Hometown Girl

by Courtney Walsh

  That said something about him.

  But the numbers were still daunting. They’d finished all the contracts, making her an equal partner with Molly and Ben, but even with Ben’s investment and her own, they still didn’t have enough money for everything that needed to be done on the farm.

  Worse, she hadn’t even had someone out yet to survey the condition of the orchard. Those trees were their bread and butter, and while they still seemed to be thriving, she was no tree doctor. For all she knew, they could be infected with some rare tree virus or something. Was there such a thing?

  Daily, she wrestled with the idea that the only second chance Fairwind Farm would bring her was a second chance to fail.

  And that wasn’t something she was anxious to do again.

  She closed her eyes and rubbed away the dull ache in her temples.

  Behind her, Drew cleared his throat. She’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t heard the screen door open.

  She startled.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I was just spacing out for a minute.” She looked at the papers and empty coffee cups strewn across the kitchen table. “I’m sorry. I made a mess of your kitchen.” He’d been nice enough to let her work in here—and this was how she repaid him?

  Drew’s gaze fell to the table, where papers surrounded her calculator and notebook. “You’re an artist.”

  Beth glanced down at her notebook and saw a sketched image of Fairwind staring back at her. She’d been so caught up in her daydream, she hadn’t even realized she’d been drawing.

  “Your heart shows up in your art,” her favorite professor had always said. “So if you’re having trouble finding your way, sit and sketch for a while. Your way will find you.”

  Her father hadn’t agreed. Said he knew from the time she was very young that business was her only path. “You can’t waste that mind on art, Elizabeth. You can draw in your free time, but it’s not going to pay the bills.”

  So she’d majored in business, yet still found ways to sneak in art classes. She was convinced it tapped into a part of her brain that no business class ever could. She missed out on studying it, though, the way an art major would. Instead, she spent most of her college days learning how to convince people they needed whatever she was selling, then later vying for a coveted position at one of Chicago’s top firms.

  A position that had gone to Michael.

  A position that had ruined her life not once, but twice.

  She’d spent the next several years convincing her father that she hadn’t wasted her college education. Until recently, it had been years since she’d sketched, drawn or painted anything.

  Suddenly embarrassed, Beth picked up the notebook and turned the page. “I just doodle.”

  “If you say so.” Drew smirked at her, catching her lie.

  How many angst-ridden arguments had she had with her parents over studying art? She’d been convinced it was her destiny, and yet she’d given it up without a real fight. A part of her always knew she’d abandoned her biggest dream in favor of the practical path.

  It felt like a lifetime ago. Odd how that part of her was creeping in now when it had been suppressed for so long.

  Drew turned the chair around and straddled it, meeting her eyes. She’d found ways to ignore his attractiveness over the last week and a half. She wasn’t finding that so easy now.

  “What’s all this?” he asked.

  She focused on the paperwork in front of her—anything to avoid his eyes. “Finances.”

  “You don’t look happy.”

  She shrugged. “It is what it is.” No sense telling him they wouldn’t have money to do half the things on his list.

  “You know, I was looking at the numbers myself.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket.

  “That’s not part of your job.” She already felt like they were taking advantage of him.

  “Saving you money is part of my job.”

  She watched as he scanned the paper where he’d scribbled notes to himself. “Why are you here?”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  “That came out wrong.”

  He took off his ball cap and set it on the table between them.

  “I just meant we’re hardly paying you. You said you liked your job on the ranch. I’ve been trying to figure out why you would stay here, unless you’ve got some kind of hero complex and feel like you need to save us.”

  He held her gaze for a long few seconds. “I’m here to help. Does it matter why?”

  She’d noticed all the work he’d done in the house. If she had to guess, this man slept a total of two hours a night. But maybe he was right—maybe it didn’t matter why he was here. Just that he was. And she should shut her mouth and thank the Lord.

  But she couldn’t. It wasn’t in her nature to leave things alone.

  “Where’s your family?” She chewed the inside of her lip.

  “My parents retired near Denver, but they’re all over the place. Last I heard from them, they were in San Diego.”

  “Siblings?”

  “One sister. Sharly. Pain in the neck.”

  “I know something about that.”

  His smile was so faint she almost missed it. “Your sister’s okay.”

  “But you have to admit, she’s a pain in the neck.” Beth set her pencil down. “She bought a goat, for Pete’s sake.”

  Drew laughed. “It’s a sheep.”

  “Same difference.” Wasn’t it?

  Drew looked like he wanted to correct her but didn’t.

  “You’re a hard one to figure out,” she said. “I feel like you could be making more money anywhere else.”

  “I could say the same about you.”

  Beth’s shoulders stiffened.

  Yet it wasn’t an indictment. It wasn’t an accusation. He wasn’t saying someone like her shouldn’t be here in sleepy Willow Grove, just that she didn’t have to be.

  Drew looked away. “I’m not here for the money.”

  “Obviously.” She waited until their eyes met again. “So?”

  He ran a hand over his chin. “Sometimes you just need a change.” He stared at her as if he knew she could understand. After all, wasn’t that why she was here too?

  That and her second chance.

  She watched him for a few long moments, but he seemed to be done talking. At least about this. She’d already pushed him enough, so she decided to let it go.

  She stood and pulled his house to-do list off the refrigerator, noting all the tasks that had already been checked off. “You’ve been busy.”

  He put his baseball cap back on his head.

  “Do you sleep?”

  He laughed. “Not well.”

  “Well, you’ve made a lot of progress. Don’t kill yourself on it, though—I don’t know if anyone’s going to live in it for a while.”

  “You’re not moving in?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. My mom had a stroke about ten months ago, so I moved back in with her.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  She sat back down across from him. “How could you?”

  She read over his list. Each room still needed painting. The hardwood floors needed refinishing. He’d made several notes about the kitchen, depending on the budget. She looked around. It did need attention. New appliances, new cupboards, a new floor. In her mind, she heard the dinging of an imaginary cash register.

  “Thanks for putting this together,” she said. “I know it’s about the last priority, but it’s good to know what we’re looking at.” She hadn’t expected him to work on the house. The fact that he was, that he seemed truly invested—well, she didn’t know what to do with that.

  “When I was younger, they had something called the Fairwind Farm Market. Were you ever here during one of those?”

  He shook his head.

  “Maybe we could raise some more money for renovations if we organized one for thi
s summer. We could invite local vendors—artists and makers—to come out and sell their stuff, and we could scour the house for stuff we could sell ourselves. Maybe have a booth with apple-cider donuts—sort of a tease of what’s to come.”

  Thanks to the Internet, it wouldn’t take long to compile a list of midwestern vendors. Many of them might even remember the Fairwind Market.

  “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “Yeah, but at least it’s work I understand. Do you know how many times I’ve swept the porch or weeded the flower beds? There’s only so many ways someone like me can help around here.”

  He eyed her for a long moment. “I didn’t have you pegged for the kind of person who underestimates herself.”

  She started to respond but snapped her jaw shut. He had a point.

  “How much money do you really think you can make hosting something like this?” He looked skeptical.

  “I’ll get back to you on that.” Maybe it was crazy. Maybe it wouldn’t be worthwhile. But it was the best idea she’d had so far. If it helped keep Fairwind in their family without having to find an outside investor, it was worth a shot.

  Never mind that part of her knew it might be their only solution if they wanted to open before she and Molly turned into two old biddies shuffling around on the porch.

  “Maybe we should see what’s upstairs,” Beth said, feeling excited for the first time since this crazy Fairwind adventure had begun.

  Drew stood and started for the door. “Why?”

  “There might be furniture up there we can sell. I’m betting it’s all vintage. Isn’t it?”

  “I haven’t been up there yet, but take a look and let me know what you find.” Another tug on his baseball cap, and he was out the door before she could respond.

  He’d been living there for over a week and he hadn’t gone upstairs?

  What are you hiding, Drew Barlow?

  Beth took her notebook and walked up the creaky staircase to the second level. While a barn sale might not be a huge moneymaker, every little bit would help, and the Pendergasts did have a lot of nice furniture. Old, but nice. People loved old, nice furniture. And it could be great publicity for the orchard. They’d get all that foot traffic out here to see what they were up to. The sooner they could get people thinking of the farm, the better. Her marketing mind had already started spinning with ideas.

  As she reached the top of the stairs, she turned into the first bedroom. It seemed to be a guest room, with a small table in the corner that held a sewing machine. Unlike the downstairs, the upstairs seemed to have been carefully preserved. Everything in order. Almost untouched. The large wooden four-poster bed was made, and the room looked staged, like something you’d see in a magazine. A soft rug covered perfect hardwood floors. With the exception of a significant layer of dust, the room was still beautiful.

  The two levels of the house seemed like polar opposites. How could one floor be in such disarray while the other was so pristine?

  Beth imagined they could get a fair price for the bed—and the wardrobe at its side was a beautiful piece, though it wasn’t her style. She had no attachments to anything inside the house, so it would be easy to sell it off. Especially if it helped get them closer to opening the orchard.

  Across from the guest room was another bedroom. Stepping across the threshold was like stepping into a time warp.

  Thick white woodwork around the windows popped off the pale blue-gray walls. Not a cheery blue, but not depressing either. White eyelet valances covered only the tops of the three windows overlooking the yard. Beth loved the natural sunlight that poured through the windows, making the room appear larger than it was.

  Sketches of farm animals hung all around. She touched the image of a horse, squinted at the detail. Not bad. Especially for a child.

  So, the Pendergasts’ daughter had been an artist.

  On the distressed white dresser sat a framed photo of the Pendergast family—all three of them. Happiness danced in their eyes. Beth hated that the end of their story didn’t reflect that same emotion.

  A chill shot through her as she opened the closet door and saw all the little clothes, neatly folded on shelves or hanging up on the rack. Little shoes met her where she stood.

  The tragedy of Fairwind rushed back. The girl—Jessica—had gone missing the day after the Whitaker family had been at the farm for the Fairwind Market. She could still remember her parents discussing it in hushed tones while she and Ben pressed their ears to the door of their bedroom.

  “They don’t have any leads at this point,” her father had said.

  “This is just terrible. Who would do such a thing to a little girl?” her mother asked, her voice cracking with empathy for poor Mrs. Pendergast.

  “They’ve got search parties going ’round the clock,” her dad said. “I’m going to see if I can help.”

  Her mother must’ve made a face, the kind her father could read without any words. “What is it?” he asked her. Beth imagined him sitting beside her on the bed.

  “That could’ve been one of our girls.” She’d cried then, and Beth had decided she’d heard enough.

  For weeks, volunteers had gathered near the old farm, searching for the little girl who’d been kidnapped from her own yard. Fairwind had shut down for the rest of the summer, and the newspaper ran stories for weeks speculating on what might have happened to Jessica Pendergast.

  But to this day, no one knew.

  Beth shuddered now, remembering Sonya’s prayer carefully, probably tearfully, written in the old prayer book. She couldn’t imagine what that poor couple had gone through, to one day have a daughter and the next day—not. No wonder the farm hadn’t survived many more years after that.

  God, why?

  Beth tried not to obsess over questions that had no answers. Questions like Why would Michael destroy what we had? Or Did he ever love me at all? Or Why did You have to take Daddy before I could make things right with him? But this new question begged to be asked. How could a loving God allow something like this to happen to someone who obviously loved Him so much? Sonya’s words were faith-filled and peaceful. She hadn’t deserved this ending. How many people had this tragedy destroyed?

  Several years after Jessica had gone missing, Sonya passed away. The town cried, “Death by a broken heart,” but maybe she’d been sick. Whatever the case, after her death, Mr. Pendergast became a shut-in—and not a very nice one, though who could blame him? Beth didn’t imagine she’d be very cheery either if the two people she loved most in this world died so many years before their time.

  According to local gossip, Harold never recovered. Visited the police station once a week with new theories and “evidence.” Everyone brushed him off like he was crazy.

  And maybe he was.

  But wasn’t anyone sympathetic to what the man had been through? It didn’t take long for the stories to spread—for him to be painted as a wildly crazy man stuck in the past.

  Beth wondered if anyone had shown him kindness or empathy.

  Or had he spent years wondering why the entire town of Willow Grove—a place that was supposed to be safe and welcoming—preferred to forget what had happened, as if it were a blemish on an otherwise spotless record?

  Mr. Pendergast had become the butt of a town joke. Shame settled on Beth’s shoulders. Why had this never occurred to her before? She’d been every bit as guilty as the rest of them, wanting nothing more than to pretend something so tragic had never happened. Not in her hometown. Not here.

  The pain of that betrayal was almost palpable. They’d all let this family down.

  On the top shelf of the closet, Beth spotted a little wooden box. Overcome with curiosity, she stood on her tiptoes and pulled it down. Inside she found a heart-shaped rock, a friendship bracelet and a faded photograph of a little blond girl with long braids standing next to a dark-headed boy. Both grinning, both holding freshly caught fish.

  She turned the photo over. J + D.

  Beth
stared into the little girl’s eyes. As if she might be able to tell her something the police didn’t already know.

  “What happened to you, Jessica?” Beth whispered.

  Footsteps on the creaky staircase drew her attention to the hallway, quickening her pulse, as if she should be afraid of getting caught. Molly appeared in the doorway, and Beth released the breath she’d been holding.

  It wasn’t like she was trespassing—why did she feel like she was?

  “What are you doing in here?” Molly’s eyes widened.

  “Snooping.”

  “Is this the little girl’s room?”

  “Yeah, look.” She handed her the photograph.

  Molly studied it with sad eyes. “She was beautiful. Who’s the boy?”

  Beth shrugged. “Not sure.” Had the photo been special to Jess? Had she carefully placed these items in the box for safekeeping?

  “They look so innocent.” Molly plopped down on the bed and took the rock from the little box. “It’s a heart.” She held it up.

  “I saw.”

  “She would’ve been around our age.”

  Beth remembered thinking the same thing all those years ago when the girl had disappeared. She’d known every other kid in town except Jess Pendergast. No one had known her. She’d been homeschooled and spent all her time on the farm. When the Whitakers visited Fairwind, she would see the little girl running around in the yard, often on the perimeter, keeping her distance from all the visitors. Did they felt like intruders to Jess? Was she a fan of seclusion, or did she enjoy the company? Did she take to the shadows and make up stories about the families that descended on her home?

  In all the time they’d visited Fairwind, many weekends for several years, Beth had never spoken to Jess. She regretted that now.

  “I could ask Bishop.” Molly carefully put the rock back in the box.

  “Ask him what?” Beth asked.

  “If he’d let us see the case file.”

  Beth took the box from her sister. “I don’t even think that’s legal.”

  “Couldn’t hurt to ask.”

  “To what end?” Beth turned the friendship bracelet between her fingers.

  Molly sat down on the bed. “To figure out what happened to her.”