“Now, boys,” Kathy broke in. “Em’s got quite enough on her plate without worrying about house repairs at eight thirty on a Saturday morning.”
Em gave the woman a grateful smile.
Ben reached into his pocket. “There’s no rush. Here’s my card. Give me a call whenever you’re ready.”
Em slid the card into her pocket. She could use Ben Fisher’s help with the house. At a minimum, the house needed some sprucing up. The nicked cabinets and baseboards needed a new coat of paint, and the worn linoleum flooring probably had to go altogether.
“Thanks, Ben. I’ll be in touch,” she said, then turned to Kathy. “It was so nice running into you, Mrs. Stein.”
“We’ll have to have you over for dinner. Both of you,” Kathy added, giving Michael’s hand a squeeze.
“And don’t forget the holiday party,” Ben said.
Kathy’s face lit up. “That’s right! You must come to our holiday party—it’s only a few weeks away. Michael, I’m putting you in charge of bringing Em.”
“It’s a plan, Mrs. Stein.”
Em stared in wonder as her past life washed over her like a tsunami. It had been more than a decade since she’d had any contact with these people, and they still treated her with the same love and familiarity as they always had. She couldn’t tell if the tightness in her chest was joy or heartache. Michael must have sensed her distress. He pressed his hand against her back, and his touch instantly set her nerves at ease.
“See you soon, dear. I’m so glad you’re home,” Kathy said, giving her one last embrace before following her son into the coffee shop.
Home.
The word sounded foreign to her ears. Home had never been a physical place. It never mattered if she was in Asia, Europe, or North America; home was the music. Anywhere she played the violin became her sanctuary, her safe place.
But she couldn’t deny that something about Langley Park spoke to her soul—a connection that went beyond the brick and mortar of her house to her very DNA.
Could the sound of home be found whispering in the breeze, blowing wisps of her hair across her face? Could the sound of home be the chorus of families laughing and chatting as they strolled the streets of the Langley Park town center?
The creak of a car door drew her attention.
Michael held the Range Rover’s door open. “We better get going.”
Em took a step forward then froze. She could end this right now. She could tell Michael she didn’t need his help. Didn’t want his help. She released a shaky breath. The roots of her anger no longer felt secure, like a weed in the rain-drenched soil, one swift pull could undo the days and months and years of festering growth in mere seconds.
“I can literally hear you thinking, Em,” he said, leaving the car door open as he leaned against the side of the car.
She hated how badly she wanted to get into his car. It was so much easier to hate him with an ocean between them.
“What do you have to lose?” he asked and smiled that crooked, crinkle-eyed smile.
What do you have to lose?
What if her resolve slipped? What if the tight knot of anger that kept her together unraveled? Who would she be?
Michael’s words echoed in her mind before the answer came clanging like church bells: Everything. She had everything to lose.
* * *
Michael glanced over at Em. They had driven nearly eighty miles southwest to Sadie’s Hollow in silence. She had stared straight ahead, her gaze trained on the road. Expression blank and unreadable.
Em was in her head again. He knew this look well. He would watch her as a boy—crouched down low, his chin set on the windowsill as he gazed from his bedroom window into her room. She would stand as still as a statue, framed by the window, holding her violin for hours at a time. She was working something out in her mind. Em could not only hear the music in her head, but see it and feel it, and he could always tell the moment it clicked. Something in the air would change, and a ripple of anticipation would pass through him. She would pull the bow across the strings, and he’d be locked in that moment with her. A secret stowaway in her musical voyage.
He toyed with the idea of turning on the radio or popping a cassette into the old Range Rover’s tape deck to try and distract her, but he knew it would be of no use. All he could do was wait until she worked out whatever was going on in her head. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have things to contemplate.
He needed to come up with a plan. There had to be more to the story of Em’s injury. But as he turned off the interstate and headed down the country road toward Sadie’s Hollow, a sense of dread passed over him. Even if there was a crime committed or foul play, it would have taken place more than a decade ago. The area around the hollow had remained relatively unchanged after all that time, but any evidence would surely be long gone.
His thoughts darkened. What if Em didn’t remember anything new? What if this turned out to be some wild goose chase? What would that do to her? Would it reignite her anger? Would she vanish for another twelve years?
“Hey,” she said, her gaze focused on the console between them.
He glanced down as his phone buzzed an incoming email. “Cell coverage is spotty out in the sticks. That may be an email from Zoe. Can you take a look?”
Em took the phone into her hands. “Your phone isn’t password protected? That doesn’t seem very lawyerly of you.”
A muscle in his cheek twitched. He would gladly endure her teasing. “Never needed one. That phone is like my third appendage. I always have it with me.”
“You shower with it?” she asked.
He held back a grin. “No.”
“You sleep with it under your pillow?”
He kept his gaze locked on the road, but he could hear the smile in her voice.
“No,” he answered, again. She really would have made one hell of a litigator.
She hummed her disapproval. “If I’m hearing you right, it sounds like your phone may not be an additional appendage.”
“What does the email say, Mary Michelle?”
He glanced over as a pink flush colored her cheeks, and her teeth grazed her bottom lip. She had reacted this way the last time he had called her by her full name on Halloween night. The night he used every ounce of his resolve to resist her.
Every night since then, he had gone to bed with the memory of her tight, petite body wrapped around him. Her thighs pressed snug against his. Her breasts soft against his chest. The spicy scent of the whiskey still wet on her lips sent his thoughts into a dirty barrage of images. He had wanted to run his tongue along the seam of her lips and taste her, press his lips to hers and kiss her until the call of her body was too much to deny. He could have had her right there on the piano bench. His hands flexed against the steering wheel, remembering the way her ass fit in his grip.
He had taken a shitload of cold showers since that night.
Em sat forward. “It is from Zoe. She sent a list of bridges. Some have pictures attached.”
“Does anything look familiar?”
“There must be twenty of them—and these are just the ones near the hollow.”
He heard a hint of hopelessness in her voice.
“It’s a start, Em. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
“But I don’t have...” she trailed off, but he knew what she was thinking. She didn’t have much time. She had to sell the house as soon as possible to allow her father to finalize the purchase of the Senior Living Campus cottage.
He pulled up in front of the old cemetery as a pang of annoyance shot through his chest. They weren’t the only ones paying a visit to Sadie’s Hollow this morning.
* * *
“Is that Kyle Benson?” Em asked.
Michael cut the ignition, threw off his seatbelt, and opened the car door. “Stay here,” he said, his eyes flashing anger as he got out of the car.
Michael strode over to where Kyle was taking a picture of an old tombstone. The me
n shook hands, but their posture looked anything but friendly.
Em opened the car door and shook her head. Nobody, not even Michael MacCarron, told her what to do.
The ground was still damp from yesterday’s icy rain, making the blades of dried out grass twinkle and shine in the morning light. Barely a day had passed, but the hollow seemed like a different place. With the dark skies gone, every twig and branch stood out against the big, blue Kansas sky.
Kyle held a camera in one hand and blocked the sun from his eyes with the other. “Hi, Em.”
“Hey, Kyle. What are you doing all the way out here?” she asked.
“Just work,” he said, glancing over at Michael. “I was telling Michael about the project I was working on for the Kansas historical society. I’m photographing some of the old cemeteries around the state.”
“I see. Must be interesting work,” she answered. She couldn’t figure out why Michael looked ready to pounce.
“Are you here to try and remember more about the night you were injured?” Kyle asked.
“It’s really none of your business why we’re here,” Michael barked.
“It’s okay. I already told Kyle I was going to try to learn more about the night I was injured,” Em answered.
Michael pinned her with his gaze. “You told him?”
“We talked about it a little the night I drove her home,” Kyle answered.
“You didn’t quite get her all the way home, did you, Benson?” Michael threw back.
Em’s gaze bounced between the men. “Hey, it’s all good. And yeah, we are here to see if I can remember more about that night.”
Kyle looped the camera strap around his neck. “Has anything come back to you?”
She shook her head and glanced at Michael. What was his problem? She knew he was never crazy about Kyle, but he was still someone who was at the hollow that night. He could be helpful.
A thought popped into her mind. “Kyle, are you familiar with this area—I mean from your work?”
“Somewhat, why do you ask?”
Michael’s jaw twitched like he was grinding his molars into dust.
“You see,” she began, “I remember a bridge. I can’t remember what it looks like, only what it felt like to cross over it. I was wondering if you knew of any old, possibly wooden bridges in the area.”
Kyle scratched the back of his head. “I think you’d have more luck north of here. I can’t think of many bridges around here.”
“We’ve got a list of more than twenty bridges in the area,” Michael countered.
Kyle put his hands up. “Sorry, counselor! I’m no expert witness when it comes to finding old bridges. You may want to talk to Tiffany Shelton. She might remember something about that night. I bet you could track her down, Michael. Last I heard, she hadn’t moved too far from Langley Park.”
At the mention of Tiffany Shelton, Em’s pulse kicked up in a fight or flight rush. Her fingertips tingled, and the bloom of anger heated her skin.
“I better be off,” Kyle said, reaching for his camera bag.
She watched his truck disappear down the road then turned to Michael. He’d shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Why do you dislike Kyle so much? What did he ever do to you?”
“I don’t like the way he looks at you. Never have,” Michael replied, keeping his gaze trained on his shoes.
“That’s really messed up,” she shot back.
He looked up, fire burning in his green eyes. “Messed up?”
“You gave up any right to judge guys on my behalf when you chose—”
He cut her off. “I’m so fucking sorry I abandoned you for Tiffany Shelton!”
He closed the distance between them. Before she knew it, his hands were cupping her face.
“I don’t know what else I can say, Em. I will fucking apologize to you every day for the rest of my life if that’s what it takes.”
His fingertips pressed the nape of her neck, and the delicious pressure begged her to melt into his grip. His scent stirred her senses as flashes of his lips brushing against hers jumbled her thoughts. Michael’s breath was coming in shallow pants, dancing and teasing her freckle-kissed skin. She raised her hands and rested them on top of his.
Her fingers twitched as they rested on top of his. Instinct was taking over. She wanted to twine her fingers with his. She wanted to guide them into her hair. She wanted him to wrap her auburn locks around his fist and pull. She wanted to hover on the cusp of pleasure and pain as he devoured her mouth with kisses. But she stopped herself.
She swallowed hard. “Have you ever considered that your problem isn’t with Kyle Benson?”
Michael frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not angry with him. You’re angry with yourself,” she said.
He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She exhaled a shaky breath. “You’re wrong. I know everything about misplaced anger and even more about living with gut-wrenching guilt.”
Michael pulled back and dropped his hands. “We’re wasting time. Let’s focus on what we came out here to do.”
15
Em stirred her spoon in the bowl of tomato soup which was growing colder by the minute. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and she and Michael had stopped at a diner in Garrett, Kansas, a few miles north of Sadie’s Hollow for a late lunch, though neither was doing much more than picking at their food.
After their run-in with Kyle Benson, they had walked the perimeter of the hollow countless times and visited three bridges on Zoe’s list.
And what did she remember?
Nothing.
This was her sixth trip to the hollow in as many days. She had driven the almost eighty miles, down and back, every day that week hoping something would trigger her memory.
The bridges from Zoe’s list were nothing to write home about. Yes, they were old and in need of repair, but none of them were made of wood. But that didn’t keep her from making Michael drive back and forth over each bridge as she closed her eyes and willed her body to remember.
Now they sat across from each other as a banged up radio propped against the cash register rattled a twangy country tune. Michael had gone into lawyer mode after their tense conversation. Engaged, yet politely reserved, he had kept his distance. Once they arrived at the diner, he’d taken the map out and worked methodically, marking the remaining locations of the bridges from Zoe’s list.
“Anybody need a refill?”
A waitress with a long gray ponytail and a name tag with “Peggy” written by hand in curly lettering smiled down at her. The deep lines etched on her face spoke of a long life full of hard work. She leaned in to refill Michael’s water, but he raised his hand and waved her off.
“No, thank you. We’re ready for the check.”
He glanced up, and Em gave him a slight nod. They had been dancing around each other with pleasantries all day.
The waitress fussed with a pocket in her apron, pulled out their bill, and placed it on the table. She offered them a kind smile. “I wanted to ask if you folks wanted to donate to the 4-H Club. We always take up a collection during the year and donate all the money on Tina’s birthday.”
The woman gestured toward the cash register where, along with the radio, a jar sat crammed tight with coins and bills. A framed photograph of a young woman in a graduation cap and gown next to the jar. Her dark hair was fashioned into two braids that rested near her collarbone.
“Who’s Tina?” Em asked, unable to pull her gaze from the photograph. The girl, so lovely and vibrant, smiled as if she believed everything good was ahead of her.
The waitress fingered the cross she wore on a delicate chain around her neck. “Tina Fowler. She was from LaRoe just a few miles away from Garrett. She used to waitress here all through high school. She was such a good girl. Even got herself a full-ride scholarship to college. She wanted to be a vet
erinarian. She was always raising chickens and rabbits. That’s why we like to donate to the 4-H Club. Such a loss.”
“What happened to her?” Em asked.
“Goodness! It must be going on twelve years now. Sweet Jesus, how time passes. Tina was riding her bike in to help me open the diner. We open at five in the morning, so Tina was on the road real early. Her family had a place out near LaRoe about five miles west of Garrett. The police said it was a hit and run.”
“That’s awful! I’m so sorry,” Em said, glancing over at Michael who remained silent.
The waitress released the cross. “Police never did find the bastard who hit her and left her to die alone. Tina was killed a week before she was supposed to leave for college. It hit this town hard. She was like a ray of sunlight, I’ll tell ya. But the community came together just like we did all those years ago when the cement plant went bust and so many folks were without work. All you can do is stick together and try to take care of each other. The good Lord decides the rest.”
“For Tina,” Michael said, startling Em and the waitress.
She was so entranced with Tina Fowler’s story, she had almost forgotten he was there.
Michael handed the waitress two crisp hundred dollar bills.
The waitress pressed the bills to her chest. “Thank you, sir.”
Michael placed a few more bills next to the check, and his gaze darted to the photograph of the forever young, Tina Fowler. “Let’s hit the road, Em.”
* * *
Em glanced at her phone. It was nearly a quarter to five, and the sun hung low in the sky as the Senior Living Campus security guard waved and buzzed her through the gate. She had seen this security guard a few times, and he gave her an easy smile as she passed by. Thankfully, she hadn’t encountered the smug guard from her first visit.
She walked up the drive toward the main building. She took out her phone and paused to scroll through her emails. Tom Lancaster had sent her all the times and dates she would be needed to play “dinner music” while the residents enjoyed their Saturday meal.
The Sound of Home Page 11
