Spring Romance

by Bailey, Tessa

  “Can I help you?”

  I snapped myself out of my stupor, smiling and holding out my hand. “Hi. I’m Bryce Ryan. Are you Genevieve Daylee?”

  “Yes.” She hesitantly took my hand. “Do I know you?”

  “No. We’ve never met. I’m a reporter from the Clifton Forge Tribune.”

  “Oh.” She inched away, lifting a hand to the door.

  “I was hoping you might be willing to help me,” I said before she could shut me out. “I’m writing a special piece on your mom. A story to show who she was and what her life was like before.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Because her death was awful and tragic. Because people killed in that way are so often remembered for the way they died, not the way they lived.”

  Genevieve let my words linger. I was sure she’d slam the door in my face, but then the hesitancy in her face vanished and she opened it wider. “Come on in.”

  “Thank you.” I stepped in behind her, letting out the breath I’d been holding. When I inhaled, the scent of chocolate and brown sugar filled my nose. My stomach growled, starved from only eating the small bag of airplane pretzels. “It smells incredible in here.”

  “I made chocolate chip cookies. Mom’s recipe. I was missing her today.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  She gave me a sad smile, leading me through the clean and cozy living room and into the breakfast nook off the kitchen. “Some days it doesn’t feel like it’s real. That I’ll call her and she’ll pick up the phone.”

  “Were you close?” I asked as she waved me into a chair.

  “We were. Growing up, it was just the two of us. She was my best friend. We had our struggles when I was a teenager, normal mom-daughter fights. But she was always there for me. She always put me first.”

  “Sounds like a great mom.”

  Her eyes welled with tears. “Why would he do this to her?”

  He meaning Draven. Genevieve thought Draven had killed her mother. Dash had planted enough doubts in my mind that I’d been operating under the possibility he was innocent.

  But as far as the world was concerned, as far as Genevieve knew, Draven Slater was Amina’s murderer.

  “I don’t know. I wish things were different.”

  “Me too.” She pushed away from the table in a flurry, going to the kitchen and getting two glasses from a hickory cupboard. Then she filled them both with milk from the fridge and brought them to the table. Next came a heaping plate of freshly baked cookies. “I’m grief eating. If you leave here and this plate has any cookies left, I’ll be disappointed in both of us.”

  I laughed, taking a cookie. “We can’t have that.”

  The first cookie was inhaled, followed quickly by a second. After the third, we each gulped some milk, then looked at one another and smiled.

  Maybe she seemed familiar because she was so welcoming. So friendly. She’d brought me into her home, shared a piece of her mother and trusted me to take care of it. Naïve? Yes, slightly. Or she wasn’t jaded to the world. She didn’t expect people to lie, cheat and steal.

  I envied her.

  “God, these are good.” I took a fourth cookie.

  “Right? I don’t know where she got this recipe but it’s the only one I’ll ever use.”

  “I might have to steal it from you.”

  “If I give it to you, will you put it in your story? I think Mom would have liked sharing that one with the world.”

  My hand went to my heart. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Genevieve’s eyes drifted past my shoulder, staring blankly into her living room behind us. “Mom and I didn’t get to see each other much. Not after she took that job in Bozeman and moved to Montana.”

  “Did you grow up in Denver?”

  “I did. We lived about five miles from here. I went to the high school you probably passed on your way in.”

  A sprawling red brick building five times the size of my high school. “Is that why she moved to Bozeman? Her job?”

  “Yeah. Mom worked for a plumbing supply company. They were expanding and started an office in Bozeman. She volunteered to go. But you probably already knew all of that.”

  “Only the name.” The internet could tell me all about the company, its branch offices and its products. But it didn’t tell me about Amina. The internet couldn’t tell me about the person she’d been. “Was she good at her job?”

  “She was,” Genevieve said with pride. “She worked for that company from the beginning and they really loved her. It was like a family. I knew all her coworkers growing up. A few of them would hire me in the summers to mow their lawns. They all came to my college graduation.” Her voice hitched. “Her boss helped me plan her funeral.”

  My heart squeezed. I couldn’t imagine having to plan my mother’s funeral. “Sounds like she was the type of person who made close, lifetime friendships.”

  “She loved. People were drawn to her for it. It was hard being a single mom. My grandparents passed before I was born so she did it all by herself. She never complained. She never treated me like a burden. She just built this life for us. A happy one.”

  Genevieve dropped her chin, sniffling. I stayed quiet, the emotion clogging my throat, as she wiped her eyes dry. When she looked up, she forced a smile.

  “I should have called,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m here, surprising you. I should have called first.” Goddamn it. Draven had been right about that, hadn’t he?

  I’d let the weeks of silence from Dash irritate me. And now I was here bothering a young woman who’d lost the most important person in her life.

  “No, I’m glad you’re here.” Genevieve took another cookie. “I haven’t talked about Mom in a couple of weeks. It was a flurry after she was . . . you know. Everyone was so shocked and I was so busy getting her memorial arranged. People talked about her then. But after it was over, it got quiet. People went back to their lives.”

  “And you’re here.”

  “I’m here. Heartbroken.” She took a bite and chewed it with a quivering chin. “But it’s nice to talk about how wonderful she was. And not about how she died. The only person who’s talked to me about her this week is the prosecutor in Clifton Forge and that’s only because I want to keep tabs on the trial.”

  “It’s not scheduled yet.”

  “I know. I want him locked up. I want him off the streets and away from the world. Maybe then I can forget. I get so angry and . . .” As she trailed off, her free hand fisted on the table, her knuckles white. “I want to see her grave. Did you know we buried Mom in Montana?”

  “Um, no. I didn’t.” I hadn’t kept up on Amina’s funeral arrangements. The obituary I’d included in the paper had been vague on the topic, stating the family was having private services in Denver. I’d assumed those services had included the burial.

  “She wanted to be buried in Clifton Forge. Let me tell you, that was a shock to learn from her will. But I think she wanted to be by her parents again.”

  “So you were in Clifton Forge?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t go. I wasn’t ready to face it yet. I went to Montana to pack up her personal items and get her house on the market. But that was as close as I could get. I wasn’t ready to be in that town where she was . . . you know. But I’m going there next week.”

  “You’re coming to Clifton Forge?” My eyes widened.

  She nodded. “I want to see it for myself. The funeral home sent me a picture of her gravesite and the mockup of her tombstone but it’s not the same. So I’m making a fast trip out of it next Sunday. Get in and get out. I don’t want to risk running into him.”

  Yes, seeing Draven would be bad. “If you need company, I’d be happy to go with you.”

  “Thanks, Bryce.” She looked at me with her kind, brown eyes and that pang of familiarity hit again. “I might take you up on that.”

  “Please do.” In our short time together, I’d become strangely loya
l to Genevieve. If I could help by standing at her side while she visited her mother’s grave, I would.

  Not for my story. For this woman who already felt like a friend.

  I’d meant what I’d told Genevieve. I’d write something special for Amina. I’d include the cookie recipe. Maybe that would appease some guilt for unexpectedly showing up at her doorstep.

  Genevieve took her empty glass to the sink to rinse it out. I stood and brought mine over too, handing it to her. “Can I ask you another question?”

  “Sure.” She laughed. “For a reporter, you haven’t asked many.”

  “I was just warming up.” I winked. “Did your mom have anyone else she was close to? A best friend? Or a boyfriend? Others who’d want to talk about her for the story.”

  She blew out a long breath. “Mom was dating a guy. Lee.”

  I froze, ready to soak up every word about the boyfriend. “Lee.”

  “Lee.” She said his name with a curled lip. “In all my life, Mom didn’t date. Not once. But she was different lately. Quieter. And I can’t help but think it was because of him.”

  “Were they serious?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s the crazy part. She acted differently but never talked about him. The only reason I even knew about him was because I flew to Bozeman to surprise her one weekend and she had to call Lee and cancel plans. Whenever I’d ask about him, she’d brush it off. Say it was casual. But if you knew Mom, you’d know nothing about her was casual. She held people tight. Her friendships lasted decades.”

  “So you didn’t know him?”

  She shook her head. “No, we never met. I didn’t even know his last name.”

  And there went my lead. “Maybe she was worried you wouldn’t like him.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I think too. It was weird for me, her having another person in her life. Mom was good at sensing when I was uncomfortable. I just couldn’t picture her with a boyfriend.” She looked over her shoulder from the sink. The light from the window caught in her eyes, making them glow.

  Gah! What was it about her eyes?

  “What else can you tell me about her?” I asked. “Something nice you’d like to have other people know.”

  “Her smile was always full on. All wide, white teeth. It was like she didn’t know how to give a half smile.” The pain in Genevieve’s smile came back along with a sheen of tears. “She was beautiful.”

  “I’d be honored to write that about her. Do you have any pictures? I’d love to include some of your favorites.”

  “I’d like that.”

  For the next hour, I sat beside Genevieve on her couch as she went through plastic tubs of old pictures and mementos from her childhood. They’d all been at Amina’s house, and though she’d packed them up and brought them to Colorado, she confessed to not having the courage to have gone through them yet.

  “Thanks for sitting with me.” She fit the lid on the last box. “I’m sure this was more crazy than you were expecting when you came here. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” I put my hand over hers. “I’m glad I could be here.”

  The truth was, the longer I sat with Genevieve, the more I liked her. She told story after story about her mother as we looked at old pictures. Ones from road trips the two of them had taken. Photos of a few special camping trips in the Colorado mountains.

  Genevieve had told me about how Amina would always give a few dollars to a homeless man begging on a corner, even though as a single mother, she hadn’t had much extra to spare. She’d taught Genevieve to be strong, never quit and to live an honest life.

  After hearing it all, I knew my accusations in the garage that Amina could have been in on the setup with Draven were off base. Amina hadn’t been a deceiver.

  And she’d raised a lovely daughter.

  In every photo, Amina’s bright, smiling face was present. When she stood by her daughter, the two were always touching—a hand hold, an arm over the shoulder, one leaning on the other. Their bond was special and seeing it through the pictures made me more determined to tell Amina’s story.

  For mother.

  And daughter.

  Amina deserved to be remembered for more than her death.

  “This was actually perfect,” I told Genevieve. “I feel like I know your mom now. I hope my story can do her memory justice. May I ask one more question, off the record?”

  “Sure.” She pivoted on the couch, giving me her attention.

  “In all these photos, it was mostly just the two of you.” Even as a baby, the photos had been of only Amina and Genevieve. There’d been the occasional friend or neighbor included, but the vast majority of the photos were of mother and daughter. “What about your father?”

  “Mom never talked about him. Never.” Her shoulders fell. “I’d ask. She’d say he was a nice man but not a part of my life. She always said he was a mistake but that he gave her the best gift in the world. And you know, I didn’t push. I was good with that answer because I had her. She was enough.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Except now that she’s gone, I wish I knew who he was. If he’s even still alive. It would be nice to know if I had another parent out there.”

  My gut was screaming that Amina’s secrecy about her daughter’s lineage and the secret boyfriend were not a coincidence. Could this mystery boyfriend be Genevieve’s father?

  “Did she ever tell you his name?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  If Genevieve’s father was the boyfriend, it would explain everything. Why Amina didn’t want Genevieve to meet Lee. Why she hid him from everyone. Because she wasn’t ready to introduce father and daughter.

  My mind was racing, wondering how this man fit into the picture. Was he the killer? Would he try and contact Genevieve now? Did he even know he had a daughter?

  More questions flew through my mind when Genevieve destroyed my theories with a single sentence. “Mom didn’t tell me his name, only that people called him Prez.”

  Prez. Where had I heard that name before? No, not a name. A nickname.

  Prez.

  My racing mind screeched to a halt.

  We’re with you, Prez.

  In our meeting in the garage, Emmett had said that to Draven. He’d called Draven Prez.

  I looked at Genevieve, focusing on her eyes. I knew those eyes. Like Draven had given his brown hair to his son.

  He’d given those brown eyes to his daughter.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dash

  “Another one, Dash?”

  I swirled the last swallow of beer around the bottom of my pint glass. “Yeah. Thanks, Paul.”

  As he went to get my Guinness—dark, like my mood—I looked around the crowded bar. It was a busy night at The Betsy with locals out enjoying a hot summer Saturday night. People bumped into each other as they milled around the room and shouted out conversations over the loud music. Emmett and Leo were at the pool table. They each had a woman hanging off their elbow.

  Emmett caught my eye and motioned me over to play. There was a third woman roaming by the pool table who’d been eye-fucking me all night.

  I shook my head and faced forward, staring at the wall of liquor bottles across from me as Paul set down my fresh beer. One gulp and it was half gone because drunk was good. The only way I was going to enjoy tonight was if I got hammered.

  Goddamn it, Bryce. This was her fault. She’d ruined Saturdays for me.

  She’d been on my mind often over the past couple of weeks. At the garage, I’d be working on an oil change and wonder what she was doing. I’d fall asleep at night, missing the touch of her skin. I came to town early on Sundays and Wednesdays to grab a paper from the grocery store the minute they opened.

  Her articles were the only ones I read. Each time, I expected to see something about me, Dad or the Gypsies on the front page, but I guess we weren’t big news anymore. Still, I’d read every word she’d written, needing that connection.r />
  Last night, I’d been so hungry after work, I’d almost gone to her house. I’d been tempted to wait on her porch until she got home. Flash her a smile and beg her to cook me dinner. Except we’d ended things, so I’d gone home to peanut butter and jelly instead.

  I’d forget about her soon enough, right? It was better for us to go our separate ways.

  Or it should have been.

  Until she’d ruined Saturdays. Until she’d ruined The Betsy.

  The only comfortable stool in the bar was this stool, the same one she’d been on the day I’d found her here. The Betsy was normally a place I’d come to hang out with other people. Be social. Only everyone here irritated me. They weren’t as much fun to talk to as I’d remembered, not when compared to talking with Bryce. And there wasn’t a woman in the room who held any allure.

  I chugged the rest of my beer and waved at Paul for a refill. One swift nod and thirty seconds later, I had a fresh Guinness. His fast service almost made up for the fact that I’d caught him eyeing Bryce’s tits.

  “What are you doing over here?” Leo slapped his hand over my shoulder, pushing himself between me and the guy sitting on my right. He turned backward, a smile on his face as he scanned the bar. He winked at a woman walking by. Gave a table in the corner a chin jerk.

  That used to be me. The king of this bar. This was my happy place.

  Then Bryce ruined it all with her sexy smile and shiny hair. She’d ruined me.

  I slugged down my entire beer with three huge gulps and let out a burp. “Paul.” I smacked my hand on the bar. “Whiskey this time.”

  “You’re in a shit mood,” Leo muttered. “Come on over and play a game. I’ll let you beat me.”

  “Pass.”

  “Brother.” Leo angled his shoulder into me to speak low. “Cheer up. Take home the blond in the corner. She’ll make you feel better. Or at least let her suck you off in the bathroom.”

  “Not interested.” The only woman whose lips belonged wrapped around my cock was a beautiful reporter.

  “I give up on you.” Leo frowned, then waved Paul over. “Don’t cut him off. I’ll make sure he gets home.”