Stay with Me (Misty River Romance, A Book #1)

by Becky Wade

  Sam strode toward Genevieve and her parents wearing a white T-shirt, his black baseball cap, and black jeans.

  “Everything running smoothly?” he asked her.

  “Very smoothly.”

  Sam greeted her parents courteously.

  In Sam, her mother at last found an audience willing to give her undivided attention while she spoke about her children and grandchildren.

  It wooed Genevieve, watching Sam listen so carefully to her mom.

  As soon as Oliver finished unfixing every fix Anna had made to the farm stand, Oliver clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Samuel. Never fear, I’ve been guiding your guests through your garden with the utmost respect. One couple so appreciated the recipe for tamales I rattled off and the tidbits I shared regarding sustainable farming practices that they asked to take a photo with me. I consented, of course.”

  “Thanks, Oliver.”

  “Can I have a picture with you?” Anna asked Oliver. “You look so cute today—like an ad for fly fishing.”

  “I beg your pardon. I’m clearly attired for gardening—”

  “Fly fishing is super boring,” Anna said, apparently forgetting her fleeting plan to snap a picture. “Also, the river is really cold. I went with my family once, and we couldn’t figure out why our feet were freezing because our guide was fine. We found out later that our waders were leaking. Our feet were standing in puddles of water! No wonder our toes were freezing. Which reminds me, I need a pedicure.”

  Oliver regarded Anna with deep disdain.

  “Genevieve has such a wonderful way of communicating her thoughts,” Mom was saying to Sam. “So relatable. That the Lord has called one of our children to serve Him in this way means so much to us. What a rich, rich blessing. He is so good.”

  Genevieve intervened before Mom could bathe Sam in the full spectrum of her emotions. “So far, my parents have only seen the farm stand,” she said to him. “I’m about to show them around.”

  “If you’d like to see the apple orchard, we can get there quickly on my ATVs,” Sam told her dad.

  Instantly, Dad perked up. “I’d like that. How many ATVs do you have?”

  “Two. Each one can carry two of us.”

  They made their way to the barn. Mom sat behind Dad, which meant Genevieve was paired with Sam. He slung a leg over the four-wheeler first. Oh my. This was going to throw the two of them into very close proximity. She positioned herself as respectfully far behind him on the seat as she could without jeopardizing her life.

  “Hang on,” he murmured.

  Tentatively, she set her hands on his lean sides. Sensation rolled up her arms, stealing her breath.

  They shot through the open mouth of his barn going what felt like sixty miles an hour.

  Their vehicles ate up the ground as the earth rose, fell, and turned. Whiffs of Sam’s delicious soap kept snapping back to her on the breeze. Through the fabric of his shirt, the contact of her palms against his ribs radiated heat.

  They were going faster than she would’ve chosen to go on her own. The exhilaration of that, plus the air singing against her face and the beautiful landscape, made her feel as though she was one hundred percent alive.

  This is what life is, Genevieve.

  She needed more living in her life. Now that she was adjusting to the slower and quieter rhythm of the farm, she’d realized that she’d made constant activity into an idol worth pursuing. She’d spent more time crafting social media posts to make it look like she was flourishing than she’d invested in actual flourishing. She’d let her work consume too much. . . . But then, she’d always found it hard to know where to draw the line. How could anything she did for Jesus be considered too much?

  When they reached the orchard, Sam stepped from the ATV, then helped her off, his touch sure.

  As their group walked along the rows between the lines of apple trees, he answered her parents’ questions and explained the varieties he grew. The oldest section of the orchard had been planted in the 1800s and contained historic strains like the Yellow Transparent, Red Detroit, Early Rus, and the Esopus Spitzenburg apple. “Which was Thomas Jefferson’s favorite,” Sam said. “He ordered twelve apple trees for Monticello.”

  He indicated the far portion of the orchard, populated by smaller trees. “When I moved in, I planted newer varieties. Honeycrisp, Rome Beauty, Red Delicious, and Granny Smith.”

  “Can we taste an apple?” Mom asked.

  “More than that, you’re welcome to pick as many apples as you can carry back on the ATV. My treat.”

  Mom clasped her hands together. “Thank you! This is a moment to treasure, Sam. What a sweet memory this will be.”

  Sam took her mom’s syrupy words in stride. “I’m glad you stopped by.”

  Her parents drifted toward the old section of trees. Genevieve ambled toward the new, Sam following.

  “Thanks for being great with my mom and dad.”

  “Anytime.” He bent and moved a large stick out of her way. “Does your dad have a problem with his eyes? I noticed that something seemed different about his left eye.”

  “Very perceptive, Sam. Most people don’t pick up on that.” She hadn’t known her dad any other way, so she herself didn’t tend to see anything out of the ordinary when she looked at him. She settled her braid forward over her shoulder. “He was in a car accident before he met my mom. A piece of glass punctured his left eye so badly that it couldn’t be saved. He has an artificial eye.”

  “It looks a lot like the real thing.”

  “The doctors did a great job. They left all the muscles around the eyeball intact, which is why he still has some movement in the artificial eye. Just not as much as a real eye. Also, it can’t dilate. Nor can it change color slightly, the way real eyes do in different light.”

  “It seems like he’s adapted well.”

  “Apparently he had a hard time adapting immediately after it happened. But over time, he’s learned to deal with it. He’s less coordinated than he was, but he was never an athlete to begin with. He positions himself so that his artificial eye is the one next to a wall or sits at the end of rectangular tables so he can see everyone better. He’s a very defensive driver and doesn’t drive at all at night.”

  Sam made a thoughtful sound.

  “He has to see a chiropractor fairly often because the way he holds his head, angled to the side, throws him out of alignment. And, of course, he and his eye doctor are very, very careful of his remaining eye.”

  They strolled together between healthy green branches.

  “My mom has to tell him when his glasses are dirty on the side of the artificial eye. Otherwise, he’d never know.” She rose to her tippy toes to reach for a Honeycrisp. Too high.

  Sam adroitly snapped it from its branch. After shining it on his shirt, he handed it to her.

  His eyes met hers. So much lived in his expressions.

  She took a bite. The apple gave way with a satisfying crunch. Firm, tangy, juicy.

  As they walked, they talked about the changes she’d advised him to make to his website and social media accounts.

  His gorgeous accent flowed over her like poetry. His hard body moved with grace. His size and sturdiness reassured her.

  Sam Turner was a man who knew his own mind. He was comfortable in his skin. He was also secretive and occasionally prickly. He had a grip on what was important and what wasn’t. The more she dug past his closed-off exterior into his character, the more she found decency and goodness at his core.

  The National Park Service had entrusted every growing thing and every structure on these acres to Sam’s care. She shouldn’t be surprised that a man who had a way with growing things also had a way with women. Like these trees, and partly because of Sam, she was starting to thrive in this soil.

  It had been a long, long time since she’d felt for anyone the way she was starting to feel for Sam. The rush of emotions. The glittering hormones. The awareness.

  She needed to be careful. S
uper careful. Dr. Quinley had told her that the absence of Oxy would leave a void that needed filling. It had. Intellectually, she knew the hole needed to be filled by God and God alone. So why was she instinctively tempted to fill that void with Sam? If she let herself go there, then she’d be exchanging one crutch—painkillers—for another crutch—a man. A man who had, let her not forget, informed her from the first that there would be no romance between them.

  What if she told him about her interest, and he shut her down? (Highly likely.) What if, by some miracle, he eventually reciprocated her feelings (unlikely) and then ended up shattering her heart (likely)? Where would she be then? Devastated. And what effect might that have on her recovery? Detrimental.

  She’d be wise to do what Dr. Quinley advised: focus all her energy on confronting and dealing with her issues so that she could hope to stay clean in the future.

  The sound of her mom’s laughter traveled to her, and Genevieve angled a look at her parents. Dad had made a basket out of the hem of his polo shirt, and Mom was giggling as she added apples to it.

  What exactly had her mom and dad done all those years ago?

  Genevieve

  “Nobody’s answering,” Luke says. Then he whispers a curse word I’ve only heard at school a couple of times in my life and dials his cell phone a second time.

  I swallow hard. My arm is cut, and I don’t want to look at the blood. It’s stinging, and there’s dirt in it. Sebastian’s head is hurt. And where’s Ethan? He was behind us in the hallway.

  Tears are burning my eyes, but I’m not going to cry in front of handsome Luke and mean Sebastian. I press my teeth into my bottom lip.

  Faintly, I can hear the phone ringing that Luke’s pressed to his ear. Answer. Answer, someone. Please.

  “Mom?” Luke says.

  I blink and blink to fight back tears.

  “Mom, there was an earthquake, and we’re in the basement of the building where we—” he pushes a trembling hand to his forehead—“where we were storing the sports equipment. We need help.”

  A very short pause.

  “I’m okay.”

  Another pause.

  “I don’t know. Ethan was with us. But now . . .” His voice breaks and, angrily, he turns away from us and walks as far as he can toward a ruined wall. “But now he’s not.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Genevieve had been imagining Mrs. Birdie Jean Campbell as small and frail. Thus, she was slightly taken aback when a tall, buxom African-American woman answered her knock. Birdie Jean did not radiate frailty. She moved slowly and spoke slowly but accomplished both with dignified assurance.

  The older woman ushered Genevieve into the parlor of her two-story Victorian near the heart of the town of Camden, Georgia. The tidy, antique-filled interior smelled like pastry crust and had the ambiance of a museum.

  The first several days Genevieve had tried to reach Birdie Jean, the phone had rung and rung. When Birdie Jean had finally picked up, she’d told Genevieve this Monday morning time slot was her earliest opening.

  More than a week had now passed since the Fall Fun Day, so Genevieve and Natasha had been given a chance to exercise the virtue of patience.

  Genevieve and Birdie Jean settled at a round table and shared pecan pie, lukewarm tea, and conversation. Birdie Jean asked Genevieve questions in a way that reminded Genevieve of an employer interviewing a job applicant. Perhaps she only gave diary access to those who passed her pecan pie test?

  Each time Genevieve finished speaking, the elderly woman paused before replying, as if mulling over what Genevieve had just said.

  Birdie Jean’s gray-black hair was coiled into a low bun. She wore an elegant pewter-colored sweater set and slacks. No jewelry, save for a simple wedding band. No makeup, save for a neutral shade of peach lipstick with just a hint of shimmer.

  Horn-rimmed glasses perched on her large face. Either Birdie Jean was attuned to current eyeglass styles or she’d been wearing that style since the first time it had been popular in the 1950s.

  Unobtrusively, Genevieve worked to free a stubborn bit of pecan pie from her molars. The woman at the library had been right to warn her. If Genevieve had tried to eat this pie with a loose crown, she’d have been a goner.

  Birdie Jean rested her hands in her lap and studied Genevieve owlishly. Though Genevieve had been working to win the older lady’s approval since entering her home, she didn’t think she’d succeeded. It seemed likely that Birdie Jean might deem her unworthy of the diaries and send her away empty-handed except for the sliver of pie wedged against her tooth.

  “Tell me what brought you here today,” Birdie Jean said.

  “My mom has been married to my dad for thirty-four years. But she was married once before that, briefly, to a man from Camden who was killed. My sister and I would like to read all the articles about her first husband’s death. We can only find two of them online.”

  “What’s your mother’s name?”

  “When she lived here in Camden, her name was Caroline Atwell.”

  At once, clarity came into Birdie Jean’s time-worn eyes. “I remember.”

  A thrill glided down Genevieve’s arms, raising goose bumps.

  “She was married to Russell Atwell, yes?” Birdie Jean asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  It took Birdie Jean quite some time to rise. “Right this way.”

  They passed a bedroom containing a bed covered in a jewel-toned quilt. “Just here.” Birdie Jean motioned for Genevieve to enter a small rectangular room with a single window and armchair situated at its end. Shelves ran the length of the two long walls and housed volume after volume of twelve-inch-tall scrapbooks. “I believe Russell was killed in 1983. Is that correct?”

  Birdie Jean had a card catalog for a brain. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  The older woman located the scrapbook from that year. Genevieve helped her slide it from its place, and they set it on the narrow standing table occupying the center of the room.

  The book’s spine gave a protesting creak as Birdie Jean opened it and carefully turned the pages. It was somewhat insulting to call this tome a diary. It included handwritten entries, yes. But much more than that, too. She’d adhered newspaper pages to it. A candy wrapper. A movie ticket. Photos.

  When she found the page she sought, Birdie Jean positioned the scrapbook before Genevieve, then unfolded the front page of that day’s newspaper so that it expanded beyond the confines of the book. She held her silence, seeming to want Genevieve to learn the details through the sources she’d saved instead of through her own memories.

  Man Found Dead in His Home, the headline read. Below, a photo depicted crime scene tape in the foreground and a modest ranch-style home in the background.

  Genevieve leaned over the small print and read silently.

  Russell Atwell, 23, died at his home on Farm Road 481 on Saturday evening. “Mr. Atwell was struck in the head amid signs of a struggle,” Police Chief Stanton said at a press conference in the early hours of Sunday morning. “The exact time of his death is unknown at this point.”

  The similarities to the three murders perpetrated by the Shoal Creek Killer are unmistakable. Like the others, Mr. Atwell died of blunt force trauma. Like the others, he was a white male who was at home alone when the intruder entered his home. Like the others, he was subdued via hand-to-hand combat.

  At the press conference, Chief Stanton was quick to address the concern of local citizens. “It’s too soon to say whether Mr. Atwell was a victim of the Shoal Creek Killer. You can be certain that we will gather every piece of evidence and investigate this crime to the fullest extent of the law in hopes of bringing the offender to justice.”

  The deceased’s wife, Mrs. Caroline Atwell, was attending Bible study with her sister-in-law Sandra Atwell when the attack occurred. Upon returning home, the women discovered Mr. Atwell’s body and notified authorities.

  Mom, Genevieve thought, her heart heavy. What an unbearably traumatic thing
to have found upon returning home.

  “This is a tragic event,” Chief Stanton stated. “We can’t allow mass fear to run rampant and overshadow the fact that our community has lost one of its longstanding members. Our deepest condolences go to Mr. Atwell’s family and friends.”

  Russell Atwell is survived by his wife, his parents, Alice and Gordon Atwell, and his younger sisters, Sandra and Dawn.

  Genevieve stepped back from the table and considered Birdie Jean, who returned her regard evenly.

  “I’m guessing that the Camden Chronicle continued to follow this story closely,” Genevieve said.

  “Oh yes. The residents of this town were shaken from the time of the first murder, which happened in Winterville.” She released a mournful clicking sound of regret. “Winterville is close. Just a handful of miles up the road. Then the murders continued. It was all people could talk about and think about in those days. People were sleeping with handguns and arming their teenage children if they had to leave those children home alone to go to work. Everyone suspected everyone else. A very scary time.”

  “It must have been a relief when Terry Paul Richards was arrested and put behind bars.”

  “It truly was.”

  “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I’d love to read all the articles you have about Russell’s murder.”

  “Make yourself comfortable there in the chair and take as much time as you need.” She paused in the doorway to look back. “You can find me in the front of the house when you’re ready to leave.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  Genevieve toted the scrapbook to the armchair and adjusted the pages to catch the sunlight. The brightness almost seemed to enliven the words and images and mementos preserved there, making them buzz with life once again.

  She refolded the front page along its crease marks, turned the diary’s page, and unfolded the newspaper on the next page. Again and again. The articles, as well as Birdie Jean’s handwritten entries and all the other artifacts saved, gave her a feel for the town at that particular point in history.