An owl called out, hunting for its own rabbit, which hopped into a hollowed-out tree near her. Sadie smiled at the irony.
She knew Boyd was a wily son of a bitch, and she would not put it past him to double back on foot.
When she finally lifted her head, the moon had climbed in the night sky, and the clouds had parted, revealing an endless number of beautiful stars.
She tipped her face toward the North Star and then pushed up onto her knees. She paused, listening for Boyd again, before she brushed the dirt from her denim overalls and her brother’s old cotton work shirt. It had been his favorite, and normally, he would have been annoyed, but he was overseas fighting a war, and she knew it would be the least of his worries.
Slowly, she pushed through the brush and made her way up to the road. Going left would take her west, back up the mountain. There were plenty of places to hide, but staying hidden from Boyd would mean turning the woods she loved into its own kind of jail. Twenty miles to the south lay Charlottesville and the train station.
She slid her fingers into the big pockets and fingered the money her mother had given her. It was her mother’s emergency fund, and it weighed heavily on her soul, but she needed the three dollars. “I’ll pay you back, Mama.”
Sadie started walking, occasionally stopping to listen for the sound of that Dodge. As she kept walking, she heard only the hum of the crickets and crunch of her boots against the dirt road.
“Good Lord, Johnny and Danny, this is a mess.”
“You always did have a talent.”
Her brothers’ voices echoed in her head. Johnny’s letters had arrived regularly until very recently, but Danny had sent only a few since he had gone into the army. She feared the war had swallowed them both up.
As she walked, her breasts ached, and her nipples began to leak milk. Her baby girl must be so hungry by now. There was canned milk at the cabin and Karo syrup. Her mother would know how to prepare the two and see that the baby had been fed. Her mother would not let her down, even if Sadie had shamed her mother with her own foolish choices.
The first hints of sunrise appeared on the horizon, lighting the mountains in rich orange and yellow. As pretty as it was, it was also working against her now.
As she rounded a familiar bend, a set of headlights appeared on the road. The smooth engine did not sound like Boyd’s Dodge, but knowing Boyd, he had called on anyone with a car to get out and look for her.
Taking no chances, she ducked into the brush off the side of the road. The aroma of honeysuckle was thick and gave her hope. She would have to find a new way. A new path.
The car slowed, downshifted, and came to a stop. She had not been quick enough. The driver had spotted her.
CHAPTER TWO
LIBBY
Saturday, June 6, 2020
Bluestone, Virginia
They said bad luck came in threes. But that was not really true. Bad luck could come in threes, fours, fives, or any number it chose.
Today’s first stroke of bad luck arrived with a hard shove to Libby McKenzie’s shoulder and a voice shouting in her ear, “Get up!”
Wrenched from sleep, she sat up quickly, swung her legs over the side of the couch, and knocked over the empty wineglass on the coffee table. Her head spun, and her stomach churned as she pushed back a tumble of dark hair. “What?”
“Libby, get up! You have to be at the wedding venue in one hour.” The shouts came from her friend Sierra Mancuso. They had grown up together, her family living next to Libby’s, and until Libby had gone to boarding school at age thirteen, they had been inseparable.
Libby’s mouth was as dry as cotton. “What about my alarms? I set two.”
“The two I just shut off?” Sierra glared down at her best friend. Her blonde hair was slicked back into a bun, and she wore a black shirt and pants along with sensible shoes. All were telltale signs that Sierra was working a catering gig today.
Both thirty-one, they had been through several life-altering losses together. Sierra’s major life setback had been her husband’s death to cancer last year, and the right cross that had taken Libby down a peg had been three miscarriages and a divorce. They were both the walking wounded and had retreated to their hometown of Bluestone, into their parents’ homes, until the dust settled.
Libby looked at her phone and the purple clock that had been hers since seventh grade. The red digital numbers read 8:02 a.m. “Damn.”
“I’ve started the coffee.” Sierra clapped her hands. “I’m making eggs. Chop-chop.”
“I’m on it.”
Libby jumped to her feet and dashed up the stairs toward the small bathroom. After stripping off her oversize T-shirt, she turned on the hot water and waited as the old pipes rumbled and the water heated.
Her dad, Dr. Allen McKenzie, had been the town pediatrician for thirty years. He had never said no to a patient, not even toward the end, when he had been sick. He had died six months ago.
All promises of never returning to her hometown aside, Libby had moved back to care for her widowed father toward the end, and after he passed, she just decided to stay. It made good economic sense versus living in a rented apartment in Richmond. After the divorce, it was hard to afford anything on a photographer’s salary. Since January, the plan had been to regroup, save up some money, and then get back to living a real life in a real city by Christmas. She was going on six months of regrouping, and she still was not back up on her feet.
Steam finally rose from the water, and she quickly hopped under the hot spray. Adrenaline had her in and out of the shower in under five minutes, and she toweled off and crossed to her old bedroom.
Her room was as neat as she had left it when leaving for college thirteen years ago. The same SAVE THE EARTH posters hung on the wall along with an Ansel Adams print of the Montana skyline. She had yet to sleep in the twin sleigh bed still made up in the paisley purple coverlet purchased from IKEA when she was sixteen. It was one thing to move home, but it was another level of sad to sleep in her first bed again. It felt equally weird to sleep in her parents’ room or the third bedroom, which was her father’s office. The upstairs simply held too many memories that hinted at her parents’ troubled marriage. That left the couch in the living room.
From the open suitcase on the neatly made bed, she removed a dark pair of slacks and a white blouse. She fished a brush from the side of the suitcase and pulled her hair back into a smooth ponytail. Next came her makeup kit, and she quickly applied mascara and rouge. She replaced all the items in her suitcase and then wiped off the bathroom counter and hung up her towel. By 8:12 a.m. it looked like she had barely been there. Perfect.
Barefoot, she hustled down the steps and grabbed her camera bag and shoes before dashing across the back lawn to the Mancuso house. She pushed open the kitchen door.
“Do you even use the house?”
Libby sat in a kitchen chair and laced up her shoes. “I just took a shower.”
Sierra set a cup of coffee in front of Libby, then ladled eggs onto a blue plate and set them in front of Libby, along with a fork. Also on the plate was a strawberry, thinly sliced and fanned.
Libby took a bite of the eggs, discovering the jolt of protein was what she needed. “Bless you.”
Sierra filled a large orange mug sporting a Virginia Tech logo. “You’re like a ghost. You come and go but leave no traces.”
“It’s just weird,” she said. “I haven’t really lived there in years.”
“You live there now.”
She sipped her own coffee, craving the jolt of energy. “Not really. I’m still visiting.”
When her father had become ill last year, he had set about cleaning his home and decluttering, tossing away all the unnecessary baggage that came with living. The walls had been repainted a pale gray and the trim a bright white. He had not tackled any of the larger projects like the kitchen and bathrooms, no doubt thinking the new owner would renovate them their way.
He had left her with a str
ipped-down version of his home that was now ready to go on the real estate market. He had wanted Libby to sell it and take the money to find a new place to live. Libby had told him she would think about it, which she was still doing.
Sierra shook her head. “You’re afraid to put down roots.”
“I did that, remember? Roots don’t always run deep enough.”
“They could if you didn’t baby them too much.”
Libby arched a brow. “You live over your parents’ garage, Sierra. It doesn’t get any less settled than that.”
“At least I’m living there. I’ve unpacked my bags,” she said with a grin.
“I like to keep my options open.” The sound of a text dinging sent Libby fishing in her bag for her phone. The text was from the bride starring in today’s wedding.
Ginger the Bride: Rain on the horizon. Send sunny thoughts.
Libby: I’m on my way.
Ginger the Bride: Mom worried. I say it will be fine.
Libby: Umbrellas always packed. See you in thirty.
Libby grabbed a granola bar from the cabinet that Mrs. Mancuso kept stocked. “Sierra, why are you still here? Shouldn’t you be at the venue setting up catering tables or presearing salmon patties?”
“Rick’s got me on cleanup crew, not setup.” She made a face. “Can I ride with you?”
“Going now.”
“And you have your camera equipment?”
“All in the bag.”
Libby had been obsessing over worst-case scenarios since the sixth grade. Maybe it had been because of her mother’s worsening mental health and suicide, which might have made her mental herself. Regardless, she liked to make lists of all possible disasters.
If she had an event or party that she was excited about, she made lists of all the things that could keep her from going. In college, she could not sleep unless all her homework was done, her coffeepot was set, and her clothes were laid out. Her mother jokingly had called it a “belt and suspenders” approach to life, which she sometimes took too far. So together, she and her mother had both planned for all the minor disasters as major ones swirled around them.
Thankfully for today, she had listed Sleep through the alarm and Hurricane. There was also Swerve to miss a deer, Road washed out (from the hurricane), and Run out of gas.
“We’re okay on time,” Sierra said. She tossed her an extra granola bar. “Better get going.”
Libby picked up her camera bag and purse and hurried to her car. She placed it all in the back seat before sliding behind the wheel. As Libby started the engine, Sierra got into the passenger seat and hooked her seat belt. Libby fastened her seat belt and confirmed her gas gauge was full.
She backed out of the driveway, glancing toward the house. “The coffee maker is off?”
Sierra sipped her coffee. “It is. And it’s also washed out and unplugged.”
“Bless you. I’d hate for your mom’s house to burn down.”
Sierra pulled down the visor and traced her red lips with fingernails painted to match. “You can mark off House burning down from your list.”
A smile teased the edge of Libby’s lips as she drove down the tree-lined road and onto Main Street, which was the only thoroughfare in town.
Bluestone, population two thousand, was nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. German, English, and Scottish migrants had settled this part of Virginia’s frontier in the mid-eighteenth century, and for a generation, farms around Bluestone had been connected to the outside world by only the Great Wagon Road. The railway had never made it as far as Bluestone, but eventually the interstate had skirted by close enough. In the last decade, the creation of wineries and cideries had brought boomers and millennials to the area looking for a slower pace of life.
“I’m excited to see Woodmont Estate,” Sierra said. “I didn’t get to go on the walk-through two weeks ago.”
“They’ve done an amazing job of restoring the gardens.” Libby drove through the town center, dutifully following the speed limit, and accelerated only as she passed the forty-five-miles-per-hour sign.
Virtually closed to the public since it was built in the eighteenth century, Woodmont sat on two hundred acres that rolled along the James River. Ezra Carter had built the two-story house, made of hand-molded brick, after he had received a land grant from King George II. The Carter farm had begun growing tobacco but had shifted to wheat production as prices soared for wheat during the Seven Years’ War. Ezra Carter’s savvy ability to read the markets had made the Carters one of the wealthiest families in Virginia for generations. Elaine Grant, the current descendant, had embarked on a massive renovation of the property, but it was rumored the family finances were dwindling.
When Libby was a kid, the estate had opened only once a year for Historic Garden Week, and for several years in a row, she and her mother had visited Woodmont. Even then, the walled gardens had shown signs of age. Many plants, though still pretty, had been overgrown and in need of pruning or replacing. The garden, her mother had said, was due for an overhaul. Libby had never seen the imperfections in the encroaching wildness. For her, the gardens had been a rare magical escape she shared with her mother.
The estate had never been open to weddings or events until today. The bride, Ginger Reese, had grown up on the estate, playing on the grounds her parents had tended. Her father had been the estate’s manager while her mother, Margaret, had overseen the inside of the house. These days, her brother, Colton, managed the grounds as their late father had, and her mother still ran the house.
Today’s wedding was a kind of trial run for the property. Ginger had reached out to Libby via her wedding photography website, hiring her because she was local to Bluestone and familiar with the venue. Ginger was an ob-gyn in Charlottesville. And her groom, Cameron Walker, was a surgeon at the UVA Medical Center.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Did Ginger rent the white tent?” Sierra asked.
“No. She said a tent tempted the law of attraction and would invite rain,” Libby said.
“Are you kidding?” Sierra shook her head. “If that’s how the law of attraction works, then I have a bone to pick with it. Not once did I manifest this life I have.”
Libby could not laugh off Sierra’s sarcastic quip stuffed with bitterness. She too had never pictured or imagined any of the lost babies, the divorce papers, or her father’s funeral. And yet they had shown up one by one, ready to reiterate that bad luck lived by its own rules.
Clouds hovered over the mountains. “So much for positive thinking.”
“As of yesterday, the chance of a downpour was twenty percent.” Sierra glanced at her phone, her brow rising. “It’s now fifty percent.”
“Think we’ll beat it?”
Sierra shook her head.
Libby turned down a smaller road and drove past a sprawling vineyard built thirty years ago by a New York investor whom none of the locals had met yet. Beyond that were long stretches of fencing and rolling hills dotted with grazing cows.
Out-of-town folks dependent on GPS often had trouble locating the Woodmont Estate. Two weeks ago, upon her arrival for the walk-through, Libby had overshot the final turn by a few miles. It had taken an extra ten minutes before she had righted her course and finally spotted the brick pillars surrounded by fully blooming yellow-and-purple pansies.
Now, confident in her approach, she spotted the final turn and followed the long gravel driveway flanked by white oaks that dated back to the War of 1812. According to her mother, the planting of the trees had been by design because they consumed so much water that they helped keep the road dry during heavy rains.
Up ahead, she saw the brick home bookended by the gardens on the east and west sides. Many of the April and May blossoms had peaked, but the sunflowers, snapdragons, hydrangeas, and zinnias remained lush, bright, and bursting with color.
She followed parking signs to the closely cut field. There were two catering trucks, Ginger’s Volvo, a blue van, and a r
ed pickup truck. Today’s bride was dressing inside the main house. At forty-one, Ginger had opted out of having bridesmaids, so the morning shoot should be fairly uncomplicated.
Out of the car, Libby reached across the back seat for her cameras. As she closed the door, the wind picked up, sending a soft breeze through the trees. She glanced toward the river and saw the thick band of gray clouds in the distance.
“You headed up to the house?” Libby asked.
“I am. You’ll find me in the kitchen.”
Libby hoisted her bags on her shoulders and wondered if she should grab the extra umbrellas from the trunk. “See you around.”
“Did the bride and groom bury a bottle of moonshine in the garden?” Sierra slipped a white apron over her head and tied the ends around her narrow waist.
“There was some talk of that at the walk-through, but the groom forgot about it. What’s the deal with that?”
Sierra shook her head, as if concerned. “It’s the moonshine graveyard, which is a bit of a tradition in these parts. If you want good luck on your wedding day, then you bury a bottle of hooch in the garden.”
Maybe Libby and her ex-husband, Jeremy, should have buried a bottle or two on their big day. “So what happens if they don’t?”
Sierra nodded toward the clouds. “Rain. Divorce. Locusts. The whole nine yards of bad mojo.”
“Terrific.”
Sierra waved away Libby’s sour expression. “I say screw the law of attraction. And who needs a moonshine graveyard?” Sierra said, smiling. “That storm is at least two hours away, which puts us safely under cover should it hit.”
Libby opted to leave the umbrellas behind but hustled up the front steps to shoot the first-look pictures; thunder rumbled on cue in the distance.
CHAPTER THREE
LIBBY
Saturday, June 6, 2020
The Woodmont Estate
The morning pre-wedding shoot had gone longer than she had expected. Note to self—add to worst-case-scenario list: Grandmother of the groom gets drunk on mimosas. Now they were fifteen minutes from kickoff, and guests had almost filled the white wooden garden chairs facing the hill that sloped down toward the river.
Honeysuckle Season Page 2
