Slow down, son. Noah shifted on his seat. His body reacted to just the hint of sex with more enthusiasm than the circumstances warranted. Then again, until this week he hadn’t even seen a woman for a long, long time, let alone been with one, so maybe he could be pardoned for an overactive imagination.
He laughed at himself. Pardoned. Now, there was a word. No pardon had come down for Noah Blake. Just early parole and time off for good behavior.
And, maybe, a chance to start over.
Just below the top of the biggest hill in town, Boundary Street performed the function for which it was named, cleanly separating the already-haves in New Skye from the wish-I-could-gets. The north side of the street was heavily wooded, sheltering the upper class from the harsh realities of life on the south—and poor—side.
Noah pulled the bike to the curb in front of a little house midway along the south side of Boundary. The white siding cried out for paint, the blue shutter on the right side of the living room window hung by one nail, and the roof needed replacing. But the chain-link fence, rusty and sagging though it was, still enclosed the well-tended flower beds that had always been Marian Blake’s pride and joy. Neatly raked and weed free, the garden displayed flowers even in December. Camellias bloomed pink, red and white. Pansy faces danced in pots on the steps, while ivy and periwinkle twined underneath the azaleas.
With his helmet braced under his arm, Noah stared at the garden he’d spent hundreds of hours on. He struggled for a deep breath, but a pair of giant hands seemed to have closed down on his windpipe.
Across the street behind him, a car door slammed. With quick steps, Abby joined him. “She loves her garden. There’s always something blooming, which is a miracle as far as I’m concerned.”
Noah cleared his throat. “I…I’m surprised she keeps it up.” He pulled himself together. “What are you doing here?”
“I wondered if even a call might be upsetting. So I thought I’d—”
“Introduce me? Like a butler or something?”
Abby put her hands on her hips. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need any help with my own mother, thanks.”
She returned his glare without flinching. “I didn’t for a minute think you did. But maybe she needs some help with you.”
Without waiting for his answer, she pushed open the lopsided gate and marched up the sidewalk to his mother’s front door. The bell hadn’t worked fifteen years ago. Judging by the fact that Abby used the knocker, it still didn’t.
After what seemed like a long time, the door creaked open. Noah heard his mother’s voice—high, a little hoarse—and Abby’s warm tone. Like it or not, he was being introduced.
In the pack on his back, the dog wiggled, fighting to get out. Noah shrugged out of the bag, stepped into the front yard and secured the gate, then let the dog run free.
The few steps he took along the front walk required more guts than Noah had expected. Finally, he came to a stop just behind Abby and looked up into his mother’s face. He might not have recognized her if he’d met her anywhere else. Her skin was pale, and not just from shock at his arrival. She’d gained forty or fifty pounds since the last time he’d seen her. Once a warm brown, her unkempt hair was now streaked with white and faded to almost beige.
She stared at him, eyes wide, mouth a circle of surprise. “Noah?”
He managed a smile. “Hi, Ma. How are you?”
“I can’t believe…” she said faintly. Then she looked beyond him. “Get that dog out of my flowers! What the hell is he doing in my yard? Get him out, get him out!” There was nothing at all faint about the order.
Noah turned at the same time as Abby, and they both went after the dog. The mutt, of course, decided the chase was all a game. He dashed from corner to corner, wagging his tail and panting, refusing all pleas to come, to be a good dog, to get the hell out of the flower bed.
Marian Blake stood on the porch step, yelling instructions. “There he is! He’s heading toward the back—don’t let him run over the irises! Don’t you step on my daylilies, Noah Blake!”
Vaulting over the fading lily leaves, Noah bent to crawl under the camellias next to the wall of the house. “Stupid dog. I’m gonna strangle you when I get my hands on you.”
“That’s not incentive.” Abby crawled in beside him. “I wouldn’t come if you talked to me in that voice.”
“Yeah, you’ve been real successful in getting hold of him so far.”
“I came closer than you did.” She eased farther down the house wall, peering under the bushes, crooning, “Come on, sweetie. It’s okay. Nobody will hurt you.”
The dog sat halfway between them, among the fallen camellia blossoms, feinting one way, then the other, every time one of them reached for him.
“I’ve had enough,” Noah growled.
“What are you going to do?”
She gasped as he lunged toward the house. He slammed his shoulder into the concrete block foundation, but he came up with an armful of dog. “Don’t hurt him,” she cautioned.
“I’m not going to hurt him,” he told her irritably. As proof, the dog proceeded to lick as much of his cheeks and chin as he could reach. “Stop it.” Noah pushed the scruffy head away. “Yuck.”
Abby started to laugh, then stopped suddenly. “You’re hurt.” Holding the dog’s head away, she pressed with her fingertips to turn Noah’s cheek toward her. “You must’ve scraped your face against the wall. Does it hurt?”
“No.” He pulled his head away from her scrutiny, from her touch. “This is nothing. I’ve been punched by some of the best.” He walked ahead of her, wondering how much worse the day could possibly get.
His mother had come down to the sidewalk and was surveying the garden anxiously. “I hope he didn’t dig something up. I bought some new daffodils this fall, just got them into the ground.”
“I don’t think he had time, Ma.” Noah moved up beside her. “He’s a pretty small dog.”
She turned toward him and glared at the dog. “What are you doing with a dog, anyway? You know I don’t like dogs.”
“Sorry. I forgot.”
“Like you forgot to call and tell me you were coming? Like you forgot to come home since you were eighteen? Like you forgot to let me know you were still alive for the last four years?” She snorted and turned toward the house. “You have a serious memory problem.”
Noah took one step in the same direction.
“And don’t think you’re bringing that dog into my house,” she said, without looking back. “I won’t have any filthy animal in my home.” The screen slapped shut, then the front door.
The dog squirmed in his arms, but Noah stood still. His first impulse was to run as far and as fast as the full tank on the bike would take him. His second impulse was to slam inside the house and tell the bitch exactly what he thought of her, then take off for the farthest corner of the country.
“Noah?” He’d forgotten Abby entirely. “Noah, I’ll take the dog.”
He looked over at her, not understanding. “What?”
“I’ll take the dog home with me. We’ve got a fenced yard and an enclosed porch where he can sleep.”
“I can just—” He didn’t really have another option. “I guess that’ll work for tonight.”
“What’s his name?” she asked, reaching around the dog so that she was practically in Noah’s arms. He got a whiff of the sweet flower scent in her hair. When she drew away, with the animal cuddled against her own chest, he missed her warmth.
“I don’t know.”
Her eyes widened. “You didn’t name him?”
“No. I didn’t—” This might not be the best time to confess that he hadn’t planned to keep the mutt. “I didn’t have time to think up a name.”
“I guess not.” Her smile was a flash of brightness in the darkening afternoon. “We’ll work on that tomorrow. See you then.”
“Sure.” She made tomorrow sound like something to look forward to. N
oah watched her leave the yard and cross the street to her car, an old red Volvo, where she settled the dog on the passenger seat before getting in herself. The sound of the engine, when it finally started, called for a major tune-up, but Abby gave him a cheerful wave and another smile before she pulled away from the curb.
As she left, Noah realized his first impulses had weakened, letting a certain degree of reason take hold of his brain. He wasn’t going to run out on his mother again. Not before they’d had a chance to…settle things. Not before he made sure she would be taken care of for as long as she needed. He owed her that much.
So he opened the screen and pushed back the door into the house. A wave of heat hit him—the thermostat must be set at eighty degrees—along with the scent of onions and hot grease. His stomach churned, but he forced himself to walk to the kitchen.
His mother glanced at him. “I was beginning to think you’d just run off again.” With a tilt of her head, she directed him to the table by the window. “I was cooking when you showed up. Sit down. Go on, sit. This’ll be done in a minute.”
Noah eased out of his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. Even his sweatshirt was too hot. Since he wasn’t sure he was staying, though, he wouldn’t take it off.
“There.” A plate thumped onto the table. She still used the same dishes he remembered from fifteen years ago, made of unbreakable white glass, with blue flowers around the edges. Two hamburgers anchored the meal, framed by a pile of potato chips and a couple of pickles.
“Here’s some rolls.” A bowl of hamburger buns plopped onto the table. “I’ve got mustard and mayo. No ketchup.”
“This is good, Ma. Thanks.” He only hoped he could eat without choking.
She set a soda can by his plate, and then brought her own dinner plus a cola to the table and joined him. Her eyes closed. “Thank you, Lord, for this day and the blessings it has brought. Amen.”
Noah barely got his own eyes shut before she finished, and was a little slow in opening them. The first thing he saw was his mother’s fork, carrying a piece of dull gray hamburger, pointing into his face.
“So why don’t you tell me,” she suggested, “just where you’ve been for the last fifteen years?”
He took a deep breath.
“And why the hell,” Marian Blake continued, “you bothered to come home now?”
CHAPTER TWO
The Diary of Miss Abigail Ann Brannon
September 2, 1981
Dear Diary,
The first day of fifth grade was just like the last day of fourth grade. We got our books and they all look boring. Why do we have to study North Carolina history? We live here, so what’s to learn? I want to know about England and Africa and Japan. No such luck.
They mixed up the kids in different classes, like they do every year. Dixon and Rob and Jacquie are with me in Mrs. Davis’s room, but Adam and Pete have Miss Lovett for a teacher. We get to see one another at recess and lunch, though.
Mrs. Davis made us sit in alphabetical order. How stupid is that? The boy in the desk next to mine is Noah Blake. He’s shorter than me and really skinny. I heard he went to Porter Elementary but got transferred to New Skye Elementary because he caused so much trouble. I didn’t see him do anything wrong today. His T-shirt was too big and his jeans were too short and his arms were covered with purple bruises. He didn’t say anything all day, and sat by himself at lunch and recess. I think he’s scary.
And I think Dixon has a crush on Kate Bowdrey. I’m glad it’s not me—boys are too much trouble.
April 1, 1982
Dear Diary,
Mrs. Davis assigned partners for our end-of-the-year project today. April Fool’s for me—I have to work with Noah Blake. He hasn’t said a word to me all year long, now we’re supposed to work together on the biggest project all year. We have to pick a historic building, make a model and write about it. A North Carolina building, of course, not something neat like the Taj Mahal or the Eiffel Tower. We got fifteen minutes at the end of the day to talk about what building we want. Noah just shrugged when I asked him what he wanted to do. But when I named some buildings—the state capitol, the courthouse here in New Skye, the lighthouse at Cape Hatteras—he rolled his eyes or sneered. He doesn’t like my ideas, but he doesn’t have any of his own. Stupid boy. I don’t think he has lunch money—I hardly ever see him eat.
June 4, 1982
Dear Diary,
This was the last day of fifth grade and the worst day of my life. I stayed up until almost midnight writing the paper for my history project with Noah. He built the model of Fort Fisher at his house and was bringing it in this morning for our presentation. When I got to school, the model was on my desk—smashed to pieces, like somebody punched their fist into the fort about ten times. Noah didn’t show up for school. I read the paper to the class, and Mrs. Davis said she wouldn’t take marks off on the model—you could tell it had been beautiful, made out of little sticks like the boards at the real fort, with bunkers covered by green felt for grass and a flag and cannons. I don’t know what happened to it. I’m wondering if Noah’s okay.
August 13, 1982
Dear Diary,
I saw Noah at the county fair tonight. I was behind this guy in line, and something about his shoulders, about the way he stood, made me sure it was him. But he was with a girl—she looked like she was about sixteen. I didn’t say anything to make him turn around. I decided I didn’t want a funnel cake after all and went for a pretzel instead.
He looked really cute.
September 4, 1982
Dear Diary,
The first day of middle school was weird. Changing classes freaks me out—I’m sure I’m going to be late every time. I have at least one class with just about everybody I know, but I only have lunch with Pete and Adam and Rob. Dixon still stares at Kate like he could eat her up, and she doesn’t even realize it.
Even weirder than the classes was when Noah came up behind me at the water fountain after lunch. I turned around and—boom!—he was there. I had water dripping off my chin, of course. He grew about six inches over the summer, because he’s taller than me now. His jeans weren’t too short. He had a black eye, and his hair was longer.
He said he was sorry about the history project last June—he’d tripped when he was carrying it in and smashed it all up. I said it was okay, because I got an A on the paper. He said Mrs. Davis made him write a paper on his own and he’d managed to pass. I asked him about the black eye, and he said he got hit by a baseball he meant to catch. Why do I feel like that’s not how it happened?
I thought about him a lot this summer, and I can’t stop thinking about him now that I’ve seen him again. But we don’t have classes together and Dad wants me to start working afternoons at the diner to give Mom a break, so unless Noah comes over after school, I probably won’t see him at all this year.
He won’t miss me. And I shouldn’t miss him. But sometimes when Mrs. Davis would say something really silly, I’d see Noah trying not to laugh. I’m going to miss sharing the laughs.
I’m going to miss Noah, period.
STOPPED AT THE RED LIGHT two blocks from home, Abby glanced down at the dog on the passenger seat. “What am I going to do with you? You’re too dirty to let into the house, and I’m pretty sure you have fleas, because my arm itches. Where can I get you a bath?” He hunched his skinny shoulders but wagged his tail at the same time. “That’s not an answer.”
In the end, she left Noah’s dog with Carly Danvers, a friend from high school who’d built a nice little business grooming and boarding dogs. Carly promised to bathe and dip the little guy and then leave him on the porch at the Brannon house when he was dry, with food and water and a soft dog pillow to lie on. All he needed now was a name.
That would be Noah’s contribution, Abby hoped.
She returned to the diner well before the dinner rush started, to find her dad stressing out over her absence.
“You just lock the place up and
disappear?” Charlie Brannon stood in the kitchen with his hands on his hips, a squarely built man with the posture and haircut of a marine drill sergeant. “You don’t call or leave a note? I was looking in the broom closet, expecting to see your body headfirst in the mop bucket.”
Abby winced and went to fold her arms around his bulky shoulders. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d be gone long enough for you to notice.” To be strictly honest, though, she hadn’t given him a thought since Noah had walked through the diner door.
“Yeah, well.” His voice softened with the hug. “Where’d you go?”
To gain some time, she shrugged out of her coat and went to hang it up in that same broom closet. “Um…I went to see Mrs. Blake.”
“Weren’t you there just yesterday? She call you and complain, as usual?”
“No, no.” Abby took a deep breath. “Actually, Noah stopped by this afternoon.”
“Noah?” Her dad’s heavy dark brows drew together. “You mean Noah Blake?”
“That’s right. He’s come back.”
“What’s that troublemaker want here? I thought he was gone for good.”
“He’s not a troublemaker, Dad.” The accusation made her furious.
“I don’t know what he’s like now. But when you kids were in school, he raised more hell than this town could handle. Including burning down the school two weeks before graduation.”
“He did not burn down the school.” She stomped into the cold room, brought back the pot of stew she’d made for tonight and slammed it onto the burner. “Nobody burned down the school—there was a fire in the principal’s office, that’s all. And Noah didn’t set it.”
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