by Becky Wade
“Wait to thank me until after you receive my bill.”
He was joking. . . . She was pretty sure he was joking. “I’d love to reimburse you,” she told him sincerely, even though half the groceries he’d brought were so wildly healthy that she might not be able to lecture herself into eating them.
“I’m expensive,” he said.
“That’s fine, because I’m rich.”
Another one of his rare smiles flashed across his mouth, devastating in its power. He’d been joking.
“What’s an Australian doing in the north Georgia mountains?” she asked.
“It’s a long, boring story.”
“Then give me the short, not-boring version.”
He peeled the wrapper from his protein bar and took a bite. “I’m half Australian. My dad’s American. After my mum graduated from uni, she got a work visa, moved to Atlanta, and met my dad there. Two months later they got married, and nine months later they had me.”
“And?”
“Their relationship was a battlefield. It didn’t help that my mother was from one continent, my dad from another.” He chewed another bite of his bar. “Mum had only planned to stay in the States for a few years. Dad never planned to leave Georgia. When she wanted to return to Australia, there was no way he was going with her. They divorced when I was two, and apparently, that was the easiest and most civil thing they ever did. I think they were both relieved. Mum and I moved to Australia.”
“Did your dad remain in Atlanta?”
“Yes. He’s still there.”
“Where did you and your mom live?”
“At first when we moved back, we lived in her home city of Melbourne. When I was six, she married a cattle grazier who’d inherited a big piece of property in Victoria. Mum and I moved to the country. Over the next few years, my sister and then brother were born.”
“Are your mom and stepdad still married?”
“They are. Happily.”
“What became of your dad?”
Sam rubbed the tip of his pointer finger against the pad of his thumb. “He stayed single for a long time. Ten years ago, he married a nice woman who never wants to leave Georgia, either. They’re well suited.”
“Are you his only child?”
“I am.”
“How often did you see him after you moved Down Under?”
“At first, once a year when he’d travel to Australia to spend time with me. As soon as I was old enough to fly alone, I started seeing him twice a year, because one of those times I’d travel here to see him.”
She and Natasha were the beloved daughters of a long marriage. At times, Genevieve felt that her mom might love her a little too much. Had there been times when Sam hadn’t felt loved enough? It had to be hard to live halfway around the globe from your father, to grow up as the only child of an unhappy marriage in a home that included your stepdad and the products of your mom’s happy second marriage—your half-sister and half-brother. “How come you didn’t stay on the cattle ranch?”
“Because it wasn’t my cattle station. When I was eighteen, I went to uni.”
“Where and what did you study?”
“I studied business at Victoria University in Melbourne.”
“Did you always want to own a restaurant?”
“Not at first. During the last two years of uni, I worked part time in a kitchen. It was then that I decided what I wanted to do. I went to cooking school, then worked as a sous chef.”
“Why did you move to America?”
He crossed his arms. No reply.
“C’mon.” She bumped his knee with her foot. “You know about my fondness for Oxy. I’d really like to know one personal thing about you.”
“I don’t like talking about personal things.”
“Yes, I realize. I didn’t like going through withdrawal. But I did it.”
He looked across his shoulder at her. “You’re comparing talking about personal things to going through withdrawal?”
“Yes, because both are ultimately good for you.”
Long pause.
“Why did you move to America?” she repeated.
“I moved because I lost someone I loved.”
“I’m sorry. What happened?”
“I’d rather not say.” The muscles at the hinge of his jaw tensed. “I . . . I needed a change. So I moved to the States. To Atlanta.”
“Did you work in another restaurant?”
“I did. I continued to save money for a place of my own. Then moved here.”
She contemplated Sam and his globe-trotting past. Misty River had been her home base since birth. It sounded like for Sam, belonging had been harder to find.
She watched his throat work as he drained the last of his tea. He disappeared inside and returned without the mug, then stood on the grass facing her. “No need to keep texting me. Think you’re strong enough to get your own groceries?”
She didn’t want their communication or his deliveries to end. But of course, he’d already done more than enough for her. “Yes. I’ll be fine now on my own. Thank you.”
Tomorrow, she and Natasha were planning to meet at their parents’ house so that they could begin hunting for secrets in their mom and dad’s past. She’d texted her sister a photo of the mysterious letter the day it had arrived, then briefed her on the breakfast discussion she’d had with their parents about it.
On top of that, she was committed to telling Natasha about the Oxy.
Unfortunately, the thought of the threatening letter—and of having to confess her addiction—had ignited a flickering flame of apprehension within her.
Sam’s presence, his air of competence, his firm, endearing face—were calming. While he’d been here, he’d blocked depressing thoughts from devouring her mind. It was tempting to think that so long as he was close, she’d be all right.
Which was ridiculous!
Sam wasn’t the remedy for her problems. He was simply her caravan. A temporary rescue.
“’Night, Gen.”
“You know,” she pointed out, “no one calls me Gen except for my sister.” Usually when people tried to shorten her name, she politely asked them to call her Genevieve. She couldn’t quite bring herself to say that to him, though, because Gen sounded adorable when he said it.
“Well, now it’s your sister and me who call you Gen.”
“I realize Genevieve is hard to spell, but it’s only three syllables.” She smiled, playing devil’s advocate.
“Which is two syllables too long. Can I call you Gen?”
“You may.”
“’Night, Gen.”
“Good night, Sam.”
Tears tightened her throat as she watched him walk toward his truck.
Don’t go.
But he did go, plunging her back into solitude.
If she was going to be okay, truly okay again, then that outcome could not depend on anyone except herself and God.
Ultimately, she was the one who had to manage her recovery from pills, the Bible study she’d committed to write, and the secrets her mom and dad might be hiding.
I know what your parents did. The words of the mystery letter carried a menacing echo. And after all we’ve suffered, it’s hard to watch you bask in your fame and money. Your parents aren’t going to get away with it.
Ben
The earthquake goes on and on. I’m panting and my teeth are chattering and I’m sweating even though I’m freezing.
I need to try to get us out of this building, fast, to safe, open grass.
But I can’t see any doors or any stairs. Only rattling walls.
Luke hauls Genevieve into the room. Natasha releases a sob and wraps her younger sister in a hug.
A loud boom splits the air. The hallways in every direction begin to cave in. Even so, Luke turns to run down the one they’d come from.
Sebastian lunges and grabs Luke’s arm, stopping him.
“Let me go!” Luke’s eyes flash. “I have to get m
y brother.”
“You’ll be crushed,” Sebastian yells. He’s just as tall and just as strong as Luke.
Luke twists himself free. But as he does, concrete crashes into the hallway, filling it. A cloud of dirt rolls over us.
“No!” Luke screams.
Chapter Five
Natasha Woodward MacKenzie sailed through the door of their dad’s home office the next morning wearing exercise clothing and carrying a travel mug in one hand and a lump of yellow knitting in the other. “I’ve arrived!”
Genevieve walked into her sister’s hug, which smelled like a mixture of oranges and vanilla and communicated the same brisk reassurance it always had.
“‘You must allow me to tell you . . .’” Natasha began.
“‘How ardently I admire and love you.’” Genevieve finished the quote from Pride and Prejudice. Her practical sister had discovered a passion for Regency-set romances. This past January she’d embarked on a self-proclaimed “Year of Living Austenly” and had been integrating elements of Jane Austen’s world into her own.
They pulled apart. “How are you?” Genevieve asked.
“Ovulating.” Natasha delighted in announcing bodily news bulletins.
“Ah.”
Natasha passed over the lump of knitting. “For you.”
Natasha had attempted many of the crafts practiced by ladies of Jane Austen’s day. Embroidery had been a disaster. Wooden dolls dressed in shells, worse. Early this summer, she’d settled on knitting and had been clothing her family members in mediocre-to-bad knitted accessories ever since.
“Yay!” Genevieve unfolded it and was relieved to recognize what it was. “A winter hat.” Not only did it look like it might fit a ten-year-old, it was too short on one side. “Thank you.”
“Try it on!”
She squeezed it onto her head and smiled. The hat gripped the crown of her head like a toddler grips its mother’s legs.
“You know how bank robbers pull panty hose over their heads?” Natasha asked.
Genevieve nodded.
“You look like a bank robber who only managed to get the panty hose part way down.”
“Just the fashion statement I was hoping to make!”
“Then wear it with pride.” Natasha lowered into the desk chair.
“Thanks for agreeing to help me snoop through Mom and Dad’s stuff this morning.”
“Mom took Millie and Owen to the children’s museum, and there’s nothing I’d rather do with my two kid-free hours than assist you, sister of mine.”
“May you receive a crown in heaven for your tremendous generosity.” Genevieve gestured expansively.
Natasha saluted with her mug, which no doubt contained Jane Austen’s drink of choice: hot tea. “Are you feeling better? The flu can be brutal.”
Genevieve faltered. Nothing within her wanted to vomit her Oxy issue onto Natasha. Yet she’d promised Sam she’d tell Natasha as soon as she made it through withdrawal, and she didn’t want him to kick her out of his cottage. “About the flu . . .”
“Yes?”
Genevieve dragged a straight-backed chair from the wall close to Natasha’s position. “I was sick, but not with the flu.” She sat.
Her sister’s expression melted from teasing into confusion. “You told us you had the flu.”
“I lied.” Remorse gathered like heartburn in the center of her chest.
“Why? What did you have?”
“I was going through prescription drug withdrawal,” Genevieve forced herself to say.
For a second, terrible silence held sway. “What?” Natasha said.
“I’ve been taking OxyContin since my ankle surgery.”
Natasha regarded her with astonished concern. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Back up.” She began asking questions.
Genevieve answered each one. She put as rosy a spin as possible on her predicament.
When her questions ran dry, Natasha knotted her hands together on the desktop and regarded Genevieve squarely.
Genevieve waited, throat tight. This was the older sister she’d looked up to since birth. Wise, funny, dependable Natasha. She’d always wanted Natasha to think well of her, and that hadn’t changed.
“This is really scary,” Natasha said. “People die because of opioids every day.”
“I know.”
“I love you. We all love you. We’ll do whatever we can to help you get well.”
Genevieve hadn’t felt like herself since she’d stopped taking the pills. All her emotions were much too close to the surface, and it took effort not to burst into tears. “I love you, too.”
“What can I do to support you?” her sister asked.
“Just . . . be there for me, I guess.”
“Are you getting professional help?”
Genevieve told her about the appointment she’d made with Dr. Quinley. “I’ll know more about how you can support me after I meet with her.”
“Do you want me to go with you? To the appointment?”
“I think I’d like to go alone.”
“Who else knows about this?”
“My publicist, Sam Turner, and now you.”
Natasha didn’t condemn her, but Genevieve could hear the unsaid words reverberating in the space between them: “Why didn’t you tell me?” Not only could Genevieve understand that question, she could empathize with the hurt behind it. She’d have been hurt, too, if Natasha had hidden a hardship like this from her. In keeping silent, Genevieve had betrayed the closeness of their relationship, and they both knew it.
“I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you,” Genevieve said. “At first, it didn’t seem like a big deal because I thought I could quit the pills at any time. It wasn’t until recently that I realized I was in trouble.”
Natasha nodded. “When are you going to tell Mom and Dad?”
“I don’t know. Right now, it’s hard enough to resist popping pills to make myself feel better. I can’t think about coming clean to them at this point.” Her mom already worried about her constantly. If Genevieve gave her this—very real—thing to worry about, Mom would likely become unbearable.
“They should know about this,” Natasha said.
“I just . . . can’t.”
A long, fraught gap of quiet opened. The other thing Genevieve couldn’t do right now? Continue talking about this. This topic made her feel like she’d been pinned naked to a clothesline near a busy street. She was willing to do just about anything to shift Natasha’s attention, so she returned her chair to its place. “I say we start snooping around.”
“Gen?”
“We can talk more about my recovery later, okay? That’s sort of all I can manage at the moment.”
Natasha considered her.
“Can we talk about the search we’re about to undertake? Please?” Genevieve asked.
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
“In that case, what’s our plan of attack for this morning?”
“I say we go through Dad’s files and Mom’s albums and memory boxes.”
“Looking for?”
Genevieve shrugged. “Clues to their hidden past.”
“I don’t think we’re going to find anything. I still think someone sent you that letter to mess with you.”
“Possibly. It’s just that when I talked to Mom and Dad about it over breakfast, I’m telling you, something was off. If the letter writer knows facts about them that we don’t, I’d like to find out what we’re dealing with before a stranger goes public.”
“Are you sure this is the best time to be launching an investigation into our mother and father?” Natasha looked doubtful. “You’re dealing with plenty right now.”
“I’ll feel better once I know what’s going on. I really don’t want to be blindsided.” As soon as she said the words, conviction boomeranged into her. She’d just blindsided Natasha.
“All right, then.” Natasha opened one of Dad’s files. “I’m assuming that we’re searching fo
r something that occurred before they moved to Misty River?”
“Yes.”
“Because it’s hard to imagine them pulling off something secretive here.”
“Agreed.” Their parents had settled in Misty River shortly after their wedding. It strained believability to think that they’d covered up a secret that had occurred in their small Georgia hometown.
“I say we start as far back in time as possible,” Natasha said, “and move forward. I’ll handle the filing cabinet.”
“I’ll handle the albums.” Genevieve retrieved as many as she could carry and settled on the office floor with them so she could be near her sister while they worked.
These albums, with their black paper pages and black-and-white photos held in place with photo corners, were the oldest of the lot. Nanny, their dad’s mother, had carefully filled them with pictures of Dad when he was small.
The first album contained baby and toddler photos. The second album began around the time he’d gone to kindergarten. There were pictures of Judson on his first day of school wearing a buzz cut and a collared shirt. Pictures of him standing proudly in his tidy bedroom, with its precisely made bed, meticulous bookshelves, methodically organized action figures, and cowboy lampshade. Pictures of him with missing front teeth and his birthday cake.
She saw nothing that would indicate her dad had experienced anything less than the stable, all-American childhood she’d known him to have.
Every once in a while, Natasha would murmur under her breath or drink from her travel mug. Genevieve would hum or catch Natasha’s attention to show her an old artifact she’d uncovered.
After the things she’d just divulged to her sister, the companionship that usually came very naturally to the two of them felt fragile. Genevieve was having to work for it, and “fake it till you make it” required effort that sapped her energy.
She glanced at her sister’s bent head. The line of her neck and profile were sweetly familiar.
Ever since Genevieve had caught up to Natasha’s height, people had asked them if they were twins. The question should have been insulting to Genevieve, the younger sister. Instead, she took it as a compliment. Though the family resemblance was very strong between them, Genevieve had always thought Natasha to be the prettier sister.
