As Night Falls

by Jenny Milchman

  She had a boyfriend, Ivy did.

  He came up the long driveway in a new car now, too big and fancy for any child, or any grown-up either, for that matter. Though sometimes Barbara regretted not giving Nicholas his own car. Maybe if Nicholas had gotten that, everything would’ve been different.

  The boy climbed out and joined in the meal the family was eating on their enormous covered porch. God knew what it must cost to construct such an arena-sized expanse of stone. The food being served on the glossy wooden table looked expensive, too.

  After some time, when Barbara had grown sore from sitting on her haunches, parting the branches of a tree with stiff fingers, the boy and the girl prepared to leave.

  The father asked them their plans.

  Cassandra gave Ivy a look that made Barbara want to grab hold of something and tear it apart. How could a mother look at her daughter that way, with eyes so full of love and adoration that they overflowed?

  “That’s really where you guys will be?” Cassandra said. “All night, honey?”

  The girl pranced across the stone—that snag in her step, but still, prancing—and said, “All night, Mom. Unless if we go over to Brian’s—his parents aren’t home this week—but I promise I won’t drink, even if everybody else is. And I’ll call for a ride.”

  The boyfriend let out a guffaw. “Man. No secrets in the Tremont family.”

  Cassandra’s hand reached for the man’s, like a missile finding its target, and the man said, “You got that right, Cory.”

  And then Cassandra and the man laughed, great, blooming laughs, louder than the joke really warranted—Barbara didn’t get what was so funny actually—and they both watched as the boy helped the girl down the stairs, even though she really didn’t need much help, not anymore.

  Barbara watched too, from amidst her stand of broad, leafy trees, leaning against the scabby bark of a trunk for both concealment and support.

  —

  The next time she crouched in back of the house, behind a rock whose nooks and crags she studied as voices floated her way. And as the weeks wore on, Barbara risked additional visits. Finding that she wanted to feel more a part of things, she began to crawl forward on the ground, below eye level. She wasn’t noticed, and so she drew close enough to sit beside the forged metal latticework that encircled the porch, almost as if she were a guest at the party.

  Cassandra and the man would linger outside on those soft, peachy nights when their daughter had gone off, and the sun seemed incapable of sinking. They had an old dog, who lay on the hot, baking stone beside them, occasionally blinking one milky blue eye and snuffing in gratitude as they dropped pieces of food down to him, charred meat and bits of roll.

  The dog was aware of Barbara—he lifted his head and sniffed—but her presence didn’t appear to bother him, and Barbara took that as a sign.

  Maybe she belonged here too, just a little bit.

  She liked listening to the conversations Cassandra and the man had. So intimate and understanding. Those qualities didn’t enrage her as they had in the beginning. And as the summer passed, Barbara decided to make one final trip, as if aware that both the year and her time would soon be growing short.

  Cassandra’s voice traveled out over the fields.

  “I know I’ve said this before,” she said. “But I didn’t keep anything from you, Ben—I kept it from myself.” She wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold despite the balmy temperature. Cassandra had always been the most vexing and illogical child. “If you don’t think about something for long enough, it begins to go away. Or gets buried by the passage of time.”

  Her husband studied her across the table.

  “I didn’t want to be that person anymore. I wanted to be someone…I wanted to be worthy of you.” And for some inexplicable reason, Cassandra put her face down in the cupped bowl of her hands.

  Her husband began quietly stroking her arm. “Worthy of me?”

  Cassandra looked up.

  “Oh, Ben, you know how you are. You’re strong—good God, but you’re strong—and you’re moral and good-hearted. But you see things one way. If ever I hadn’t been that way…I mean, look what happened when you wanted to move up here and I didn’t.”

  After a moment the man said, “We moved up here.”

  They both chanced a smile.

  “Right,” Cassandra said.

  “I’m not strong,” the man said, his smile fading. “I can barely walk.” A long pause before his next words. “I’d say you’re the strong one.”

  The irregular oblong of wood wasn’t even, like a table was supposed to be. Cassandra laid her arms across its short end.

  “How many bones broken?” she replied. “And how close did that bullet come to hitting your spleen? A fraction of an inch and you might not even be…” Cassandra compressed her lips and stopped speaking.

  The man looked away from her to gaze out over the land. Far off in the distance, now pared down to a speck, was the retreating car that carried their daughter.

  “It’s the nights,” he said at last. “The nights are still hard.”

  His hand found Cassandra’s and they came together like links on a chain.

  Barbara awaited Cassandra’s response, watching these people, who had taken away the only person who’d ever mattered to her, put a stop to his reign on her heart and her life.

  And for just a moment, as brief and fleeting as warmth in Wedeskyull, she was glad.

  This one is for three magnificent women without whom this story would not be. First, my editor, Linda Marrow, whose keen insight, wisdom, and heart enable me to write the books I always dreamed of. My agent, Julia Kenny, has dedication, passion, and perspective enough for the hundred books I hope we get to share. And finally, Nancy Pickard is a masterful writer, literary angel, and someone I treasure in my life.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Dana Isaacson deserves mention first and foremost. Dana is the wizard-behind-the-curtain of my editing team, and I am grateful every day that I have never had to publish a book without his sharp eye, keen ear for dialogue, and visionary sense of pace. There was also that eleventh hour, live-action editing session on the phone that is one of the most amazing revision experiences I’ve ever had. If Anita Nelson’s moment in the powder room gets your heart pounding during this story, you have Dana to thank. And for a whole lot more besides.

  Everyone at Penguin Random House/Ballantine deserves huge thanks. For adding their wisdom to this book, Kim Hovey, Mark Tavani, and Jennifer Hershey deserve special mention. To everyone at the helm of this ship, I am humbled and honored to be on it with you.

  Anne Speyer, I miss you terrifically, but am so glad to have been left in the able, enthusiastic hands of Elana Seplow-Jolley.

  To Pam Feinstein, and to Jennifer Rodriguez and every single eagle-eyed person in the production department, my jaw drops at what you catch, smooth, and polish. Thank you for making my story into the book readers hold in their hands.

  All of my covers have been designed by the incomparable Marietta Anastassatos, and I’ve heard their praises sung at every book event I’ve done. And that’s saying something—I do a lot of events. But the cover on the book you’re holding now is to my mind a tour de force. I’ve never seen anything like it…and I read a lot of books. For that special sort of genius that helps you judge a book by its cover, my hat is off to Marietta.

  Thank you, Rachel Kind, for bringing this book to readers across the ocean. To know that my stories live in places I have not yet traveled to myself is a unique thrill.

  Bookstores are near and dear to my heart, as many of you know, and the bridge Maggie Oberrender helped build between them and this novel is something for which I’ll always be grateful.

  You also may know that I go on very long book tours. While 20,000 miles of driving and 200 events might be a bit over the top, Michelle Jasmine and Poonam Mantha handled their portion so seamlessly, I wish four-month tours would just become standard already so that e
very event could go so smoothly. Thanks go to Michelle, Poonam, and Alexandra Kent for sending books to every corner of this country, and making people happy for months after my release.

  Speaking of publicity, every author should have the town book criers at JKS Communications involved in their releases. Not only does JKS know how to spread the word to just the right people, event sites, and media outlets, but Julie Schoerke, Marissa Curnutte, Samantha Lien, Chelsea Apple, Mike Matesich, and Angelle Barbazon have the most important traits imaginable in this business: passion for books and love for authors and readers.

  I would not be where I am in life without two groups of people so special, it’s hard to know how to describe them—even for a writer. Booksellers, you are keeping alive a precious resource in our country, the face-to-face in a virtual world, and a treasure chest in each community. One day I will thank each and every one of you in acknowledgments that will become a book in its own right. For now, the welcome you have extended me, my family, and my novels is something that inspires me to write my heart out every day. I can’t wait to see you all again.

  And librarians, thank you for the wealth you give readers every day. It is measured by something greater than coins. You made me rich as a child, and I hope to be able to repay you and your patrons for years to come.

  Book bloggers do virtually what booksellers do in person. I am so grateful to this passionate, creative community. Thank you, bloggers, for your reviews, interviews, and the spotlight you shine on great reads. Five deserve particularly special props—and an immediate subscription to their blogs: Allison Hiltz, Tamara Welch, Rhiannon Johnson, Kristin Thorvaldsen, and Helen Barlow.

  Author and consummate writing teacher, Les Edgerton, challenged every assumption and clichéd view of prison I had, grounding me in a greater reality. If any mistakes were made, the fault lies with me, not his spot-on tutelage.

  Writers need other writers. I am lucky enough to be part of four superb writing organizations, and I recommend you join them all, as a writer, reader, fan, or all three. International Thriller Writers is the most supportive and exciting group I’ve come across. Sisters in Crime is the most nurturing and clever—the Mavens of Mayhem, Triangle SinC, Border Crimes/Kansas City, and Heart of Texas chapters all deserve special mention, as does SinC National in Lawrence, Kansas, where the whole organization began. Mystery Writers of America is the most rich in tradition. I also have a special spot for Charles Salzberg and everyone at the New York Writers Workshop, which has helped far more people get published than its regional reach would suggest—including yours truly.

  Speaking of writers, online groups also rule the day. The Crime Scene Writers are there whenever an author needs a reality check, or wants to ask how this or that wacky scenario could progress. Chris Norbury helped me figure out what Ben would tell his captors in this novel. That Chris became a supporter in real life (that is, Minnesota) too is icing on an already tasty cake. Members of the Cozy Café—Savvy, Judy (those baked goods!), Sara, Derek, Lori, Windy, and Katherine—I wish you all words and pages and success. The ITW Debut Authors Forum came in at the tail end of this book—and I hope to have them for many more.

  Lauren Sweet, freelance editor extraordinaire, provided her always incisive read, and made sure everyone got into the cars that they were supposed to. When it comes to French toast sticks and dead bodies, we all need Lauren.

  Violet Snow, Anique Taylor, and Simona David, I so enjoy our Wednesday Writer lunches, and appreciate your hearts and your support.

  Three mystery publications deserve to be read far and wide, and thanked. To John and Shannon Raab at Suspense Magazine, my thanks for a publication filled with articles you can’t find anywhere else, the fun conversation at ThrillerFest, and one of the honors of my career thus far. Anthony Franze and Jeff Ayers at The Big Thrill, you keep the content riveting—and the in-person get-togethers, too. Jon and Ruth Jordan of Crimespree Magazine, not only do you pick great toys for the kids, but I also can’t get enough of your thoughtful, in-depth pieces.

  On the road with me—in spirit and live on the radio once every week—was Authors on the Air host, Pam Stack. As an author, you may already know Pam. And as a reader, you’re going to want to know her. She features the best of the best on her show, and as a relative newbie I was honored to be included.

  The novel you’ve just read was written in two houses I lived in, but which don’t belong to me. I am grateful for both homes-away-from-home. John Strauss, thank you for your third-floor aerie—and the desk that migrated up the road with me. Kevin Lanier, thank you for the window on the creek, which became a window into the world of this book.

  People always wonder how we lived life on the road for so long. I say that it’s easy—no housework! But for sure it’s made even easier by the people who extended their homes and their welcome. We got to stay in places of beauty, interest, and warmth…from a Victorian B&B to a writer’s retreat house, a mansion by a lake to a wood-and-stone expanse perched on a mountain (and seemingly carved out of it). Perry and Nancy Adair, Melanie Bragg, Carla and Tim Buckley, Gary and Stacie Parkes, Karen Pullen, Bryan Robinson and Jamey McCullers, Dan and Lisa Scheiderman, and Tina and James Whittle, thank you for giving the whole family a place to rest during our very long time on the road. I also have to thank the geniuses behind Airbnb and their hosts for their contribution to making possible this nomadic life.

  We spent memorable afternoons and evenings, talking about words and art and life over great food, with Patricia Albrecht and Bruce Miller at their cabin in the woods; Stacy and Ron Allen, who found the best apple crullers; Christina and Tony Carrini, who traveled a long way to Queens; Sally and Don Goldenbaum, whose pool and ribs can’t be beat; Jen and Brett Grigsby, who offered respite in Vermont; Judy Hogan, whose farm gave us a living meal; Lynne Kote, who put together an elegant pre-event dinner; Kevin, Robin, and Collette Lanier who served up real Texas BBQ, with a swimming lesson; and Rebecca Suskind-Davis for lunch and hugs in Seattle.

  Another way we pull this off is thanks to writerly friends who set up events from afar. Barbara DeMarco-Barrett in Corona Del Mar; Diane Beirne at the historic and elegant Women’s Club of Richmond; Greg Bogard at La Grande Middle School; Marjorie Brody, who championed me at not one but three Austin-area events; Bobbi Chukran, who introduced me to a fantastic new-to-me bookseller—and took me for BBQ; Connie di Marco, who knew my event schedule better than I did—and shared every bit of it; Timothy Domick of Centenary College; Seán Dwyer and the Red Wheelbarrow Writers; Donna Figurski at a beautiful library in Surprise, Arizona; Windy Lynn Harris, Susan Pohlman, and the women of Phoenix; Kay Kendall and the rest of the chocolate lovers in Houston; Cara Lopez Lee and the Denver Woman’s Press Club…you all made me feel at home and I thank you.

  Thanks to fellow authors who paired for events with me all across the country. Whether you’re a fan of mysteries, women’s fiction, magical realism, or thrillers, the following is a tantalizing list of must-reads. Carla Buckley, you are the best partner in crime, and the Thelma to my Louise (or vice versa?). Kelly Braffet, Peg Brantley, John Clement (on air), Robin Devereaux-Nelson, Reed Farrel Coleman, Shalanna Collins, Lala Corriere, Donna Fletcher Crow, Richard Cunningham, Annette Dashofy, John Dixon, Brian Freeman, Karolyn Graham, Elizabeth Heiter, Naomi Hirahara, Cynthia Lott, Matthew Quinn Martin, Jamie Mason, Rick Murcer, Dennis Palumbo, Lori Rader-Day, Bryan Robinson, M. J. Rose, Robert Rotstein, Charles Salzberg, A. J. Scudiere, Michael Sears, Julia Spencer-Fleming, Earl Staggs, Lauren Sweet, Wendy Tyson, Therese Walsh, and Tina Whittle, thank you for coming out and proving that nothing beats an author event.

  There is a writer who inspired me as a child and gave me a moment I never dared hope for as a new author. To the incomparable Queen of Suspense, Mary Higgins Clark herself, the judges, and everyone at MWA and Simon & Schuster who did me the honor of giving my first novel the Mary Higgins Clark Award, my deepest thanks.

  Book clubs have welcomed my books onto their rosters, and me into th
eir midst. Huge thanks go to Linda Dewberry and her book club at Orca Books; the Bookstore Plus book club; Nikki Bonnani and the Killer Coffee Club; Eleanor Siegel and the Riviera Readers; Janice Kmetz and the Deep River book club; Mary Jane Weber’s book club; Dee Abrams and the Mystery Lover’s Book Club; Julie Schroeder’s book club; Tanya Seaward and the OHHA book club in Morristown, New Jersey; Let’s Talk Murder in Rocky Hill, Connecticut; June Kosier’s book club; and last but never least, the King of Prussia book club.

  I hope that everyone who just read this book fell a little bit in love with McLean. To the booksellers at McLean & Eakin in Petoskey, Michigan, for giving Mac’s real-life counterpart, Edie, a home and a home away from home, and to rescue dogs everywhere…you are all heroes to me.

  Finally, no book is complete until I thank my family. My parents, Alan and Madelyn; my brother, Ezra; brother-in-law, James; and sister, Kari, knew this dream long before it was realized. Special thanks go to my mom for reading and for event catering fit for royals, and my dad for reading and his ribs. Thanks also to Shirley Frank for tidbits at my launch party, and another very welcome read.

  Josh, Sophie, and Caleb make it all possible, and I mean that literally. They are navigating and cheering, and being their interesting, entertaining, and loving selves at home and on the road. Thank you, dear ones, for sharing my dream, and allowing me to share in yours.

  BY JENNY MILCHMAN

  Cover of Snow

  Ruin Falls

  As Night Falls

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR