“They wanted me to continue with the family tradition, and I wanted something else. Like your dad. He wanted to do something, be something, other than a Howard, like all the men before and after him. Tradition was fine for my grandfathers, my dad, my brothers, but I wanted…more.”
“And they’ve never gotten over it.”
“Some things you just don’t walk away from.”
Family was one of those things. Some people who did it managed to salvage some sort of relationship, but she didn’t think her family would. Her grandparents had never forgiven her dad for wanting something else; her grandmother wasn’t going to forgive her for cutting them off. And if she was brutally honest, she’d never forgiven Valerie for abandoning her to her grandparents, or her grandparents for the way they’d treated her.
She stared harder at the boat. The man inside was slumped back, a floppy hat shading his face. A red-and-white cooler occupied the other bench, and the same colors bobbed on a plastic float, marking his line in the water. “Do you regret it? Would you go back and change things if you could?”
“I regret a lot,” he said evenly, “but no. I wouldn’t live the way they’d wanted me to. I couldn’t.”
What was it they’d wanted of him? Was his family like her grandparents—dedicated to a way of life so superior in their minds that nothing else was acceptable? Had it been a matter of occupation, religion, military service? When people were narrow-minded enough, stubborn enough, the slightest disagreement could become an unbreachable gulf.
“You mentioned brothers. How many?”
A shadow crossed his eyes. “Three brothers, two sisters.”
“Wow. And all of them did exactly what was expected of them, which made your rebellion even harder.”
“Yeah.” He might have gone on, but at that moment, his cell phone went off, a straightforward ring-ring.
You could tell a lot from a person’s ringtones, she thought, comparing that to the three she heard most often: “Marie Laveau” for Evie, “Witchy Woman” for Martine and an uh-oh, trouble dirge for Valerie.
The call was short, and Jones stood up as he disconnected. “That was the garage. The cars are ready.” He extended his hand to her, and she took it without thought, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But what happened next wasn’t natural at all.
His hand was warm, the skin callused. His fingers closed snugly around hers, sending heat and tingles and something that felt very much like life seeping upward, through her hand, along her arm, into her chest. The sensation was both relaxing and disturbing, but in a thoroughly pleasant way. Awareness. Connection. Intimacy.
And he felt it, too. It was in his startled gaze, in the way his breath hitched. He stared at her, and she stared back, surprised, anticipating…something.
Moment after moment they remained that way: him standing, her sitting, hands clasped, gazes locked, barely breathing. Slowly his muscles flexed, and her body responded. He pulled her to her feet, so they stood toe to toe, still staring. His scent blocked the river’s as she breathed hesitantly, then deeper, filling her lungs with his warm, steamy fragrance. She couldn’t say whether she leaned toward him deliberately or if it was primal attraction. She could say that it took all her strength to stop, no more than a fragment of space separating her mouth from his. He raised his free hand, his fingertips almost touching her cheek, but he stopped, too, before making contact.
And the moment ended. She dropped her gaze, backing away, and he lowered his hand, also backing off. When their intertwined hands tugged, he hastily let go, flexed his fingers, then shoved both hands into his pockets again. “We, uh…”
Her head bobbed like the fisherman’s float on the river. “Yes, we should.”
“I, uh…”
“Yeah, me, too.”
They walked from the river to the garage in silence.
Even that wasn’t uncomfortable. When was the last time she’d walked three or four blocks with a man in complete silence without casting about almost feverishly for something to say? Never.
But she didn’t need to say anything to Jones. She had plenty to think about, plenty to just feel…satisfied and curious about. That moment, that touch…and it had been a touch of far more than just hand on hand. It had been important. Intimate. So full of potential. Not once had her brain whispered a warning, a reminder that she couldn’t get involved, that she needed answers before she could go blithely trusting anyone.
All true—at least, in the past. Still true now, except that something basic inside her, maybe the very core where her emotions lived, wasn’t showing much interest in listening this time.
When they reached the garage, both their vehicles were parked to the side, with the same old tires, newly refilled with air. They paid the bills, then Jones walked to her SUV with her.
“Are you headed back to Fair Winds?”
“I’m going to drive around a little bit. See some of the places Grandmother says we used to go.”
“Since you’re not going home yet, I’ve got a couple things to take care of. If you get home before Miss Willa—” he headed around the SUV to his own truck, then looked back at her “—be careful.”
Chapter 7
Jones waited in his truck until Reece had turned east out of the parking lot, then he headed south, his destination the biggest nursery in Copper Lake. He wanted to check the quality of the plants, get a feel for the operation. Miss Willa had stressed that she wanted him to buy locally wherever possible, and to hire locally, as well. Part of the Howard obligation to the community, he supposed.
The plant farm was just the other side of the city-limits sign, spreading along the road for a half mile and farther than that away from it. He pulled into the gravel lot and parked, only then becoming aware of the Jag behind him. He got out of his truck and waited as Mark parked, then climbed out.
“I was on my way back to the office after an appointment when I saw you. I hope you don’t mind that I followed you.” Mark removed sunglasses that probably cost more than Jones’s entire outfit, including his favorite top-quality work boots, and gestured in front of their vehicles. “Can we talk?”
Outdoor tables, chairs and fireplaces were clustered in small groups in the section ahead of them, some on squares of grass, some on tile pavers, some on concrete patios. Mark chose a teak set occupying a tiled area, with a fireplace built of the same stone. The cushions were comfortable, warm from the day’s sun, the prices posted excessive. Of course, not many customers could lay the patio and build the fireplace themselves, like Jones could, saving at least half the price.
Mark took a few moments to settle comfortably in the armchair, then he blurted out, “You remember me.”
Then Mark remembered, too. It was nice to know that Jones had made such an impression back then. “I do.”
“So why did Clarice say she’d never met you before Grandmother introduced you?”
It wasn’t Jones’s place to answer that question truthfully, especially when he didn’t know the truth. Reece’s claim of amnesia—real or scam? If it was true, who else knew that was why she returned? Was it a secret? Or had she already told Miss Willa, who probably would pass it on to Mark?
“She prefers Reece.”
Mark blinked. “What?”
“She goes by the name of Reece.”
“Huh. Can’t say I blame her. Macy didn’t want to name our daughter Clara, but some version of it—Clara, Claire, Clarice—has been in the Howard family for generations. Macy has called her Clary since she was born. Says it’s a much better name.”
He was silent a moment, his face softened by mention of his wife and daughter. He might be a Howard, Jones thought, but at least he knew how to show affection. He wasn’t the sort who would avoid his own grandbaby because she was too noisy for his tastes.
Then Mark’s expression turned puzzled. “So…why did Cla—Reece lie about knowing you?”
Jones could offer any number of answers: I don’t know. Ask her.
It’s not my place to tell. But if he gave any of those answers, the next logical action for Mark would to be ask Reece herself.
And when—if—she denied it, his next logical statement: You hung out with him and his brother for weeks that summer. They rescued you when you almost drowned in the creek. How could you have forgotten them?
And if he was being really truthful: I was the one who almost drowned you. His brother took care of you, and Jones damn near drowned me before he finished punching me.
Then he’d threatened them. Jones had left town, and Glen had disappeared.
If Reece truly didn’t remember, Jones would prefer to keep himself in that black hole of traumatic forgetfulness. No matter what the reason for his deception, she had some deep trust issues. She wouldn’t take it well.
The last thing he wanted was Mark tattling around Fair Winds about Jones’s presence on the farm fifteen years ago. Who knew how Reece would react? Worse, who knew how Miss Willa might react? And since Reece hadn’t asked him to keep it between them…
He shrugged. “From what I understand, she doesn’t remember much about that summer. Losing her father that way…” To say nothing of being abandoned, endlessly criticized, tormented, possibly molested and almost killed. She had plenty of reasons for forgetting.
Mark stared. Counting his blessings? Thinking that was one less thing he needed to apologize for? Wondering if Jones himself was the real threat here, and not the garden project he was starting?
“And you haven’t told her?” He sounded part dismayed, part satisfied.
Jones shook his head. She deserved answers, but he’d come here for his own answers. Her remembering the details of an ugly summer just didn’t stack up against his finding out what happened to his brother. How he died. Where he was buried. Why.
Whether it was his fault.
Keeping his gaze focused on Mark, he said, “I’m more interested in finding out about Glen.”
“Glen…the other boy.” Mark sounded fuzzier in his recollection of Glen. Of course, the three of them had only had that one run-in, and Glen hadn’t bloodied his knuckles on Mark. He’d been on the sidelines calming a hysterical Reece.
“He left that day, didn’t he?” Mark asked. “I never saw him again.”
“Neither did I,” Jones said flatly.
“I never knew his name.” Sheepishness crept into his face. “Never knew yours, either, until Grandmother told me she’d hired you and then I saw you this morning.”
Mark murmured the name again, frowning, then shook his head. “All that talk about telling Grandfather and him calling the sheriff… I never did. I was just…embarrassed and upset. I’d never meant to hurt Cla—Reece. I was just messing with her—I always messed with her—and suddenly there you were and things got out of control. I never would have hurt her.”
An explanation with more than a little finger-pointing. Jones called the memory to mind: him and Glen on the way to the pool, where Glen was meeting Reece while Jones went on to the river to fish. Hearing splashes, cries, agitated enough that they’d broken into a run. Seeing Reece in the water, her cousin’s hands on her shoulders, pushing her down while she clawed her way up, shrieked, then went under again. Mark wearing a look Jones had never seen on anyone—fierce, angry, driven.
He and Glen had both jumped into the water, Jones grabbing Mark under the arms and jerking him away while Glen pulled Reece up sputtering and half dragged, half carried her out of the water. His victim gone, Mark had turned on Jones, landing several punches before Jones subdued him, then dragged him out a safe distance from Glen and Reece.
Mark had been spitting mad, livid at their interference, then abruptly, the viciousness disappeared and the anger became that of a boy, all but swallowed up in fear at the magnitude of what he’d done.
Things had been way out of control before Jones and Glen had arrived, but if that was what Mark needed to tell himself to live with his memories…
“I kept waiting on her to tell Grandmother,” Mark went on. “I couldn’t eat or sleep, and I kept my distance from her as much as I could. She never said anything, but she never trusted me again.” Then he scoffed at himself. “She never trusted me before that. I’d been spending summers with our grandparents since I was five years old. It was my time, and I hated having to share them with her. It sounds selfish, but I didn’t know her dad, so it’s not like his death should have ruined my whole summer. I was such a jerk.”
Jones didn’t bother agreeing with that. “When did her mother come back?”
“A couple days later. She just showed up, no phone call, no nothing, and had the housekeeper pack Reece’s stuff. As soon as Inez was done, they left. We never saw Reece again until now.”
“Where had she been?”
“Aunt Valerie? Supposedly taking care of business, then vacationing, but…” Mark’s mouth thinned, then he went on. “My father and his brother weren’t close, and my mother never did care much for Aunt Valerie. I heard her tell Father once that she thought Valerie’s vacation had been more of the very discreet rehabilitative kind than the spas-and-fun kind.”
Jones considered that: a less-than-responsible woman, based on Reece’s comments, suddenly widowed, finding it difficult to cope, especially when her mother-in-law and the housekeeper were there to take care of her child. Needing a little help to get to sleep and a little something to keep her steady when she was awake, to keep the enormity of her loss at bay. How easy it would have been to rely too much on pills prescribed by a helpful doctor and/or liquor that was readily obtained, to the point that rehab quickly became a very real necessity.
That would explain why no one had told Reece the truth. If Valerie had deteriorated that quickly, she wouldn’t have wanted her daughter to know—still didn’t want her daughter to know. And Miss Willa couldn’t fudge and tell Reece her mother was sick and needed hospital care; that would have terrified a kid whose father had just died. Miss Willa was of an era where family secrets were secrets. She hadn’t considered the psychological damage to Reece, believing she’d been abandoned by her only parent.
Mark glanced at his watch before rising. “I’d better get back to the office before my assistant—” His cell phone interrupted his words. He glanced at it, muted it and returned it to his pocket. “Your friend, Glen…you think he might have stayed around here? Is that why you took this job?”
“One of the reasons.” Jones stood, too. “I’m pretty sure he never left the area.”
There was no significant change to Mark’s expression. No worry, fear, anxiety. The possibility apparently meant nothing to him. “I came back every summer until college, but I pretty much kept to Fair Winds. I wanted to spend as much time with Grandmother and Grand father as I could. But if he’s in Copper Lake, he shouldn’t be hard to find. Just ask around.”
The cell phone rang again, and he frowned. “I’ve got to go. Thanks for your time.”
Jones watched him leave, then headed away from the furniture and into the broad aisles flanked by shrubs, containers in trees and flowers. He’d always given himself credit for good instincts; all Travelers, especially the men, relied on them. But his seemed more than a little dull this afternoon.
Did he believe that Reece really had amnesia from that summer? Maybe. Had the scene in the creek really been horseplay that got out of control? Stranger things had happened. Was Mark really a changed man? Who knew what a man was really like inside?
But he couldn’t quite shake the memory of that look in Mark’s eyes. The same cold look in the pictures Jones had seen of Arthur Howard.
Being surrounded by plants usually put him on an even keel. He liked the smells—flowers, earth, fertilizers. They spoke of potential, beauty and the cycle of life. He could plant a garden now that, with a little care, would still thrive long after he was dead, or trees that would still grow strong and straight long after his great-grandchildren had died. He could leave a mark.
But today he wasn’t finding much of a sense of b
alance. The back of his neck itched, and an unsettled feeling kept slithering up and down his spine. An unknown person—or ghost—had let the air out of eight tires. A ghost had moved the family-history book—significant in itself?—and left a message on Reece’s mirror.
Mischief? Warning? Threat?
If you have any trouble with the ghosts when you start digging up the yard…
Grandfather screamed at me to get back in the house…
And the echo of words Jones had used himself a few moments ago: family secrets.
Doing a 180, he headed back toward the parking lot. He could check out the nursery tomorrow. Right now he felt the need to return to Fair Winds.
And Reece.
Twenty minutes of driving around town gave Reece a good visual of Copper Lake. She located the hospital, the shopping mall, schools and probably most of the churches—and bars—in town. She even found the Howard church, recognizable from the huge addition fifty years ago paid for by and named in honor of the family.
She parked across the street from the church and sat on a bench that fronted a well-kept cemetery. Generations of Howards had attended the church, including her father—although not Grandfather. But there was no reminder of them in the marble and granite markers spread across the ground. All Howards were buried in the family plot at Fair Winds.
Except for her dad.
“I would have thought if you took the time to visit a cemetery, it would be the one where your own family is located, to say nothing of changing into appropriate attire before the visit.”
Reece refused to feel guilty about her Hawaiian shirt and jeans, but when she lifted her gaze to Grandmother, she found herself automatically straightening her spine and shoulders as if she were dressed in her finest clothing.
“Of course, even if you did visit the family cemetery, you wouldn’t find anything of your father beyond a marker, thanks to your mother.”
Ghosts rarely haunt cemeteries, Jones had said, but attached to people or places important in their lives. Fair Winds hadn’t been important to Elliott in his life, so it didn’t matter in his death.
Copper Lake Secrets Page 11
