by Becky Wade
Dark satisfaction curved his lips. He hadn’t made a tactical error. His brainpower remained intact, and he was going to be just fine. The constriction of his seat belt released.
She arched back and resumed her earlier position.
He extended his hand.
She took it. “Better?”
“Much.”
The sound of sirens reached him. In response, resistance sharpened inside him. He didn’t want to be parted from her.
Twice before in his life, he hadn’t wanted to be parted from people. When he was eight. When he was thirteen. Both times, his desires hadn’t mattered.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked. “I’d be happy to call someone.”
“No. I’m not the type . . . to alarm people . . . before I have solid facts.” He paused for a moment to gather his strength. The pinpricks still wouldn’t go away.
The sirens drew nearer. Louder.
He rested the back of his skull against his headrest but kept his face turned fully to the right, his concentration trained on her. “After I speak with the doctors . . . I’ll make calls. To tell people what’s happened.”
“Okay.”
The sirens grew so loud that they made conversation impossible.
She craned her neck to look toward the road.
Idiot sirens. Violently, he wished he could take back her 9-1-1 call.
He had to remember that he was a stranger to her. He couldn’t expect her to feel about him the way he felt about her. She hadn’t been in a crash. Her head was clear.
The noise of the ambulance cut away. Its lights continued to revolve, sending rays of red and blue against her face. She gave him a small, encouraging smile. “They’ll be here in just a second.”
He gripped her hand more tightly, holding her with him. He memorized the curves and lines of her forehead, cheeks, hair, neck, arms.
Men’s voices neared.
She moved to exit his car.
He didn’t release her hand. “Don’t go,” he said.
She leveled a bemused look on him. “I need to get out of their way. It’s all right. They’re going to take great care of you.” Gently, she slipped her hand from his and scooted away.
All he could think was, No. Don’t go. But he’d already said that, and it hadn’t worked. He couldn’t force her to remain with him.
“You’re going to be just fine,” she said.
He was not going to be just fine without her.
Two men in EMT uniforms filled the passenger-side doorway. They were leaning in, talking to him.
Sebastian twisted, trying to keep sight of her, but in an instant, the fog stole her from view.
She hated to be late.
But in this case, she’d had no other option. She’d stopped immediately after she’d seen a sports car whip past her just as a Range Rover hurtled into a ditch. After parking, she’d scrambled down the embankment, heaved the SUV’s passenger-side door open, and found a handsome, dark-haired man slumped unconscious against his seat belt. The stranger’s emergency had, rightfully, taken precedence over everything.
A truck waited in the fog on the road outside her house. She parked her old Honda Pilot in her driveway and hurried toward the truck.
The driver rolled his window down.
“Sam Turner?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Leah Montgomery.” They shook hands through the window. “I’m really sorry that I’m late. I apologize.”
“No worries.” He spoke with a fabulous accent. “Good to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too.”
He killed the ignition, stepped out, and pulled a stack of white boxes toward him.
“I would have called to let you know I was running late,” she told him. “But one of my students set up your donation and this drop-off time. I didn’t have your number.”
“Not a problem.”
“May I help carry those inside?”
“Sure. It’s going to take two trips.” He gave her two of the white boxes and hefted five more. Together they climbed the short, steep walkway leading to her front door.
Her tiny mid-century modern house looked like a rectangular Lego. Embedded into a hillside, it had a flat roof and an equally flat front composed mostly of glass to take advantage of the valley views.
“Thank you for donating these to our fundraiser,” she said. “That was very generous of you.”
“Happy to help.”
“I love your restaurant. I’m the one who suggested the kids contact you to ask if you’d be willing to make your paleo lemon cheesecakes for us. They’re incredible.”
“I hope you reach your fundraising goal.”
“So do I. If we don’t, it won’t be because we didn’t serve an excellent dessert.”
Across town, Genevieve arrived at Natasha’s neighborhood playground toting a cup of coffee in one hand and tea in the other. As she made her way through dissipating swaths of fog, her sister and the play equipment came into view, floating like islands in the white.
“I’ve got the worst indigestion,” Natasha declared.
“Luckily, your dispenser of tea and mercy has arrived.” Genevieve passed Natasha’s cup to her.
“God bless you very much.”
“Millie and Owen!” Genevieve called, waving. “Hi, sweethearts.”
“Hi, Aunt Gen!” Millie waved back from her position on top of the play structure. Owen smiled at her from the bottom of the slide.
“I’m impressed that the fog and the cold didn’t keep you guys inside,” Genevieve said.
“It’s not physically, mentally, or emotionally possible for me to keep my kids cooped up inside our house all morning. I’d brave a typhoon before I’d stay indoors with them.”
“I see.”
“That woman across from us?” Natasha indicated the figure standing on the other side of the park next to a small boy. “She knows. She and I are here because . . . necessities.”
Genevieve admired Millie and Owen’s pink cheeks and glowing, healthy skin. Natasha had bundled them in jackets and ill-made knitwear.
Sipping her latte, Genevieve reflected on just how far she and Natasha had come since the rubble of El Salvador. The earthquake that had snatched the lives of so many had inflicted inner wounds on them but very few outer scars.
Here they stood, in their thirties now, watching her sister’s children shriek and climb and run.
Anyone who saw the three generations of the Woodwards would probably view them as a shining example of a close-knit, richly blessed family. Practically perfect. What exactly, in addition to Genevieve’s reliance on OxyContin, did that “practically perfect” veneer hide?
“You said in your text that you have a new theory about Dad,” Natasha said.
“It isn’t a very nice theory. Not to mention it might be totally wrong.”
“No need to make further opening statements. Just dive right in and tell me your not-very-nice theory.”
Genevieve relayed Nanny’s comment about their dad’s tidiness. Then she explained how that comment had jogged her memory regarding the photos in the album, and how one specific photo had precisely forecast the positioning of Russell’s dead body.
When Genevieve finished, Natasha somberly looked down the line of her shoulder at her. Wind blew a piece of Natasha’s light hair across her cheekbone.
Heavyhearted, Genevieve pulled up the picture she’d taken yesterday of the photo of their dad’s action figures. She passed the phone to Natasha and gave her time to study it while she watched over the kids.
“This gives me a bad feeling,” Natasha said at length, handing back the phone.
“We know Dad was in town the weekend Russell died. Do you think he could’ve been inside Mom and Russell’s house?”
“I suppose it’s possible. But why?”
Millie ran up to them, Owen toddling after her. Her niece’s knit cap was so loose it was now dangling from her ponytail. Owen’s scarf had
ridden up almost to his forehead. They were in need of a drink and snack, so Natasha extracted both from her enormous mommy tote bag. In under three minutes, the kids ran off again, Owen protecting several multicolored Goldfish inside his chubby fist.
“We know that Mom and Russell’s sister discovered Russell’s body when they came home from an evening Bible study,” Genevieve said. “What if Dad was with them when they walked in? They find Russell, and Dad steps in and turns the body over, straightening it.”
“He must have known touching the body would disrupt the evidence.”
“He would have been rattled though, right? Not thinking clearly?”
Natasha made a doubtful sound.
The kids’ voices carried on the air as Millie situated Owen on the slide in front of her. They slid down together.
“Also,” Natasha said, “what would Dad have been doing at a Bible study?”
“Maybe Mom and her sister-in-law stopped somewhere after Bible study, ran into Dad, and Mom invited him to come by the house.”
“If that were the case, why didn’t Mom and her sister-in-law tell that to the police and the reporters?”
Genevieve rubbed her thumb against the sharp edge of her coffee cup’s lid. “I don’t know.” She let the possibilities descend through her like sand through water.
“I think we need to sit down with Mom and Dad, tell them everything we know, and force them to have an honest conversation.”
Genevieve’s soul shriveled at the prospect. “When?”
“I’d say tomorrow, but we’re going to the kids’ preschool autumn festival tomorrow.”
“And I’m working at the farm’s Fall Fun Day.”
“Let’s do it Sunday after church.”
Both Genevieve’s and Natasha’s phones chimed at the same time, signaling incoming text messages.
They checked their phones.
Ben had sent them a group text. Sebastian was in a car accident this morning. He has a nasty concussion, and the doctors want to hold him overnight for observation and additional scans. They think he’s going to be fine.
“Oh man,” Genevieve whispered. Her body had leapt into alarm mode when she’d read the first words of Ben’s message. Her fingers flew over the screen’s keyboard. Natasha, too, tapped her phone.
Is he in Atlanta? Natasha texted.
Thank God he’s okay, Genevieve responded.
In seconds, Ben’s response came through. He flew to Misty River this morning. He’s at General.
Is the concussion his only injury? Natasha asked.
Yes. I’m thankful that his injuries aren’t worse. His car’s totaled.
“I’ll drive over to General,” Genevieve said, “and check on him.”
Late the next afternoon, Sam’s sixth sense picked up a change in the atmosphere of his barn.
Gen was here.
He straightened from checking the oil on his tractor and turned toward the open barn doors.
Gen’s long earrings swung as she walked closer. Her eyes gleamed with affection.
He closed the distance between them, his big hands tunneling into her hair as he kissed her. Their chemistry flashed. His body shielded hers as he communicated the thing he’d never spoken to her in words—the depth of his devotion.
When she pulled back, she slid one palm down to cover his heart. He could feel it drumming beneath her touch.
They’d just completed the last of their Fall Fun Days. During today’s event, they’d had very little time to talk and no time alone.
“I stopped by to let you know I’m taking off,” she said. “They released Sebastian from the hospital today, so Ben and I are taking dinner to his house.”
“I hope he’s feeling better.”
“He’ll be fine.” She studied him for a long moment. “You look concerned.”
That’s because he was concerned. It was idiotic to put so much stock in her.
“You’re concerned about us,” she correctly guessed. “What we have is a very good thing, Sam.”
“I know.”
“What is it about us that’s worrying you?”
His jaw hardened.
“You’ve always wanted me to be open with you, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been trying. Can you try to be open with me?”
It was only fair. He’d demanded honesty from her, but he hadn’t been honest about his feelings for her in return. It was . . . brutally difficult for him to put himself out there.
“What is it about us that’s worrying you?” she repeated.
“I’m worried that this has become too important to lose.”
“Ah. Well.” A few seconds slid by. “I agree. This has become too important to lose.”
He considered her for a long moment, then drew her to him in a hug, closing her against his frame.
You said you thought she might have been an angel,” Ben said an hour later. “Maybe she was.”
He was referring to the mystery woman who’d stayed with Sebastian after his accident. “No,” Sebastian answered. “I said she looked like an angel. She was real.”
Sebastian sat in a chair, his head throbbing, watching Ben and Genevieve move around his kitchen island, preparing dinner. It was probably time for more meds.
He’d spent yesterday and most of today at the hospital, lying in bed, thinking of the mystery woman. Having his head scanned, he’d thought of her. Trying to fall asleep, he’d thought of her. Talking to his nurses, he’d thought of her. Never had he had such a strong reaction to someone he’d just met.
“‘Ba-aa-aa-by, you’re my angel,’” Ben sang, quoting the lyrics from the Aerosmith song.
“Usually,” Genevieve said, “real, non-angel men ask the real, non-angel women they’re interested in what their name is.”
“Thanks for that enlightening piece of information. If I hadn’t just crashed my car, I’m confident that it would have occurred to me to ask her name. Would you mind turning off this light?” The fixture over the table was shooting pain into his skull.
Ben immediately flipped the switch. After turning on the lights mounted on the underside of the cabinets, he switched off the kitchen’s recessed lighting, too. “That better?”
“Much.”
“How long do your doctors think it will be before your concussion resolves?” Genevieve asked.
“Who cares what they think? I think it should resolve in seven to ten days. These country doctors wouldn’t know a concussion from a diffuse axonal injury.”
Her lips twitched as if she were trying not to laugh. “Is it humbling to find yourself at the mercy of lesser mortals, Sebastian?”
“Why do you seem to be enjoying this?”
“I have faith that the country doctors have seen a concussion before and know exactly what to do. Wow, this mood lighting is very moody. Do you have candles somewhere? We can eat by candlelight.”
“I’m male,” Sebastian said. “I don’t have candles.”
Ben laughed.
Genevieve rolled her eyes, opened the oven, and lifted out a loaf of French bread. “Did you see the mystery woman’s car at least?”
“No.”
“It’s kind of romantic, actually,” Genevieve said. “Handsome doctor meets woman under dramatic circumstances. Becomes enamored. But is parted from her before he can learn her identity.”
“Then prowls around his house in a bad mood.” Ben grinned as he tossed the salad.
Genevieve cut the lasagna into squares. “Do you feel about the mystery woman the way that Ben feels about Leah?”
“Yes,” Sebastian answered in the exact same moment that Ben answered, “No.”
Ben gave him a look that said he couldn’t believe his ears. “I’ve known Leah for more than a year. You spent ten minutes with that woman. You can’t feel about her the way that I feel about Leah.”
“Yes I can.”
“Whatever, dude,” Ben said good-naturedly.
Sebastian went af
ter the things he wanted. In part, because of his own powerful inner drive. In part, because he knew he could die at any time. He’d learned that truth after Luke’s brother, Ethan, who’d been with their group one moment and crushed the next moment, had died in the earthquake. The crash yesterday only confirmed Sebastian’s mortality.
It might be that his head trauma was to blame for his inability to focus on anything but the woman who’d been beside him in his car when he regained consciousness. Perhaps he’d see her the next time and find her ordinary.
Even so, there would be a next time, because he needed the chance to find out.
Genevieve
We’ve been stuck down here for four days now.
I’m sure that my parents are doing everything they can to find us. But no one’s come. Still. I never imagined we’d be trapped, alone, for this long.
What if they can’t get to us?
Ben and Natasha and I are doing our best to keep everyone’s spirits up. We talk and tell stories and play games and laugh sometimes, even though we all know it’s not real laughter.
We look bad and we smell bad and we’re weak because we haven’t had anything to eat. We sleep to pass the time. I dream of my mom’s buttermilk chess pie, her lullabies, her perfume. I dream of my dad’s hugs, his voice reading out loud to me, the way he dances when he wants to make us laugh.
If it’s the middle of the night when I wake from those dreams and the darkness hides me, I cry. If it’s light, I don’t cry. I pretend to be strong and I pretend to have hope, even though I feel small and forgotten here. Like a prisoner in a dungeon.
I’m scared that my parents won’t be able to find us. But I know for sure that God already has.
I pray and pray and pray.
The God I know rescues prisoners from dungeons.
Chapter Twenty-one
Genevieve found it excruciating to act normally with her mom and dad while sitting on an enormous secret she and her sister were just minutes from debuting. It felt akin to having a tea party on top of a land mine.
When she and Natasha had arrived at the house on Swallowtail Lane a few minutes ago, they’d discovered that Mom—who’d never met a simple occasion she couldn’t turn into something fancy—had made a buttermilk chess pie in honor of their visit.
