Sweetly

by Jackson Pearce

  He stops, and for a moment, I think he’s going to try to get away with ending his story there. Instead, Samuel takes a deep breath and continues affectionately, nostalgically. “She was with her friends at the drive-in you found me at, watching some stupid girly movie on the opposite screen as me. Brown eyes, brown hair, blue jeans, and an orange shirt—I never liked orange before that moment. And…” Samuel shakes his head. “I had to know her. I followed her around Live Oak for hours before I got up the nerve to talk to her, and when I did… I can’t even explain it.” He looks over at me. “Have you ever met someone and just known that somehow, everything you do in your life is going to have to do with that person? Even if you don’t know how yet?”

  I shake my head and try not to look too distraught about it. That sort of certainty, that sort of knowing, isn’t something I’ve ever experienced. Until Sophia, I hardly even had a friend, much less a soul mate.

  “She told me about living in Live Oak, how everyone here is stuck. And I thought about my brothers scattering across the country, about my dad’s Alzheimer’s getting worse, and for some reason… a place where you get stuck, where everyone you love gets stuck… that seemed sort of like a paradise. So I stayed. She and I started dating; we…”

  “Fell in love?” I offer when Samuel doesn’t say anything for a moment too long.

  “Yeah,” he says. “We fell in love.”

  Samuel rubs his temples, and I see where the dark lines on his face come from: the expression he’s wearing right now. Worry, fear, concern, dismay.

  “Sophia Kelly had just gotten back from college the year before and taken over the chocolate shop after her old man died. I’d only met her a few times—I didn’t think as much of her as everyone else did, but then, I only had eyes for Layla. But Layla and all the other girls in town were excited to go to this chocolate festival that Kelly was going to throw.

  “The party was on a Saturday night. Layla came by afterward and…” He stares at the ceiling before continuing. “Spent the evening with me. And then she was gone. People saw her leaving my house, walking down Main Street holding her shoes. That was it. She was gone.”

  Vanished. People probably asked him. People probably blamed him. I know how it works. I know the look they give you when they think somehow, someway, it’s your fault.

  Where’s your sister?

  “Are you still in love with her?” I ask Samuel, though as soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize that I don’t really want an answer.

  I can’t blame him if he is. When people are gone, they’re perfect—like my sister, the daughter I could never live up to, no matter how much I looked like her. If he loved Layla that much in her life, of course she’s even more wonderful, more beautiful, in her death. Yet still, I hope he isn’t. I selfishly, greedily want him to say he isn’t.

  Samuel’s lips tighten and he hesitates. Just as I think the answer is about to emerge from his mouth, he rises sharply. “We’ll talk about it later. You need to get back to Kelly’s.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  My brother has been invited to play football with a bunch of the Live Oak guys—I guess our quarantine as strangers is over. According to Sophia, they’re some of the Lake City football team’s ex-stars, kids good enough to be Live Oak heroes but not good enough to get scholarships out of town.

  “Seriously. Plus, Ansel is, like, four times the size of most of them. I have a feeling it’ll be him pummeling them, and then we’ll go get ice cream if Dairy Queen is still open,” Sophia says.

  I look away, press my lips together. Technically, I’m supposed to be meeting Samuel today for another lesson. But based on the way he looked at me when I asked him about Layla, I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t there. Besides, I feel guilty skipping the game—Ansel hasn’t played in ages and Sophia wants me to go…

  “It’s not a big deal,” Ansel tells Sophia. “She’s seen me play a million times before. And besides, when Gretchen wants to finish a book, that’s all she talks about anyway,” he teases me. It’s the line I fed them—I’m so caught up in a book that I want to stay home and read all day.

  He’s probably not even going to be there. Just go. Go with Sophia and Ansel. Don’t think about monsters or Naida or your sister for a little while. That’s what you always wanted; that’s the new life you wanted to start.

  The voice in my head is very, very convincing.

  But not as convincing as the desire to stop girls from vanishing.

  So Ansel and Sophia leave, and I start out toward the field. I pick dandelions as I walk, trying to keep my mind on finding bigger and bigger blossoms instead of worrying about whether or not Samuel will be there.

  I reach the field. Samuel isn’t anywhere to be seen. A lump forms in my throat, half frustration and half self-pity. Of course. I knew I should have kept my mouth shut.

  I let out the breath I’ve been holding when I hear the rumble of the motorcycle engine and Samuel rounds the corner. He edges to a stop beside me. I try to control the grin that wants to slide across my face.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  Samuel raises an eyebrow. “Are you okay? You look…” But he can’t seem to find the word. I can fill it in for him easily: relieved.

  “I’m fine,” I answer.

  Samuel shrugs, then turns around to grab a silver helmet off the back of the motorcycle. He holds it out for me.

  “Come on. Field trip time,” he says sarcastically.

  “Um… what?”

  “You want to know more about Naida, right?”

  I nod.

  “Well,” Samuel says, shaking his head, “I know someone who knew Naida. Probably did, anyway—she knows everyone. And if you’re willing to sit through an hour of Civil War stories, she’s happy to talk.”

  “But… now?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Samuel says in a tone of defeat. “If Naida and Layla and those other girls are special, I want to know why as much as you do. Please, Gretchen.”

  I swallow, then take the helmet and pull it down over my head. It’s a little too big but better than nothing, I suppose. Samuel’s muscles tense when I grab on to his shoulder and hoist myself onto the back, and he doesn’t relax until we’re moving, cutting through the thick heat.

  “Sophia and my brother are out at a football game somewhere in town,” I yell over the noise of the bike.

  “We can avoid them,” he says, and I think I hear reluctance in his voice. He revs the motorcycle forward. The motion brings me closer to him, and before I know it, my arms are tighter around him than I intended. Underneath the leaflike scent is the aroma of sandalwood.

  We’re approaching downtown Live Oak when Samuel suddenly takes a sharp turn; instead of cutting down the main road, he goes to the opposite side of the block, where the remaining stores’ back doors are located, most of them covered in graffiti. He keeps his eyes firmly locked on the road ahead of him, but I can feel the change in his body once we enter town; he stiffens, his back muscles knitting together. We seem to go around the outskirts of town, then dart back in for an instant—just long enough to pull into the drive of a massive antebellum house. Large columns line the front porch, and the driveway is shaded by sweet gum trees.

  “I need to duck into my house first,” Samuel calls back to me. He cuts the engine and balances the bike as I slide to the pavement. I pull off the helmet and shake the sweat out of my hair.

  “You live here?” I ask in amazement as we walk through the enormous house’s shadow. The porch is dotted with rocking chairs, one of which contains a dozing calico cat. The wind blows gently, and the scent of peaches stretches from the remains of an orchard to my nose. This house looks… loved. It doesn’t match the rest of Live Oak, as if it’s proud to be sitting here instead of a forgotten bundle of wood and concrete.

  “Expected a tent in the woods?” Samuel says with a cocky smile.

  “Not exactly,” I answer, avoiding his eyes.

  Samuel laughs. “
I don’t live there,” he says, nodding to the house. “I live there.” He motions toward a building I thought was a shed, mostly hidden behind the peach trees. It’s held up on a stone foundation, and the windows are cloudy with age.

  “It was the slave quarters,” he says as we cut through the trees; the buzz of Japanese beetles roars around my head. “Rent’s cheap enough that I can pay it by doing odd jobs around town instead of breaking down and applying to the Piggly Wiggly. It’d be hard to hunt Fenris from the produce section.”

  Samuel’s house looks as though it might fall over in a strong breeze, but I don’t think that’s why I’m nervous as he sticks a key into the door and pushes it open. He hurries me inside and shuts the door behind him.

  “Sorry,” he says quickly. “I don’t have AC. If you can trap the cool air inside, it’s not so bad, but if you leave a door open and the hot air gets in, it stays in.”

  “Right,” I say, as if I’ve heard of such a thing a thousand times before. My eyes scan the room—a bed, unmade and lacking a frame, rests in one corner. A single chair, beaten shag rug, a stack of worn magazines… and that’s it. Very bachelor-esque. Samuel ducks into a doorway and lets the door drift almost shut behind him.

  I hear the sound of water running, drawers opening and shutting. Just as I’m considering snooping in what I assume is a kitchen around the corner, he emerges. His hair is smoother than normal, and it looks as though he’s washed his face. I raise an eyebrow.

  “My landlord is particular. Trust me, you’ll understand when you meet her,” he says, face reddening a little. “Here, brush your hair.”

  “What?” I ask, offended.

  “Seriously,” he says, passing me a comb. “If you don’t brush it, she’ll say something.”

  “Fine,” I mutter, blushing, although when I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, I realize the helmet wasn’t exactly kind to my hair. I run the comb through it and return to the main room.

  “Better?”

  Samuel nods and, before I know what he’s doing, strips his shirt off. He drops it onto the floor and kneels down to a dresser drawer. I don’t mean to stare, really, but I find myself doing just that. Samuel isn’t especially muscular and has a farmer’s tan where his T-shirt lines hit. But his skin is smooth and the muscles create soft lines around a tattoo of a family crest on his back, a shield shape with a tree in its center and the name Reynolds beneath it. The entire thing seems a little raised, as though if I ran my finger across it, I could read it like Braille—

  Samuel turns around, yanking a newer-looking T-shirt over his head as he does so. I frantically search the room for something to stare at.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I answer eagerly. I follow Samuel out the front door and toward the antebellum. The house’s back porch is lined with rocking chairs and citronella candles; pink hydrangeas are planted around the edge. Samuel darts in front of me to rap sharply on the back door.

  Nothing, save the screech of the Japanese beetles.

  Samuel raps again, harder this time.

  “Goddammit, I’m coming!” a voice shrieks from inside the house. Samuel gives me an apologetic look. Behind the door is a series of thuds, a few sounds of cats yowling, and finally, a key in a lock. The door flings open to reveal a short, bent-over woman. She’s covered in age spots and her limbs look like a pile of glued-together matchsticks. The walker she’s leaning on has tennis balls stuck on its feet, and she’s wearing a long turquoise muumuu and a neon pink head scarf.

  “What? I got your rent check already,” she says, eyeing Samuel as if she’s ready to clock him with her walker should he try to enter.

  “I know, Ms. Judy. I actually had a question?”

  “No. No discounts. I don’t care how long you’ve been renting.” Her hazel eyes move to me appraisingly. “And no shacking up. Not in my backyard. But Christ, Reynolds, if you’re gonna take a lady friend, at least wear something better than that old T-shirt.”

  “Of course, Ms. Judy, you’re right,” Samuel mutters. A white cat flies around her feet and dashes out into the backyard before Samuel can continue.

  “Dammit, Noodles!” Ms. Judy screeches, shouldering past Samuel and me to the back porch. She bangs her walker on the boards angrily. “Fine, then, go eat mice! I’m not putting your dinner on the porch again just so the raccoons can get it!”

  Ms. Judy spits down the porch steps and slowly turns around. When she sees us again, her face falls, as if she’d hoped we would have already disappeared.

  “And who the hell are you?” she asks me, putting a hand on her hip.

  “Gretchen Kassel,” I answer quickly, dipping my head a little. “I—”

  “And what do you want?” she cuts me off, pushing past us again. She bumps along with her walker back into the house. When she leaves the door open yet keeps moving down the hall, Samuel shrugs at me and steps in after her.

  The inside of the house isn’t exactly a reflection of its owner—it’s spotless, perfectly decorated, and beautiful. It looks like something you might see in one of those old-house-turned-museums: pictures of old Confederate soldiers on the walls, vases of silk flowers, elegant furniture, and long, heavy drapes.

  “We had a question about a girl, actually. One who used to live in Live Oak? We thought you might remember her—”

  “Oh, I see how it is,” Ms. Judy says, waving a fragile arm around. “I should know everyone ’cause I’m so old, right? ’Cause I’ve been here longer than dust?”

  “Uh, no,” Samuel says, and I see his eyes flicker to the ground. “Because you know everyone. Ms. Judy owns the diner off the interstate,” Samuel explains to me. I open my mouth and nod, as if this is the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard. “It’s the most successful business in Live Oak.”

  “And we sponsored the Acorns the year they were county champs,” Ms. Judy says. She’s not quite smiling but looks rather pleased with herself. “In fact, only reason Live Oak exists is because of my great-great-great-grandfather.” She wiggles her walker toward an oil painting over a small end table. It’s of a rather cranky-looking white-haired man in a Confederate general’s uniform. “He started this plantation. Most successful rice plantation in the state at one time!”

  Ms. Judy gazes at her great-great-great-grandfather with a misty sort of reverence. “Course, we lost it all in the war. But my family didn’t leave. We built back up. We Blakes are survivors! You know why? ’Cause we ain’t afraid to work! Ain’t afraid to make money! We built Live Oak back up after the war, and we’ll prolly be here still building even after every other shop on Main gives up.”

  “Right,” Samuel says. Ms. Judy turns and hobbles around a grand staircase to a formal sitting room. There’s an ancient piano against a wall and several fancy-looking chairs facing a coffee table with a silver tea set on its top. She wheezes and hacks as she slowly lowers herself into one of the chairs—I’m almost certain her entire body is moments away from breaking in half.

  I’m a little afraid to sit down—these are the kinds of chairs that our stepmother filled our house with, and Ansel and I were allowed to sit in them only if we promised to be very still. But Ms. Judy gives me a fiery look, so I carefully drop into one, crossing my legs at the ankles. Samuel sits up very straight, looking phenomenally out of place.

  “We were just wondering,” he says politely, “if you know anything about Naida Kelly.”

  “Ooh,” Ms. Judy says. “Naida Kelly. Haven’t heard that name in a piece.”

  “So… you know her?” Samuel asks.

  “Hell yes, I know her. It’s the Kelly girl, the little one. One that run off after the incident with her father.”

  “Ran off?” I say breathlessly.

  “Are you dumb? That’s what I just said.” Ms. Judy smacks her lips for a moment. “Left that older girl all by herself. Rumor from the diner has it you’re living with her,” she adds, nodding at me.

  “I am, but she never told me about a sis
ter. And no one ever mentioned a sister to Samuel. So… we were curious about her…” I choose my words carefully.

  “Yeah, yeah… that’s the thing you outsiders have to know about a place like Live Oak,” Ms. Judy says, nodding slowly. “All our secrets are family secrets. You don’t just go blabbing to strangers about tragedies and murders—”

  “She was murdered?” I gasp before I can stop myself. Ms. Judy’s eyes rip to mine and silence me.

  “I didn’t say that. In fact, I believe I just told you that we keep our secrets around here,” Ms. Judy says sternly. “But,” she adds, eyes lightening a bit, “what the hell do I care? I’m one foot in the grave already, and like I said, I ain’t afraid to make money…” She frowns and studies her nails for a moment, waiting for something.

  Samuel sighs. “I can’t afford to pay you for information, Ms. Judy.”

  “Oh, no, child! Of course not!” Ms. Judy says, looking appalled. “I couldn’t take your money. But see, I was just thinking—I pay that fat boy from town to come mow my grass every Sunday. And it just pains me, pains me, to see that lump trying to move around my yard.”

  “I…” Samuel grits his teeth. “I’d be happy to do that for you, Ms. Judy.”

  “Oh, would you?” Ms. Judy cries. “That would just be lovely, Samuel. Also, Noodles—poor kitty hasn’t had a bath in ages. I just can’t handle him anymore, you know. Energy of a kitten.”

  “I—and Gretchen,” he says, glaring at me, “will certainly help you give Noodles a bath.”

  “Oh, that’s just excellent. You’re lovely children, really,” Ms. Judy says, nodding. “Well then, let’s see… Jacob Kelly, the little girls’ father, one who ran that candy shop, he was murdered one night about three or four summers ago. Brutal. Police report said it was wild animals, dogs or something, since he was all tore up—‘shredded’ was the word they used, ‘shredded.’ ”

  I suppress a shiver. “That’s why Sophia came home from school,” I say aloud, quietly. “To take over the chocolatier because he died.”

  “Well, if you knew all that, why the hell are you bothering me?” Ms. Judy says, glaring at me. She harrumphs and continues. “But yeah, she came back to attend to her family’s land and all that. And then it weren’t but about three, four months later that the younger Kelly girl up and left town. Older girl said she went to college, but… yeah, sure she went to college. Hasn’t been seen or heard from since, and whenever anyone asked the older girl about her… well, it was pretty damn clear she didn’t want to talk about it. And then, next thing you know, girls are taking Naida’s lead and just up and running from Live Oak. Like that brunette one you were hot for!” Ms. Judy exclaims, nodding at Samuel as if he should suddenly realize Layla is among the disappearances.