voices of his and Jess’s parents, begging for answers, but none came.
His dream told him there was more, but his mind never uncovered the foggy, faded details, and he vowed not to talk about it out loud. Ever.
The doctors tried to get him to open up. He sat on their couches staring at the wall until the hour was up. One by one, the therapists told his parents that his subconscious had buried it to protect him, and when he developed signs of post-traumatic stress, they stopped prodding him. Finally, his parents left him alone.
He’d been alone ever since.
Up ahead on the east side of the property was one more outbuilding. As far as they knew, it had been used only for storage, so clearing it out didn’t even make his list. Only now as he walked toward it did he realize there might be things of use inside.
He whistled for Roxie, and she met him on a path that took him off to the left toward the barn. But before he cleared the trees, the sound of someone singing halted his steps.
“Rox,” he hissed. The dog circled around, then sat at attention.
He stilled, listening closely, wondering if he’d imagined it. Great. Now he was losing what was left of his mind.
But after a few seconds, a woman’s voice rang out, cutting through the silence of the woods at dusk.
He glanced at Roxie as if the dog could tell him how to proceed.
He took a few steps closer and realized the voice came from inside the outbuilding—a barn where Harold had stored his tractors. Smaller riding mowers were kept in a shed near the house—he knew because he’d had to stop work to show Molly how to mow the lawn. Twice.
The voice seemed to come from the second story. He glanced up at the windows lining the top of the structure. What would someone be doing out here in this old building?
For a split second, a wave of fear washed over him. But he quickly reminded himself that no woman, no matter how off-key, could really do him any harm.
Unless she, say, knocked him on the back of the head with a shovel.
He quietly pulled open the door, took a garden rake off a nearby hook and motioned for Roxie to stay close.
As he looked over the open space in front of him, a memory flashed in his mind. He’d been here before. He couldn’t wrap his mind around when or why, but as he inhaled the musty stench of dirt, familiarity washed over him.
The barn door opened directly underneath the second-floor loft, which covered only the right side of the structure. Dust particles danced on the waning light that filtered in through the windows, crisp and clear to match the outdoors.
The singing started up again. He startled, then inched to the left, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever was up there before whoever was up there caught a glimpse of him.
As he inched into the room, eyes scanning the loft above, he saw easels and artwork lining the ledge built around the loft space. The smell of bubblegum flooded his senses, and he closed his eyes for a long moment, trying to place the whirl of memories that assaulted his mind.
Nothing.
He dared a step farther into the barn, the only way to get a better look above. A wooden staircase jutted out in front of him, and he leaned in closer.
With one foot on the bottom step, he drew in a breath, preparing to intrude on whoever was up there, but before he could make a move, a woman’s face appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Hey!” she yelled as Roxie started barking. The chaos and surprise of the entire scene sent Drew backward, where he landed on the ground with a thud.
“Who are you?” the old woman shouted. She bounded down the stairs and stood above him, her frizzy red hair springing out in all directions. She wore a long robe of a dress. Strands of beads were piled around her neck, clanking together as she swung a long plank of wood around her head, agitating Roxie, who would attack if Drew gave her permission.
He wouldn’t.
“Roxie,” he said. The dog let out one more bark as if she couldn’t help herself and then stood, unhappily waiting for Drew to release her.
“Answer me,” the woman said.
“I work here.” He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain that shot down his backside. “I think a better question is: Who are you?”
The woman’s jaw went slack, and she gripped the wood plank a little tighter.
He grabbed the end of it. “Can you put this down?”
Her shoulders slumped as she sighed, allowing him to remove the plank from her clutches.
“Fine. You caught me. Call the cops.” She turned and walked back up the stairs, leaving him staring at Roxie, unsure what to do next.
“I can start packing now, I guess,” she called down.
He started up the stairs, cautiously. For all he knew, she was waiting above, ready to smack him on the head with another wood plank. He inched in carefully.
As the loft came into view, he saw a makeshift art studio filled with paints, canvases, paintbrushes and a wall of finished artwork. Drew was no art lover, but judging by what he saw in front of him, the old lady wasn’t half bad.
She stood at a desk, filling an oversized bag with paint supplies from the drawers.
“What are you doing?”
“I knew it was just a matter of time until someone found me out here,” she said, her voice rough and low, like she’d smo
ked a lot of cigarettes in her day. “I’ve been waiting for you to come and kick me out.”
Drew stood awkwardly in the center of her space. “Back up. Why don’t you tell me who you are?”
Her head tilted to the side as she sized him up. “I’m sure you’ve heard the stories. What are they saying about me these days?”
He shrugged. “I’m not from here.”
“Oh. Well, there are plenty of stories. The government has a whole file on me.” She rushed over to him, invading his personal space, wagging a finger in front of his nose. “Don’t believe any of those lies they feed us on the television. We’re supposed to keep buying into whatever they’re selling. I’ve got a bomb shelter at my house, filled with supplies. When it all breaks loose, you come find me.”
He could only stare.
She stuck out a bony hand with three rings on it. He looked at it.
“People your age don’t shake hands anymore when they meet someone new?”
“Oh.” He took a step back and shook her hand, surprised by her firm grip.
“I’m Birdie.”
“Drew.”
“Good to meet you.” She let go of his hand and grabbed a little jar off her desk. “Bubblegum?”
As she took off the lid, the smell of Bazooka Joe wafted up, and the flash in his mind reappeared. Had he met her before?
“Go ahead. It’s not sugar-free, but one piece won’t kill ya.”
He pulled himself together. “Thanks, I’m fine.”
She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“How long have you been using this space?” A loaded question, given his ulterior motives, but as an employee of Fairwind, he considered it fair.
She waved her hand in a circle near her head. “I lost count. Twenty-five years?” She took a step closer, squinting at him. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Drew.”
“Hmm.” She gave him a once-over, as if she was trying to make up her mind about him. “You say you’re not from here.”
“No, ma’am. I’m working on the farm.”
She locked her eyes onto him like a missile onto a target. “I know. I’ve seen you from the windows. You never stop working, do ya?”
He looked away from her too-curious eyes. “There’s a lot to do.”
“Oh, it’s more than that. You only work as hard as you do if you’re trying to avoid something. There’s pain on your face—I can see it plain as day. Same as that blond girl who’s always around. She never slows down either. But the brunette one? The one with the sheep. She seems like a riot.”
Well, she had them all pegged.
She walked back to her easel and picked up a brush. On the canvas, she’d painted two oversized flowers. Turquoise, orange and red, with accents of yellow. Gaudy colors, but they suited her. “Can’t figure out why kids your age refuse to sit still. What is it you’re running from?”
He didn’t like where this was headed. “Why don’t you tell me what kind of arrangement you worked out with the previous owner?” And what else have you seen from the windows of your loft?
She propped a pair of reading glasses on her face. “What do you want to know?”
“Do you have anything in writing?”
She cackled. “Don’t be ridiculous. Harold, Sonya and I were practically family. Sonya had big dreams for this old barn. This one was hers. She wanted to turn it into an art barn, a place that brought people together to create. They asked me to help.”
Had Sonya been an artist? He wouldn’t have noticed back then, but maybe some of the pieces hanging in the farmhouse were hers.
“So what happened?”
Birdie stilled. “Life happened.”
“But you stayed—all this time?”
She came alive again. “Look at the light in this place. I knew I’d hit the jackpot. Plus, painting here got me away from my husband, and that was a very good thing.”
Drew laughed.
“What’d you say your name was again?”
Third time’s the charm. “Drew.”
“You remind me of a little boy I knew once. Used to give him bubblegum too.” Their eyes met, and he quickly looked away.
“I assume you’re not paying rent?” He walked to the other end of the loft, anxious to put some distance between them before the woman pieced together who he was—and yet, after two decades, how could she?
“He had a little scar on his chin.”
Drew resisted the urge to touch his chin. A fall off his bike had left a permanent mark on his face, barely noticeable anymore but still there if someone looked hard enough.
He was thankful he hadn’t shaved that morning.
But when he turned and found her standing inches away, staring at him, he wondered if the scar was more visible than he’d thought.
“I didn’t expect you to ever come back here.”
He put on a confused face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve only been here a week.”
“Mm-hmm.”
She wasn’t buying it. Why would she, when he’d done such a rotten job selling it? “The rent?”
“No rent.” She turned back toward her easel, giving him a split second to catch his breath. “Why’d you wait till Harold passed to come back?” She poked her brush into a blob of yellow paint and dotted it onto the canvas at the center of her weird-looking flowers.
“Sorry, lady, I think you have me confused with someone else.”
“I never forget a pair of eyes. Or a scar.” She raised an eyebrow as she looked at him. “Don’t worry, kid, your secret’s safe with me.”
He eyed her for a long moment, wishing he didn’t have a secret at all. Why hadn’t he just told Beth and Molly the truth about who he was?
Because he didn’t want the questions. He didn’t want the pitying or judgmental looks. He didn’t want to be reminded he hadn’t done right by Jess. And now he looked like someone with something to hide.
Because he was.
But Birdie knew the truth. She’d made him, so what was the point in trying to lie to her?
He sat on the odd-shaped sofa in the corner, sinking down farther than he wanted to and wishing he’d never strolled into the barn in the first place. “I don’t remember you.”
A satisfied smile graced her lips, and she returned to her artwork. “I knew it was you. Something about the way you walk around here. I’ve seen you every night. Got a clear view of the old barn where she went missing. You go in. You stay a while. You come out.”
“Observant.”
“I am now. Wish I had been that day.”
Me too. He watched her poke dots of paint onto her canvas haphazardly, like a child in art class.
“They said you were the key to finding whoever it was that did this. They said you saw the guy.” Birdie plopped the paintbrush into a mason jar of cloudy water and looked at him.
Drew didn’t respond. He didn’t remember. Sometimes he thought there was a face in his dream, but maybe his mind had just filled in the blanks where there were no real memories. Maybe he was using the face of a newscaster or the checkout clerk from the grocery store or the last person to serve him coffee. Anything to give him the illusion of an answer that could help.
When he woke up, his mind was always blank. No faces ever stayed with him. There’d been a time he was thankful for that.
“You were so young. No one should ever have to witness something like that.” She held her brush in midair and watched him for too many seconds.
He scooted up in the sofa and stood. “I’ll make you a deal. You don’t tell anyone about me, and I won’t tell anyone about you.”
She tilted her head and regarded him where he stood. “What are you hiding from, little Drew?”
Even a rhetorical question could elicit unwanted answers in a person’s mind. He forced himself to focus on Birdie. “Do we have a deal?”
“Fine,” she agreed. “I’ll keep sneaking around until you’re ready to admit to everyone, includ
ing that pretty blonde, who you really are.”
“I’m serious. If anyone finds out I was there that day, you’ll have to find a new way to get away from your husband.”
“Oh, he’s long gone. It’s just me now. But I take your point. I like my natural light.”
“Good.”
“I’ve got about another hour of daylight, so I’m going to use it. You can stay if you want to.”
“No, I should get back.”
“Suit yourself.”
She didn’t say goodbye or show him to the door. But when he got out into the yard and turned back to look at the windows, he saw her up there, watching him go.
What if he wasn’t the only person who might have information about what had happened to Jess?
She disappeared from the window, and he turned around, an uneasy feeling settling on his shoulders.
As he and Roxie headed through the trees and into the yard, he caught a glimpse of Beth up near the house. Birdie was right: she never stopped moving. And while he’d never considered it before, he began to wonder if he wasn’t the only one trying to make amends by keeping his head down and breathing new life into an old farm.
Chapter Eighteen
It had been a week and a half since Beth and Molly hired Drew, and he’d been working with a skeleton crew of volunteers who showed up when they could. Still, he’d made considerable progress on the main barn and inside the farmhouse.
Every morning when she arrived with coffee and Danishes, Beth knocked on the side door and he let her in. She set up a makeshift office in the kitchen, giving her a somewhat obstructed view of the yard, where she could watch him work.
He never stopped.
Even when the volunteers stopped, he kept going. He hardly even took a lunch break. As an employer, she was thrilled. As a person, she was concerned.
She’d start on paperwork, but she almost always ended up in the yard, though she often felt a little useless out there.
Now, she sat in the kitchen with papers spread out across the table. Numbers stared back at her, daring her to calculate them again, as if they might give her a different answer this time.
She’d taken Drew’s estimates and run them by Ben, surprised and thankful he’d found better prices than she had.
Hometown Girl Page 17
