Even though Ben was Zoe’s older brother, Michael knew Zoe never shared the details of Sadie’s Hollow with him. Ben knew as much as the rest of the town—Em got hurt while partying, ending any chance of a career in music, and she had left Langley Park to go and live with her mother in Australia.
“It is,” Michael answered, but his attention was pulled to an approaching red Mercedes coupe.
A woman holding a large to-go cup from The Drip Coffee Shop with a map spread out over the dash passed by oblivious to their presence on the sidewalk.
It was Em. But where was she going?
“Looks like Dr. MacCaslin’s old coupe is still drivable,” Ben said as both men watched the car pass.
Michael frowned. “The tires are bald, and I’d bet it’s been at least five years since the oil was changed.”
“She’s probably going to visit her father,” Ben said, patting his shoulder with a good-naturedly, big brother kindness he’d shown Michael since they were kids.
Michael nodded, but his mind was racing.
Em wouldn’t need a map to find her way to the Senior Living Campus.
10
Em passed by Michael’s office every morning that week, and the scene had been the same each day: Em holding a giant to-go coffee from The Drip with a map spread wide across the dashboard of the coupe. She wouldn’t get home until late at night. He would hear the Mercedes pull up the packed gravel driveway and the slam of the garage door as she locked the car inside her carriage house situated three feet from his.
He would be inside his carriage house tinkering around with his digital audio workstation when she would finally return. A hobby he practiced in secret.
Who would trust their estate planning to a lawyer who spent his free time mixing techno beats?
No one.
His father never supported his love of music and especially didn’t understand his affinity for thumping bass layered with electronic melodies. Em’s talent was something his father could understand. Of course, it was all right for Mary Michelle MacCaslin to follow her dreams. She was a renowned classical violinist. And what was he? According to his father, just some kid making noise.
Michael had given everything to the MacCarron law practice. For the last five years, he had not only run the business, he had made it even more profitable. But it didn’t come easy. He’d worked his ass off day in and day out. His father had started the firm almost forty years ago and built a rock solid reputation. People would come from all over the state to have E. Noland MacCarron Esq. comb through their finances and craft meticulous wills and trusts.
Michael drummed his fingers on the dashboard. He kept his Audi parked in the driveway and was sure Em would recognize it. So today, he opted to take the car he drove all through high school and college—his trusty old Range Rover. Em had only ridden in it once, and he winced remembering that drive from the Hollow to the Midwest Medical Center.
It was ten past seven in the morning. Em had gone by around this time every day this week. Now Friday, a cold November drizzle peppered the air and darkened the pavement. He adjusted the car’s rearview mirror. Like a hunter waiting for its prey, he sat and watched for the Mercedes to pass by. He’d rescheduled all his meetings until next week. His Friday was wide open, and he needed to find out where the hell Em was going every day.
A jolt of adrenaline heightened his senses when he spotted the cherry red car. Built for summer drives, it looked silly traversing the slick late-autumn road. He would insist she drive his Audi or even his Rover while she was home. The coupe would be paralyzed in an inch of snow and was no match for the ice storms that could ravage the state in a matter of minutes. Then he remembered the fire in Em’s icy blue eyes and the way she thought she could so easily seduce him. She wasn’t the innocent girl next door anymore. It would be a fight to get her even to consider borrowing one of his cars.
Em passed by the Rover—coffee in hand and map wide open. Michael slid his vehicle into traffic and followed a few cars behind her. The Mercedes coupe would be easy to keep in his sights. Swimming in a sea of sedately colored sedans and SUVs, the coupe screamed, “Here I am world!” and the beautiful girl with auburn hair driving would have been a distraction even if she was in a beat-up Buick.
He followed her south, leaving the Kansas City area until they merged onto Highway 169 and the city skyscrapers were replaced with dormant fields and roaming livestock. They drove nearly a half an hour before she took the US 59 exit, and then it clicked.
Em was going to Sadie’s Hollow.
Traffic was sparse. She could easily identify him if he continued to follow her into the small town of Lyleville, Kansas, population fifty-one. He pulled off the highway and drove into the nearby city of Garrett, a whopping population of three thousand four hundred—a behemoth compared to Lyleville—and pulled over to the side of the road.
He cut the ignition. He wanted to give her a head start. More importantly, he wanted to catch her doing whatever the hell it was she was doing in the hollow.
But he couldn’t wait long.
After a few minutes, his knee bounced with nervous energy. He started the car and drove the familiar route to the old high school hangout.
The Mercedes was parked alongside the road in front of the cemetery. A knot, heavy and menacing, formed in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t been back to the hollow since the night of Em’s accident. The night he had left her to fend for herself while he swam in the accolades of teenagers dancing to his music and the attention of Tiffany Shelton.
He zipped up his jacket and walked past the cemetery. He eyed the limestone steps that led down to the hollow.
The Steps to Hell.
The very steps where he had found Em sprawled out like a rag doll—her hand mangled, her clothes dusted with a chalky film. The memories came flooding back as easily as pressing play on a movie you had watched a thousand times.
The thick summer foliage that encased the hollow was gone, the leaves blown to the ground by the dogged Kansas wind. Naked branches were spread thin and bare across the sky allowing Michael to watch Em investigate the hollow. The space looked smaller to him. As a teenager, the hollow, filled with tents and teenagers, seemed almost magical. Anything was possible under the stars and away from his father.
The misty drizzle changed to a biting sleet, and Michael adjusted his ball cap, pulling the bill low on his forehead. Em was wearing a black trench cinched tightly around her waist. He frowned. After he persuaded her to drive a more appropriate car, he would insist she purchase a decent winter coat. But his irritation dissipated as he watched her methodically trace her steps around the hollow. She stopped at a small cluster of rocks and ran her fingers across the rain-slicked surface. Her other hand went to her throat and lingered, and he could read her thoughts.
His lips on hers.
His fingers wrapped in the string of delicate pearls.
The press of her slight frame against his hard angles.
He let out a ragged breath. That perfect kiss would always be tangled and marred by Em’s life-altering accident. But before his guilt could take hold, it was edged out by wonder.
Em raised her arms, palms up. The cold rain fell onto her outstretched hands. She turned in slow circles as her body fell into position and she began playing an invisible violin with her right arm bowing gracefully.
It was like watching someone else’s dream. Em’s hair, wet and loose, flowed like an auburn mane. Her slight body moved in sync with some tune locked inside her mind. She was spellbinding, and he wanted to touch her like he had that night all those years ago. He closed his eyes, and the memory of their kiss transported him back in time.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Michael blinked. Em stared up at him, her hands no longer playing the violin, but in tight balls against her hips. An embarrassed blush crept up her exposed neck, and her cheeks bloomed scarlet.
“What am I doing here?” he asked, walking toward her through t
he barren trees. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s none of your damned business what I do,” she said. She narrowed her eyes. “Did you follow me here?”
Michael stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. It was the only way to restrain them from pulling the hood of her trench up over her head. She had to be freezing.
“Somebody needs to be looking out for you. For one thing, the tires on the coupe are nearly bald. You could get into an accident. Icy roads are no fucking joke—especially out here in the middle of nowhere.”
Her eyes were blazing. “So, we’re back to this. The “Michael Really Cares About Em” show, huh?”
“Christ! How many times do I have to tell you, I’m sorry. I’ve never stopped caring for you. Never!”
Her eyes were lined with the black eyeliner he had seen her wear Halloween night, and the makeup had smudged making her look like some dystopian fairy. He gathered his resolve and softened his gaze, hoping she would dial back the anger.
“You could have fucked me on Halloween,” she challenged.
Michael blew out a breath. “That’s not what you wanted. Sex had nothing to do with that little stunt you pulled.”
She shook her head, pushed past him, and headed toward the cemetery. He followed behind but stopped when she went to take the steps.
“Em, don’t walk on the steps!”
He knew the legend of The Steps to Hell was a silly tale passed down from generation to generation to keep restless youth from defacing the ancient tombstones. But his words still came out in a hoarse gasp.
Em looked over her shoulder, lifted her chin, then ascended the first few steps. She stopped midway as he walked up the sloped grass next to her. Her expression flashed something that reminded him of the innocent girl he remembered, but then her eyes hardened into blue ice.
“Em, I—”
She cut him off. “Do you honestly think The Steps to Hell can hurt me now? There’s nothing left to take away, Michael. I could tap dance up and down the length of them all day, and nothing could hurt me.”
She was holding tight to her anger. He could feel it radiating off of her. Her eyes burned with it. But beyond the rage, there was sorrow buried in the depths of her gaze.
“Come on, Em. This isn’t you. Talk to me.”
She turned away and headed for the coupe. Her hands were shaking, and she dropped her keys as she tried to unlock the car door.
He retrieved the keys. Her back was to him. Her shoulders rose and fell with her breath in angry pulses. She turned and leaned against the car. Her gaze swept over him like a mathematician evaluating an equation.
“You really want to help me, Michael?”
She rubbed her hands together. The tips of her fingers were red from the biting cold. He pocketed her keys and folded her small hands inside his. She tensed under his touch, but she didn’t pull away.
“Yes, I want to help you.”
For a moment, he saw the girl he kissed on the rock. The girl who used to sit at her window, flashlight in hand, as they signaled back and forth late into the night. He saw Em, back pressed to the side of her house, smiling and calling him to run through the rain and join her.
She blinked, and the girl he remembered disappeared.
“If you want to help me, you’ll leave me the hell alone. You’re the last person I’d ever trust.”
She tried to pull her hands from his grip, but he held tight. Her words stung. Her words cut him to the core, but he knew she was lying. She might not realize it, but he did. Rage and anger may have been her default setting these past twelve years, but it wasn’t who she was.
Michael released her hands, but instead of letting her go, he cupped her face. “You forget, I’ve known you your whole life. I don’t care if it’s been twelve years or twelve thousand years, I will always know your heart.”
Em’s bottom lip trembled. She relaxed a fraction, and he brushed his thumb across her lips. He smiled, but his expression fell when she pushed him back.
“You don’t know me, Michael, not anymore.” She held out her hand. “I have to get back to Langley Park. I want my keys. Now!”
11
Em rubbed her hands together and quickened her pace toward the Senior Living Campus. The icy November sleet had subsided, but the sky remained gray and bleak.
It would have made more sense to drive, but the four shots of Teeling she downed after returning home from Sadie’s Hollow still had her head swimming. This town already thought she was a selfish, reckless fool. Adding a DUI to her list of accomplishments would only prove them right—and it would kill her father.
She pulled the sleeves of her trench over her fingertips, and a surge of hot anger bloomed in her chest. Michael was right. She didn’t come prepared for the cold. Her cheeks burned thinking about him following her. She must have looked like a lunatic prancing around the hollow. But it was the only place she could think to start. Unfortunately, after a week of retracing her steps, she wasn’t any closer to unlocking the events of that awful night.
To add insult to injury, Michael had watched her linger over the boulders where he’d kissed her. She hated how vividly she remembered his kiss. That kiss awakened a part of her she had never known existed. She had gone to the hollow a girl. That kiss had made her feel like a woman. She bristled with embarrassment. The whiskey hadn’t helped her forget his warm hands cradling her face or his earnest green eyes filled with concern. She pulled her trench tight across her chest and walked the last block to the Senior Living Campus.
A young man was working the security post. He waved her through with a smile—a much different reception from the tongue-lashing she had received from the last guard. The main parking lot was filled, and she watched families pile out of minivans and head inside the main building.
She reached her father’s cottage, but before she could even knock, he opened the door.
“Kiddo, we’ve got to head over to the main building. The concert’s about to begin,” Bill said, a broad grin stretched across his face. He was carrying a portable oxygen concentrator, and the gentle, airy beat of the small machine hummed expectantly.
Concert? Her father hadn’t mentioned anything about a concert. When he had asked her to join him for an event on the main campus, she figured they were going to join a canasta tournament or play checkers. She didn’t have a clue as to what people did in this kind of community.
“What do you mean, a concert?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Tom and Mindy Lancaster are having their students perform for the residents. They bring the kids to play here several times a year, I’m told.”
The Lancasters had been her first music teachers. Mindy taught piano and Tom, the violin. Tom had been instrumental in connecting her with the elite classical music world. A professional violinist, playing with the Kansas City Symphony, he’d invited her to play for the symphony’s conductor who had confirmed her talent was the kind that only came around once in a lifetime. It was Tom who convinced her parents that her talent went far beyond just being good. It was Tom who had encouraged her to set the classical music world on fire.
Guilt settled thick and heavy inside her chest. She had never contacted him after her accident. He had reached out. She’d listened as her mother spoke with him over the phone weeks after the accident, but she didn’t have the strength to take his call. He was just another person she had disappointed.
Em matched her father’s pace as they left the cottage and headed to the main building. A smiling gentleman with a little girl in his arms held the door open for them. The lobby of the main building smelled of cinnamon and spice. Tasteful displays of pumpkins and gourds adorned every table, and a red garland was draped dramatically across a grand staircase. Children of all ages dressed in their Sunday best skipped up the steps with sheets of music in hand.
Her father squeezed her shoulder. “Are you ready to head up?”
Her throat was tight. “Of course, Dad.”
They entered a large ballroom on the second floor. Residents and families sat together as children stood near the front of the room tuning violins and taking turns warming up on the piano. Em flexed her fingers then pulled her sleeves down. It was too loud. The squeaks of bow meeting string cut through her like razors. Her shallow breath mimicked the rapid beat of her heart. She took an aisle seat next to her father and forced her gaze to the floor.
“I ran into Tom Lancaster a few days ago on campus,” her father said, settling the portable oxygen on the floor between them. “I told him you were in town, and he asked me to invite you to the recital.”
Em nodded. There was no escape. She had to get through the next hour or so. She scanned the students. Seven children ranging in age from maybe six or seven to late teens all stood quietly, violin in hand. Nine children holding sheet music formed a queue next to a grand piano. Tom and Mindy were moving from student to student. They were young newlyweds when Em was a little girl. Now in their early fifties, they had barely changed from how she had remembered them, except Mindy’s wrist was in a cast.
Tom clapped his hands twice, and the room quieted as a small group of residents entered the room accompanied by several nurses.
“Those are some of the people from the Memory Care Center,” Bill said, gesturing to the group. “The Campus has one of the best Alzheimer’s and dementia care facilities in the country.”
The cabbie had told her the same thing the night she had arrived.
Em’s eyes grew wide when Michael entered the room, pushing his father in a wheelchair. He parked the chair and kept a hand on his father’s shoulder. A nurse stopped to speak with him and his brow creased as they spoke.
E. Noland MacCarron had been a force of nature. But the slight man she saw sitting in a wheelchair looked confused. He rocked from side to side, scanning the room like he was trying to figure how he had gotten there.
Tom and Mindy welcomed everyone, and a little girl with feet dangling from the piano bench kicked off the recital with a choppy variation of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”
The Sound of Home Page 8
