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

by Becky Wade

  After the tour, Anna and Oliver went home. For the rest of the afternoon, Sam and Genevieve worked together to juggle the farm’s customers and her fans.

  The whole time he was intensely aware of her. The timbre of her voice, the blue of her sweater, the sparkle of the three intertwined silver bands she wore on one finger. She had a way of making everyone feel at home in her presence. More than once, she’d teared up at the stories the women shared with her. Stories of loss and terminal illness and bitterness beaten by hope. They shared how her ministry had impacted them, and she told them how much they meant to her.

  With every discussion he overhead, every laugh Gen gave, every woman who wiped her eyes with a tissue as she explained how God had spoken to her through Gen’s study, his admiration for Gen grew.

  Her work meant something important to people. Not many could write and speak about the things of God like she could. No one else had her personality—confident and sweet, emotional and grounded, wry and real.

  He could not do Genevieve’s job. He wouldn’t even want to.

  He longed for the kind of quiet broken only by the sound of leaves in the trees and the kind of darkness interrupted only by stars. He wanted to grow things with his hands and leave these acres better than he’d found them. He was driven by excellence. But for him, excellence meant the poetry of a perfectly balanced omelet or an apple tree so healthy that its branches sagged with fruit.

  He was simple. She was not.

  He had no right to feel this ferocious protectiveness toward her and the gifts God had given her. But he did. Even more confusing, his protectiveness toward Gen had come into conflict today with his protectiveness toward her gifts. When he’d insisted that she take a break, he’d put Gen’s well-being ahead of what might have been best for her ministry.

  He didn’t know if that was how God wanted it or not. He simply knew he’d choose the same way the next time. And the next.

  When five o’clock finally arrived, he was glad to close the farm to the public. He and Gen stored the Fall Fun Day supplies in the barn, then he watched her drive away to have dinner with her parents.

  He took refuge inside his house. But he couldn’t hide from his feelings for her.

  They followed him into the shower. They followed him downstairs.

  Edgy and miserable, he did something he hadn’t done in a long, long time: He sat in his living room in the twilight and swigged wine straight from the bottle with grim determination.

  Genevieve

  Tears press against my eyes every time I think about my mom and dad. My stomach is empty. My mouth is dry from thirst. I’m weak and dizzy and scared.

  But since nobody else is complaining, I’m not.

  I’m not going to ask if we’re going to starve down here.

  I’m not going to ask how long we can go without water.

  I keep staring into the dim edges of our space, looking for a bag of chips, or some granola bars, or cookies. One of us would have seen those things by now if they’d been down here. Even so, I can’t stop looking for them.

  We’re sitting in a line with our backs against the wall and our legs stretched out. It’s better . . . so, so much better when we talk. But right now it’s quiet.

  I’m trying to think of something else to say. But it’s hard to come up with stuff, because we’ve already talked about a lot. If I do come up with something, Luke probably won’t answer, and whatever I say will irritate Sebastian.

  This silence is the worst silence I’ve ever heard. It feels like a blanket that’s trying to suffocate me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Four nights later, Genevieve curled up in the cottage’s love seat with her robe on backward to examine the photos she’d taken of Birdie Jean’s scrapbook.

  So far, Natasha had uncovered nothing more about Angus Morehouse. And Genevieve had uncovered nothing noteworthy about her mom and dad’s years in Savannah.

  Thus, she’d circled back to Birdie Jean’s scrapbook.

  Golden warmth burnished the air inside the cottage. Outside, gray clouds hung low on this second-to-last night of October. Wind buffeted the structure, occasionally tossing raindrops against the windows. The fire she’d lit this afternoon to brighten the final hours of her workday still crackled.

  She’d uploaded the photos she’d taken at Birdie Jean’s to her computer. After adjusting her laptop on her crossed legs, she increased the size of the first photo until it filled the whole screen.

  Meticulously, she combed through the front page of the newspaper published the day after Russell’s murder, then evaluated the following day’s front page. In this case, the article about Russell continued on one of the paper’s latter pages, so she brought up the picture she’d taken of the article’s conclusion. A few ads bordered it. One for a dry cleaner. One for a repairman. A recruitment ad read, Navy. It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure! At the Community Center tonight from 7:00–9:00 p.m., Seaman Derek O’Leary and Petty Officer Third Class Judson Woodward . . .

  What?

  Her dad? She gave a huff of surprise at the unexpectedly wonderful discovery.

  . . . will be available to share their experiences, the notice continued, answer your questions, and discuss whether the United States Navy is right for you. Now is the time to invest in your future!

  What were the chances of coming across a piece of memorabilia like this from the year her dad had spent as a recruiter before law school? She could screenshot this and email it to him and mom. Or it might be fun to print it out and have it framed for him.

  She skimmed the ad again. Her own father’s name right next to an article detailing the facts of Russell Atwell’s murder . . .

  The happiness of her find began to slip. Then slip further. Until it evaporated into unease.

  She’d wondered What were the chances? in a lighthearted way a moment ago. But now she had to ask herself that same question much more seriously.

  Literally. What were the chances of this? That her mother’s two husbands—one of whom had been kept secret from her and Natasha—had both been captured in print in the same issue of the Camden Chronicle?

  The chances were astronomical. Such a tremendous coincidence that she had to doubt whether it was a coincidence at all.

  Think, Genevieve.

  Dad spoke positively about his stint as a recruiter. He’d liked it, in part, because he’d had some flexibility in choosing the locations of his recruiting stops. When possible, he’d used that flexibility to visit towns where his friends and family members lived.

  In light of that, the convergence of her mom, dad, and Russell in the same small town the same weekend would make sense if . . .

  Dad had known Russell prior to that weekend.

  Or—her senses lurched unpleasantly—if Dad had known Mom prior to that weekend.

  She whipped off her robe and began to pace. Dad had been three years older than Mom and Russell, but they’d all attended the same university, so it wasn’t too difficult to imagine that Russell and Dad had met there. Perhaps they’d played intramural sports together? Lived near each other? Belonged to the same fraternity? She could picture her dad stopping in Camden to catch up with an old college friend.

  It was much harder to picture Dad catching up with an old college friend who was female and happily married.

  Her slippers whapped against the area rug, then the wood floor. Area rug. Wood floor. Anxiously, she fussed with her rolling ring.

  It would also make sense for the three of them to have been in Camden the same weekend if Dad had met Mom that weekend through Russell.

  Area rug, wood floor. Area rug, wood floor.

  Her parents had told her they’d met more than a year after Russell’s death. She wanted to believe that, even knowing they’d lied by omission about Mom’s first marriage.

  They were the ones who’d told her that the sun was a star. That there wasn’t a monster in her closet. That washing her hands would help her avoid the germs that caus
e sickness. That Reese Ashton was not dating material. That kindness and politeness matter. That they loved her. That God was real.

  All those things had proved to be true. Her parents had poured the foundation upon which she’d built her life. They were the people she trusted most in the world.

  Perhaps their proximity in Camden that weekend in 1983 really was a coincidence?

  Yes. No.

  Worry solidified in her midsection.

  If she could take just one Oxy, it would crush the worry. She closed her eyes against a wave of longing for the relaxed, creative, confident buzz Oxy had given her.

  She went to her mini-kitchen. With one sharp motion of her fingers, she opened a mini-pack of Jelly Bellies. Bright, sugary flavors exploded in her mouth as she chewed.

  Sam had told her she could call him when tempted to take Oxy. But did she really want to disturb him, considering how convoluted things were between them?

  She’d manage the worry on her own.

  Too soon, she reached the bottom of the bag. She peered at it, disconsolate. She ordered the mini-packs specifically because they offered built-in portion control. But now, in order to manage her stress, her choices were either to lay waste to all her mini-packs of jelly beans or contact Sam.

  She moaned. Why was it so hard for her to reach out to others for help?

  Angry with her own pride, she texted him. I’m struggling with a bout of worry. You invited me to let you know when I wanted to take Oxy, so I’m following through and letting you know. She added two smiling emojis, then sent it before she could talk herself out of it.

  As soon as she did, vulnerability besieged her. What if he doesn’t reply? What if he thinks I’m a head case? What if he’s busy and my text is an annoyance to him? Their friendship had been jagged since the kiss.

  His text response came back more quickly than any text response she’d ever received from him. I’m about to head to the supermarket. Want to join me?

  Relief flooded her. She was struggling to think clearly about her dad’s presence in Camden, but Sam would be able to. Yes, please.

  She pulled boots over her leggings and a pink wool coat over her white dolman top. By the time his truck reached her cottage, she was waiting on the side of the road beneath her turquoise umbrella. She clambered into his passenger seat, storing her umbrella near her feet.

  He did not send the truck forward but instead considered her watchfully. “What’s going on?”

  Oh, perish.

  He was certifiably gorgeous in his black baseball cap, lightweight black jacket, work pants, and boots.

  “I just found out that my dad was in the same town as my mom and Russell, the town of Camden, the weekend that Russell was murdered.”

  Seriousness settled into the creases at the corners of his eyes.

  “You can drive while we talk,” she said.

  “Or I can sit here while we talk.”

  “No, it’s okay. Drive.” It would be easier to get this out without the full, swoony weight of his attention on her.

  The truck jounced forward until it hit smooth road. She explained how she’d found the navy recruiting ad and the theories she’d come up with. “I just . . . I don’t know what to think.”

  At a stop sign, he reached across to open the glove box. “Take a breath and drink this.” He pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to her. “Hungry?” He motioned to the packages of almonds resting in the glove box.

  “I’m okay.” She refrained from saying she’d just inhaled jelly beans. “Thank you, though.”

  Since she’d met him, he’d supplied her with electrolyte water, protein shakes, muffins, steak, and more. It seemed he was prepared, even now, to dispense mobile sustenance from his truck. He’d been raised on an Australian cattle station. Every line and curve of him exemplified masculinity. But at heart, he was a caretaker.

  Tenderness for him wrapped around her ribs so strongly that it stole her speech.

  Sam was reserved and honorable. Guarded and good.

  If she tried to tell him that he was a hero, he’d disagree. He’d disagree because he’d tried so hard to be Kayden’s hero and failed.

  His life experience had turned him into a reluctant hero, but he was a hero, just the same. She could see that as clearly as she could see the trees zipping past, clothed in autumn color.

  He drove for a mile or more while she took long, clarifying sips of water. She only wished the water were colder, because sitting this close to Sam was giving her a hot flash.

  He doesn’t want to kiss you, Genevieve! You can’t be more than friends.

  “You found a clue today,” he finally said. “I don’t want you to lose sight of the fact that that’s a good thing.”

  “It doesn’t feel like a good thing at the moment.”

  He mulled that over. “What’s your goal concerning this search?”

  “To find out what the letter writer knows about my parents.”

  “Each clue leads you closer to that goal.”

  “It’s just . . . I didn’t really want to find upsetting clues.”

  “This clue doesn’t have to be upsetting,” he said reasonably. “You don’t know yet whether your dad’s visit to Camden means anything or not. Until you know more, there’s no sense worrying.”

  “True.”

  Companionable quiet coasted over them.

  “Feeling any better?” he asked.

  “Yes.” He’d had precisely the comforting effect on her she’d known he would. Resting her head against the seat back, she concentrated on softening her tense muscles and finishing her water. She wasn’t alone. Sam was here.

  Ordinarily, she didn’t enjoy grocery store runs. But the unexpected chance to spend time with him felt far more valuable to her than a ticket to a Broadway musical. If they’d been on their way to a dump, she’d have been thrilled.

  “This past Fall Fun Day,” he said, “reminded me that you’re a celebrity.”

  “I’m not a celebrity,” she said with automatic modesty. “My studies have been well received in some circles. That’s all.”

  “You’re well received, Gen. By my count, more than a hundred people came out to meet you.”

  She fiddled with the water bottle’s lid. “I’m hoping they bought quite a bit of produce from the stand. Did they?”

  “I don’t care how they affected my produce sales. I care about how they affected you.”

  “I thoroughly enjoyed speaking to them.”

  “You’re not uncomfortable with the attention?”

  She resisted her inclination to answer with a simple no, forcing herself to be honest with him. “I’m ninety percent fine with it. Ten percent uncomfortable with it.”

  “Why ten percent uncomfortable?”

  “Because I’m aware that I’m not deserving of it. It’s strange to be known for two things you didn’t control. An earthquake. And the sales of Bible studies.”

  “Do you think your notoriety from the earthquake increased the sales of your Bible studies?”

  “Yes. People still remember the Miracle Five.”

  “Did the earthquake have any other upsides?”

  She thought through her response. “When God saves you in a miraculous way, He becomes incredibly real.”

  “Other upsides?”

  “I got to travel the world, telling people what He’d done for us. For a brief moment in time, we had a pretty profound impact.”

  “Other upsides?”

  “The earthquake matured all of us. It deepened my relationship with my sister and gave me lifelong friendships.”

  He pulled into the grocery store parking lot, and they made their way through the front doors. He selected a shopping cart. She opted for a handheld basket.

  He shook his head pityingly at her basket.

  Clearly, Sam didn’t need a list. He loaded fruit and vegetables into his cart with speed and assurance but without consulting anything. Genevieve stood beside him, uncertain what to purcha
se.

  “What were the downsides of the earthquake?” He placed a package of organic strawberries in her basket. Then blueberries, then mango, then kale.

  “The trauma of it,” she said.

  “Explain.”

  “Before we were trapped down there, Natasha and I were these two happy, secure, protected girls. The worst thing that had happened to us was the time my mom got rear-ended when I was in first grade.”

  He led her toward the dairy section. “And then?”

  “And then I found myself buried beneath a pile of rubble. I knew we’d probably die and that others had probably already been crushed when the building collapsed. I can’t describe to you how jarring it was to find myself in that awful predicament . . . to be that terrified.”

  He added eggs and coconut milk to her basket.

  “I had nightmares,” she continued. “Anxiety. Trouble sleeping. All of a sudden, school became a struggle. That’s when I started seeing Dr. Quinley.”

  “Any other downsides?”

  “Are you really interested in all this?”

  “I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t.” He turned in to the paper towel aisle.

  “My mom became very overprotective,” she said. “She’d almost lost both of her kids and was dealing with the aftermath of her own trauma. Her insecurity didn’t help matters. It wasn’t until I left for college that I realized I’d been carrying the burden of her mental health on my shoulders. She still calls me all the time. She still worries.”

  “Other downsides?”

  They walked down one aisle and up another.

  “Gen?” he asked.

  She’d been reluctant to text him earlier, but then she’d been tremendously glad she did. Should she tell him more? Probably.

  When her silence continued, Sam stopped. He lifted her basket from her, set it in the child seat of his cart, and parked the cart next to a display featuring several flavors of coffee beans.

  They stood to the side so that shoppers would have room to pass. Facing her, he crossed his arms and waited for her to say more. It was as if he’d positioned his big body to protect her from hurricane winds.