Summer by the River

by Debbie Burns

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2021 by Debbie Burns

  Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Brittany Vibbert/Sourcebooks

  Cover images © Mike Powles/GettyImages, Matt Anderson Photography/GettyImages, the_burtons/GettyImages

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To Sandy,

  for those first, second, and third reads,

  you have my gratitude

  “Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.”

  —Norman Maclean

  Chapter 1

  The oven timer was buzzing when Josie pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. It was hard to believe two hours had sped by since she’d placed the six trays of blueberries into the commercial ovens to dry them out. With the tea garden hosting their first wedding, there’d been no doubt it would be a whirlwind of a weekend, but Josie hadn’t expected this craziness. She’d been going nonstop since dawn, and her empty stomach was grumbling in protest.

  She was loading the last of the trays onto the baker’s sheet pan rack when the doorbell rang, its melodic chimes resounding through the old mansion.

  Leaving the oven mitt on the kitchen counter, she headed down the hall toward the front. She was almost to the door when the back screen door thwacked open.

  “Mooooommm! Mommy?” Zoe called, her tone brimming with the demanding urgency of a six-year-old.

  “Up front, babe. Someone’s here.”

  Josie checked out the side window before unlocking the door, proving old habits never die. She ran through a mental list of the expected guests. She’d thought everyone who was coming had arrived. The crowded back terrace certainly made it seem so.

  This guest was alone, and just the kind of guy whose presence instinctively stirred up female hormones. He was taller than Josie by half a foot and, judging by the fit of his jeans and black T-shirt, in good shape. He was older, too, but not by much, early- to mid-thirties maybe. His eyes, bright blue-green, warred for attention with a broad smile accented by the short, brown stubble on his cheeks and chin.

  Zoe zoomed down the hall and smacked into Josie, plastering her petite body into the back of Josie’s leg. Half-hidden, she peered around Josie’s hip at the visitor while muttering something about the two boys she’d been building sandcastles with.

  “Hang on a second, Zo.” Before returning her attention to the man, she ran her hand over Zoe’s long chestnut hair, her fingers raising a few of the baby-fine ends by her forehead like little exclamation points. “Hi. You’re here for the wedding?”

  The stranger’s easy smile widened at her question. “Well, that depends. If you’re the bride and you’re still taking offers, I could be tempted to throw my name into the hat.”

  Josie worked to keep her jaw from falling open. Did guys really say things like that anymore? She was a bit out of touch—by design—but she was pretty sure they weren’t supposed to.

  Zoe tapped Josie’s arm, demanding her attention. “Did you hear me, Mommy? Those boys aren’t sharing.”

  Josie scooped Zoe up at the same time the man offered his hand.

  “My bad, sorry.” Clearly, he’d picked up on her lack of enthusiasm for his compliment. “I’m looking for Myra Moore. I believe she’s expecting me. I’m a freelance journalist working on an article for the New York Post.”

  A rush of lightheadedness flooded her. A journalist? She attempted to readjust Zoe, who was too big to be held any longer, on her hip. “Why?” she managed to get out, forgetting about his white teeth and blue-green eyes.

  “I’m in town researching a missing person and what might be an unresolved murder. I’m hoping she can help me find the answers I’m looking for.”

  Josie’s muscles went rigid. No, no, no. Not like this. I’m not ready. Her mouth gaped, but nothing came out, and her vision went from spotty to almost completely gray. Her arm locked around Zoe’s slim torso as she struggled to remain standing and alert.

  Swaying, swaying. Was it the room swaying or her?

  She smelled the stranger closing in around her before her spotty vision could process it. The woody, sweet scent of sandalwood filled her nostrils, the one concrete thing she could process.

  She might as well have been a doll in The Nutcracker. She could feel Zoe sliding off her body and onto the floor and the man stepping closer, and she could hear their muffled talking but couldn’t process the words. She struggled to stay conscious—to tell him to back off—but words wouldn’t come. Then she was in his arms and he was carrying her, and her vision was clearing from gray to spotty again.

  The next thing she knew, Josie startled to find herself lying on the couch in the front parlor when she hadn’t even realized he’d set her down. She startled even more to find the stranger hovering over her, staring. Had she passed out? It hadn’t seemed that way, but the last couple seco
nds—or minutes—were disjointed.

  Movement in the entryway caught her attention. Zoe was pulling Myra, the tea garden’s eighty-year-old owner, into the parlor and tugging on her skirt. Myra’s faithful Corgi-Pomeranian mix, Tidbit, trailed in at her side.

  “You won’t believe it, Myra!” Zoe chirped. “Mommy’s eyes were fluttering like butterflies and I thought we were going to fall and this man catched her and carried her all the way over here.”

  Caught. The word rose to Josie’s lips reflexively, even though she couldn’t voice it. The irony didn’t escape her that she was worried about Zoe’s grammar at a time like this. Somehow, she forced herself to sit up using limbs that reacted like boiled noodles.

  The stranger cleared his throat and directed his words to Myra. “Sorry, ma’am. I let myself in. Your, uh, this woman fainted—sort of.”

  “Heavens.” Myra leaned over and pressed her palm across Josie’s forehead. “She’s been running herself ragged the last few days. Zoe, be a dear and get your mom a glass of water, will you?”

  Zoe gave Josie a questioning glance. “You’re all better now, Mom, right?”

  “I’m fine, baby.” Her words come out squeaky, barely audible.

  If Zoe had been distraught to see her collapse like that, she seemed to be processing it fine now. “Make sure nothing happens till I get back.” Then she dashed out of the room and down the hall.

  “You all right, Miss?” the man asked.

  Josie dropped her gaze to the floor and repeated that she was fine.

  Standing beside him, Myra offered him her hand. “I’m Myra, and this is my house. Bob phoned just now and said you’d be coming. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Carter.” The man took Myra’s arthritic hand with care. “Carter O’Brien.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Carter. Once I see to Josie, I’m happy to answer your questions.” Myra sank onto the sofa next to her. Tidbit scooted back to make a running jump to clear the couch with his short legs, then nestled down between them. “You all right, dear?”

  “I’m fine.” Josie kept her hands folded across her lap as Tidbit sniffed her arm. How could Myra know he was coming and not tell me?

  Like a rabbit frozen in the grass, she waited for him to proceed with whatever devilry brought him to her doorstep. She couldn’t imagine how he knew. All she could think was it had to have been the shady man in Chicago who’d forged her and Zoe’s papers. The process had been complicated, to say the least. But Josie and Zoe Waterhill were legitimate people now. Falsified, maybe, but legitimate. They had social security numbers and birth certificates. Josie hadn’t been comfortable using the man’s services, but she would never have been able to register Zoe for school otherwise.

  But what might it have cost her?

  Carter squatted in front of her, balancing on the balls of his feet, resting his forearms against his thighs as he eyed her in concern. “When I was growing up, I had a cousin with low blood sugar. My aunt kept orange juice on hand. It helped when she crashed. If you have any, I’d be happy to get you a glass.”

  “Do be a dear and try, will you?” Myra answered for her. “If Linda, the kitchen manager, isn’t in the kitchen, Zoe will show you where the glasses are kept. It’s down the hall and to the right.”

  He nodded and headed down the hall toward the back of the house. Josie finally noticed the gaping-open front door. His bag—most likely a laptop case—was still abandoned on the stoop. A ridiculous urge flooded her to grab it and run for the river where she could toss it into the gray-black water in hopes it might carry its secrets into the abyss.

  But even if her spent legs would obey, there’d be no point. Whatever information he had in there was surely backed up somewhere else. No, whatever Armageddon he was bringing was already rushing her way.

  Beside her, Myra swept aside a lock of her hair and brushed her thumb over Josie’s cheek. “I know what you’re thinking, Josie. I was coming inside to tell you about the call and heard him as I walked in. I’m sorry for the scare it has caused you, but you’ve got it wrong. The wind that blew him here has nothing to do with you.”

  Josie searched Myra’s gentle eyes for the truth since, for the first time in over five years, she found herself doubting her words.

  Chapter 2

  The kid was cute. And precocious. A smile tugged at Carter’s lips as she shimmied up the counter and rose onto her knees for a juice glass. She clunked it down and slid off with both feet smacking the hardwood floor at once.

  “My mom doesn’t like orange juice much,” she said, grabbing a gallon jug of it from inside a massive commercial fridge that was impeccably organized. She held it up for him. “I like it lots, but I can’t pour it without spilling.”

  Carter relieved her of the jug, poured it, and returned it to the spot on a wide shelf in front of two more gallons. The librarian had told him this place operated as a tea garden, which explained the baker’s rack filled with scones, cakes, and dried berries, the massive fridge, the abundance of juice, and five or six pounds of unsalted organic butter, among other things. “If I were to guess, I’d say you’re pretty self-sufficient, huh?”

  “Pretty what?”

  Has it been that long since you’ve been around a kid? He wracked his brain for a simpler explanation as he took in the rest of the kitchen. Aside from the telltale high ceilings, transom windows, and thick crown molding, the room, with its oversized stainless-steel appliances and quartz counters, stood apart from the rest of the ancient house. Glancing out the kitchen window, he was surprised to see thirty or so people gathered around metal dining tables with pots of tea, fancy cups on saucers, and tiers in the centers piled with slices of cake and other goodies.

  “It means you can do a lot of things for yourself,” he answered.

  “I start first grade on Monday,” she said, grabbing the glass of water she poured before he came in. A little sloshed over the rim and splashed on the counter. “So, I guess so.”

  That librarian hadn’t been kidding about this place being the real thing. Carter wouldn’t have been surprised to find the servers dressed in Downton Abbey attire instead of khakis and black T-shirts. When he’d carried Zoe’s mom, he’d noticed her shirt had a cartoonish outline of a tea bag with the words “Tea Shirt” inscribed inside.

  With his next question, he attempted to be quiet enough that his voice didn’t travel down the hall. The way the redhead had fainted at his words like that had sparked more than his concern. “So, your mom, has she fainted like this before?” Taking the juice, he followed her out of the kitchen.

  “Nuh-uh. Never.”

  Carter replayed the last few seconds before she fainted. He couldn’t help but feel he’d missed something. That some unusual truth was glaring him head-on and all he needed was a few more minutes to rehash it.

  But the sight of her as they reentered the parlor was enough to derail his concentration. She met his gaze from her spot on the couch, and her eyelids narrowed the same way pupils did when a light flicked on.

  Guarded or not, she was damn good-looking. There was something about her, an ageless elegance, that might be traced to generations of good breeding or simply luck of the draw. In addition to that red-gold hair, she had eyes as blue as the summer sky, and his nose still tingled with the scent of something lemony like dish soap coupled with the soft trace of perfume.

  But she wasn’t why he’d come here. He cleared his throat in hopes of clearing his thoughts.

  He offered her the juice, but when she uncrossed her arms to reach for it, it was obvious she was too shaky to hold it. Myra, who reminded him of an aged willow tree—tall but bent and weathered with the grace of a life well lived—took it instead. Her dog raised up on both legs to give it a sniff, then lost interest quickly.

  Myra suggested the kid head back outside to play. Her voice was kind but commanding enough
that the girl took note and, after giving them a long look, reluctantly shuffled down the hall. Soon after, the back door banged shut.

  “Ms. Moore,” he began when both women directed their attention his way, “my timing may not be great, but I believe Bob told you I’m in town researching a story. I make a living as a freelance writer, but the story that brought me to Galena is a personal one.”

  “Is it? Well, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Mr. O’Brien, was it?” Myra didn’t wait for his confirmation. “Writers amaze me. I love to read, and I appreciate the gift of eloquence when I come across it.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but that isn’t a gift I claim.” He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “I’m a journalist by trade. The truth tends to be easily written and typically without great expression.”

  “If you mean that, then I daresay you’ve not come across any great truths, have you?”

  A laugh bubbled up his throat. “No, no great truths.”

  “Well, when you do, I suspect the gift of eloquence will find you.”

  “One can hope, Ms. Moore.”

  The redhead, seated beside Myra, had been listening quietly. She shot an exasperated look at the woman as if she wasn’t sold on the small talk. Myra offered a gentle shrug in reply and handed her the glass of juice. Seeming steadier, she took it and sipped tentatively.

  Myra pointed a bent finger his way. “Moore was my maiden name, though there are people in town, Bob included, who’ve never stopped calling me that.” She sat up straighter and slid her hands over her knees. “Why don’t you pull up a chair and tell me this story that brought you here in search of your great truth?”

  Carter followed her gaze to a desk and headed over for a wooden chair with a narrow seat that he suspected was as old as the mansion.

  He set it down a few feet in front of the couch and took a seat, feeling a bit like he was auditioning for a part. And, as if asserting he had a role in the decision-making, Myra’s dog, who was eyeing him curiously, let out a determined bark.

  “Ah, well, for starters, I’m here on a bit of a whim, researching family history. Back in the early 1900s, my family owned one of the country’s biggest tool manufacturers in the Northeast. My grandfather took over its operations after his father’s death in the late twenties. By the mid- to late thirties, the company was bankrupt, and my family’s fortune was nonexistent.”