by Debra Webb
“Twenty-five years.”
Halle’s attention swung to the woman who sat at the other end of the table. She looked so frail, so small. The many wrinkles on her face spoke of more than age. They spoke of immense pain, harrowing devastation. Worrying for twenty-five long years if her child was alive. If he had been tortured and murdered.
If she would ever see him again.
“Yes, ma’am,” Halle agreed.
Nancy Clark set her tea cup down and placed her palms flat on the table. “You want to write an article about him, don’t you?”
Halle dared to nod, her heart pounding. This was the moment of truth. Would she be able to persuade Mrs. Clark to open up to her, to give her the answers she needed as much for the story as for her own peace of mind? “It would mean a great deal to me.”
“If you’ve done your homework, you’re aware I’ve never given an interview. Nor did my Andrew.”
“I am and I understand why.”
Her head angled ever so slightly as she stared down the table at Halle. “Really? What is it you think you understand?”
Halle nodded. “How can you adequately articulate that kind of loss? That sort of pain? You loved him more than anything in this world and someone took him from you. How could you possibly find the right words?”
Mrs. Clark’s gaze fell first, then her head bowed.
Halle held her breath. Whether the lady believed her or agreed with her, Halle did understand. She had loved Andy, too, and she had missed him so very badly.
Deep down she still did. A part of her was missing. There was a hole that no one else could possibly fill. The bond between them had been strong.
When Mrs. Clark lifted her head once more, she stared directly at Halle for so long she feared she had said the wrong thing. She was making a decision, Halle knew, but what would it be?
“Very well,” she said slowly but firmly. “I will tell you the story and you can find the right words. It’s time.”
Halle’s lips spread into a smile and she nodded. “I would love to.”
Silence filled the room for a long minute.
“I was almost forty before the good Lord blessed me with a child.”
Halle reached into her bag for her notepad and a pen. “Do you mind if I take notes?”
A glint of bravado flashed in Nancy’s gray eyes. “I’d mind if you didn’t.”
A nervous laugh bubbled up in Halle’s throat, and she relaxed. She placed her notepad on the table and flipped to a clean page, then readied her pen.
“Andrew and I were so happy when Andy came into our lives,” Nancy said, her voice soft, her gaze lost to some faraway time and place. “We wanted to raise our boy somewhere safe, with good schools. We did a great deal of research before selecting Winchester.” She sighed. “It was perfect when we found this house right next door to a couple who had a child almost the same age.” She stared at Halle for a moment. “Andy adored you.”
“I adored him.”
Distance filled her gaze once more. “We were happier than we’d ever believed it was possible to be.”
“What do you remember about that day, Mrs. Clark?”
It wasn’t necessary for Halle to be more specific. The other woman understood what she meant.
“March 1. Wednesday. I walked to school with you and Andy that day. It was chilly, like today.” Her lips—lips that hung in a perpetual frown—lifted slightly with a faint smile. “He was wearing that worn-out orange hoodie. He loved that thing but it was so old and shabby. I feared the other children would make fun of him.”
“I remember that hoodie. I begged my mother to get me one just like it but, you know my parents, they’re hardcore Alabama football fans. No orange allowed. And don’t worry, no one ever made fun of Andy. All the other kids liked him.”
Mrs. Clark dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. “Thank you for saying so.”
“My dad picked me up early that afternoon,” Halle said. “He’d had to take Mother to the hospital.”
Nancy nodded. “I remember.”
What Halle’s mother had thought was a lingering cold turned out to be pneumonia. She’d almost waited too long before admitting that she needed to see a doctor. They’d hospitalized her immediately. Halle had stayed with her Aunt Daisy for a solid week in that garage apartment where she lived now.
But that day, March 1 twenty-five years ago, the police had arrived before supper. Within twenty-four hours reporters from all over the state were camped out on the street.
Andy Clark had vanished.
“I was late,” Nancy confessed, pain twisting her face. “Andrew was at work in Tullahoma and I had a flat tire. With your parents at the hospital, there was nothing to do but call someone to repair my tire. By the time I was backing out of the driveway, school had been out for only fifteen minutes but that was fifteen minutes too long.”
“According to the police report,” Halle said, “witnesses stated that Andy waited about ten minutes and then started to walk home.”
She nodded. “There were witnesses who saw him less than a block from home.”
Whoever took him had snatched him only a few hundred yards from his own front door.
“There was never a ransom demand,” Halle said. “No contact at all from the kidnapper.”
“Nothing.” A heavy breath shook the woman’s frail shoulders. “It was as if he disappeared into thin air.”
“You and your husband hired private investigators.” Halle’s parents had said as much.
“The police and our community searched for weeks. But there was nothing. Not the hoodie. Not his backpack. Nothing. No other witnesses ever came forward.”
These were all details Halle already knew. But perhaps there would be others she didn’t. Something that no one knew. There was one thing she would very much like to know. She hoped the question wouldn’t put Mrs. Clark off.
“I would like to ask you one question before we go any further.”
The lady held her gaze, a surprising courage in her expression. “I’m listening.”
“What made you decide to grant an interview now? To me?”
The courage vanished and that dark hollowness was back.
Halle immediately regretted having asked the question. When she was about to open her mouth to apologize, Mrs. Clark spoke.
“I’m dying. I have perhaps two or three months. It’s time the world knew the whole story. If anyone tells it, it should be you.”
A chill rushed over Halle’s skin. “I will do all within my power to tell the story the way you want it told.”
“I’m counting on you, Halle. I want the whole story told the right way.”
Halle nodded slowly, though she wasn’t entirely clear what the older woman meant by the whole story. But she fully intended to find out.
Whatever had happened to Andy, the world needed to know.
Halle needed to know.
THEN
Wednesday, March 1
Twenty-five years ago...
HALLE HATED HER pink jacket.
Pink was for scaredy-cat girls. She was a girl but she was no scaredy-cat.
She was a brave, strong kid like Andy.
She wanted an orange hoodie like the one he wore.
“Wear this jacket today,” her mom said with a big sigh, “and I will get you an orange one.”
Halle made a face. She might only be seven but she wasn’t sure if her mommy was telling her the truth or if she was just too tired to argue.
“Promise?”
Judith smiled and offered her little finger. “Pinkie promise.”
Halle curled her pinkie around her mommy’s. “Okay.”
“Come along,” Mommy urged. “Andy and his mom are waiting.”
At the door her mommy gave her a kiss and waved as Halle sk
ipped out to the sidewalk where Andy and his mom stood.
He had on that orange hoodie and Halle hoped her mommy was really going to get her one.
“Hey,” Halle said.
Andy tipped his head back the tiniest bit. “Hey.”
He had the bluest eyes of any kid in school. Halle wondered how it was possible to have eyes that blue. Bluer than the sky even.
“How are you this morning, Halle?” Mrs. Clark asked.
“I’m good but my mommy’s still a little sick.” Halle didn’t like when her mommy or daddy was sick. It made her tummy ache.
“I’m sure she’ll be better soon,” Mrs. Clark assured her. “That pink jacket looks awfully pretty with your red hair.”
Halle grimaced. “Thank you but I don’t like it very much.” She gazed longingly at Andy’s orange hoodie.
He took her hand. “Come on. We’re gonna be late.”
Halle smiled. He was the best friend ever. They were going to be friends forever and ever.
They walked along, swinging their clasped hands and singing that silly song they’d made up during winter break.
We’re gonna sail on a ship...
We’re gonna fly on a plane...
We’re gonna take that train...
We’re taking a trip...
But Andy wasn’t supposed to go without her.
Chapter Two
NOW
Wednesday, March 11
Napa, California
“This one is addressed to you personally.”
Liam glanced up from the monthly reports he’d been poring over. “What was that?”
His assistant peered over her reading glasses. “Please tell me that’s a dating site you’re focused on, because if it’s work, I’m going to be very upset. This is supposed to be a day off for you. You’ve been working seven days a week for months now. You need a life, Liam Hart! And I need at least one afternoon to try organizing this...clutter.” She surveyed the stacks and piles of binders and folders around his office. “You need someone to do your filing.”
Liam closed his laptop before she dared to come around behind him and peek at his screen. “I like my filing system,” he pointed out. “You know as well as I do that a little extra time in the fields goes with the territory after a particularly wet season. All that rain calls for extra attention. We both know there’s always plenty to do in preparation for—”
She gave him a look that stopped him midsentence. Shelly Montrose had kicked aside the idea of retiring at sixty-five, over two years ago. She had worked for this vineyard for most of her life, first as a picker when she was a child, right after the operation was started by the Josephson family. Then as his father’s and now his personal assistant for the past twenty odd years. She was in charge and no one was going to tell her differently.
Certainly not Liam. She knew as much about running this place as he did. Probably more.
“Claire said,” he offered in his most amenable tone, since the last thing in the world he wanted to do was upset his favorite lady, “there were reports I needed to see, so I only came by for a couple of hours and then I’m off. I promise.”
Claire was his younger sister. At only twenty-five she’d already finished college and had proven herself as a master winemaker. She would say that their continued success since their father’s passing was as much Liam’s hard work as her own, but that wasn’t entirely true. Yes, he was out there in the fields working alongside his crew through the process of winemaking, from tending the plants to bottling. But it was Claire who had the creative vision in developing unique blends and tastes that had put them on the map over the past two years. Their father would be proud.
“Claire.” Shelly huffed a breath. “That girl is as bad as you are. She’s never going to find a husband if she doesn’t stay out of this vineyard! Your daddy took time to raise the two of you and the vineyard didn’t go to pot. Your mother is traveling all over Europe and she has repeatedly invited the two of you to join her. Now would be the perfect time for a nice vacation.”
“You’re right, Shelly.” Liam stood and gave her his best smile. “I’m heading out for lunch with a friend right now. The monthly reports be damned.”
Her eyes rounded. “A female friend?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He reached for his cap and tugged it on. “She’s a pretty, blue-eyed girl.”
Shelly rolled her eyes and extended the envelope toward him. “Your sister doesn’t count.”
Liam accepted the letter, tucked it into the hip pocket of his jeans and started around his desk. “I won’t tell her you said that.”
He left the office and walked through the winery. He loved this place. The rustic beams overhead, the decades-old barrels used for aging. The cobblestone floor. This was his life. Deep down he wouldn’t mind having someone to share it with, but that hadn’t happened so far. Maybe it was his fault for being so focused on work. But he loved his job. He couldn’t imagine not doing exactly what he did every day.
Outside, the stunning valley view never ceased to make him pause to take it all in. The trees and the pond, all of it gave him a feeling of home. He’d lived right here on this former chicken farm for as far back as he could remember. His father bought the place from the previous owners who had lost interest in trying to jump-start the business after several years of hard times. Over the decades his father had renovated the place into one of sheer beauty and productivity. The vineyards were gorgeous. But they had never been able to compete with the top winemakers when it came to the wines they created.
Liam’s father had been good, damned good, but not nearly as good as Claire. She was one of a kind. A rare vintner with a special touch.
He climbed into his truck and slid behind the steering wheel. The crinkling of the envelope in his back pocket reminded him that he had mail. He started the truck and reached for the envelope.
As Shelly had said, it wasn’t addressed to the Hart Family Vineyards, but to him. Liam Hart.
No return address on the front or on the back. He frowned, lifted the flap enough to slide his thumb beneath it and to tear it open. Inside was a newspaper, or, at least, part of one. The front page, to be precise. He unfolded the single page and first noted the name of the paper, Winchester Gazette, Winchester, Tennessee. Then he scanned the bold headline at the top of the page.
The Lost Boy—25 Years Later.
His frown deepened. Why would anyone send him a newspaper clipping from Winchester, Tennessee? He checked the postmark. Yep, definitely from Winchester.
To his knowledge he didn’t know anyone in the area. He searched his memory. There was, if he recalled correctly, a winery near Winchester. Though not one he’d ever visited. Rather than beat his head against a brick wall trying to remember, he started to read.
Seven-year-old Andy Clark disappeared on March 1, twenty-five years ago. To date there have been no remains found. No further witnesses came forward with reports of having seen the child. He left school, walking, and was nearly home when he vanished, never to be heard from again.
The article went on about the boy and his devastated family and the endless search.
Liam’s gut tightened. He avoided stories like this. Every time he heard about a missing child on the news, he felt sick. A natural reaction, he supposed. Who wouldn’t get sick at the idea? What kind of person stole a child?
He started to fold the paper and toss it aside, but his gaze landed on the series of photos included with the article.
The beating in his chest lost a step, then suddenly burst into hyper speed.
The photos of the little boy were...
Him.
Not just the chubby-cheeked image of any child, but his particular features, his smile, his eyes, his...attitude.
“No way,” he muttered, his face pinched as he stared at the images.
Okay,
this was bizarre. Shaking his head at his foolishness, he backed out of the parking slot and drove across the property, past the pond and the visitors’ deck, to the private residence. Both he and his sister lived in the house. She had the wing that had once been the guest suite while he slept in the room he’d had for as long as he could remember. Suited him just fine. Though he had stored away the sports trophies and award certificates from school. His space was more of a bachelor pad.
A bachelor who still lived in the house where he’d grown up.
“Nothing wrong with that,” he said to his reflection in the rearview mirror.
The newspaper clipping clasped tightly, he climbed out of the truck and walked to the house. He entered the key code and opened the door.
His heart still raced as he strode across the entry hall and toward the family room. His mother had all the family photo albums lined up on shelves. She loved nothing more than showing off her kids. She was actually Liam’s stepmother; his biological mom had died when he was a baby. But Penelope Hart had treated him as much like her own as she had Claire—whom she’d given birth to.
If Penelope were here she would get a kick out of the photos in the newspaper article. He managed a smile at the thought but still...this felt weird. Particularly since someone on the other side of the country had mailed it to him. As far as he knew, he had no friends, relatives or even acquaintances in the area.
This was obviously someone’s idea of a joke.
He spread the newspaper’s front page on the coffee table, then strode to the bookcases built along the wall adjacent to the fireplace. Penelope had carefully dated each album. Finding the one for the proper time frame was easy. He carried the album to the coffee table and sat down on the edge of the couch.
