On Blue Falls Pond (10 page)

He brought his other hand to hold hers between both of his. “Because by the time I came to the ER—” He stopped.

“What?” She leaned closer, prompting. “What, Eric?”

His hands tightened around hers. “You’d lost the baby.”

Those words struck her like a fist in the chest. For a second she had trouble drawing a breath. “I shouldn’t still be such a mess,” she half squeaked. She struggled to find her voice; she was not going to cry again.

Eric didn’t rush in with platitudes or empty assurances. He simply sat in the silence and held her hand.

After a moment she asked, “I shouldn’t, should I? Is there something
wrong
with me?” She remembered that in the hospital she’d lain in the bed, a cold stone in her middle, unable to stop crying. Everything was gone . . . empty womb, empty arms, empty heart.

It now came as a bit of a shock to realize that after all of these months, that same emptiness, in all of its intensity, still clung to her. She hadn’t made a damn bit of progress.

Eric said, with a force that said he spoke from the soul, “It would be a terrible thing to lose a child . . . I don’t think I’d be in any better shape if something happened to Scott.”

“But everyone tells me that I didn’t even
know
my daughter, I shouldn’t be missing her so much. Everyone seems to think I should act like she never was. I don’t know how many times I heard, ‘Better to lose a baby six months into a pregnancy than after you’d taken it home.’ I suppose that much must be true. I’m sure it would have been harder—but to act like she
never existed . . .
” She shook her head and said the words with all of the passionate incredulity she felt. “I just can’t.”

Removing one of his hands from hers, he touched her cheek. “Have these ‘everyones’ been through what you’ve been through?”

She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I try not to think about her, but it’ll hit me at the oddest times. Not just the logical milestones—you know, she’d be six months old now, or this would have been her first Christmas. But when I see the first hint of color in the trees in the fall, I wondered if the little girl she would have been would have liked to be tossed into a pile of raked leaves. When I drink a cup of hot chocolate I wonder, would she have liked hers with marshmallows or without? When I imagine what she would look like . . .”

Eric reached a hand behind her neck and pulled her forehead against his. “Maybe you expect too much of yourself. Maybe you tried to forget before you allowed yourself to grieve.”

The glaring truth in that simple statement shifted something inside her. She
had
focused on forgetting, almost from the start. She’d even refused to hear the details of the fire report. It had seemed the only way to survive. Maybe she’d gone about it entirely backward. It seemed safer not to think about it, especially since her memory of the day preceding the fire never came back to her. Perhaps she needed those memories to be able to move on.

However, there was something dark bundled up with those memories, something frightening, something she instinctively knew she didn’t want to see. Perhaps that’s why the therapy hadn’t worked—she hadn’t really wanted it to.

Now she feared that if she could open those floodgates, she might not like what churned out with the overflow.

The sun was shining the next morning. Its heat caused a mist to rise off the saturated ground, lending an otherworldly aspect to the dawn. Glory sat across the kitchen table from Eric, daylight accenting her darkening bruises.

He caught himself more than once just before he reached out to brush her hair away from her forehead and gently caress her injuries. There was something about her that drew upon his protective nature in a way that far exceeded what he should be doing for a woman who, in reality, was little more than an acquaintance. Her spending the night in his house was testament to that. He wanted to know her better, to understand her emotional pain. Not that he had anything to offer her. He was feeling rather emotionally bankrupt at the moment. And certainly her own plate was full. What a lot of good it would do her if he managed to draw her closer; she didn’t need all of his baggage too.

Fortunately, the electricity was back on, and he was at least able to provide her with a cup of coffee.

For several minutes, they both skirted any topic of substance, commenting on the clear sky and the robust flavor of the coffee.

Was she running again? Had their conversations during the storm spooked her? Things had come out in the dark that he doubted she’d ever said aloud. And, he had to admit, he was as reluctant as she to open subjects that might be too difficult to face in the light of day.

As she set down her coffee, Glory said, “I’ve got to get back to Granny’s.”

“It’ll be days before Cold Springs Hollow Road is passable. The washout was big, and it stormed for hours after I saw it.”

“Just take me as far as the washout, and I’ll walk from there,” she said.

“You can barely hobble.”

“I’m just stiff. I’ll be better once I move around a bit.”

He’d already called the station, telling Donna he’d be late. He thought he’d get Glory settled for the day before he went in. He suddenly realized he had been happily thinking in terms of her being trapped at his house for a couple of days. “You can’t walk all that way. I suppose I could carry you . . .” He winked, and she tossed a wadded napkin at him.

“Very funny.” She glanced over her shoulder, out the window to the bright, steamy morning. “I don’t want Granny to worry.”

“Why would she worry? She knows you’re with me. You can call her anytime.”

“What are the chances of her phone still working?”

He couldn’t deny that had to be slim to none—considering the strength and duration of last night’s storm. He’d been surprised the lines were still up when he’d called last evening.

Before he could respond, she went on, “What if she had trouble in the storm? I can’t just leave her out there alone.” There was genuine worry in her eyes.

“Charlie’s just down the road.” He felt a little like a child arguing to get his selfish way.

“
Pffft
. Charlie. Might as well count on a six-year-old.” She rolled her eyes. Then that green gaze fixed on him for the briefest moment before she concentrated on wiping a drip off her coffee mug. “Eric, I’m going home. You can help me, or I’ll figure out a way myself.”

“Now you’re hurting my feelings,” he said. “Don’t like my hospitality?”

She shot him a mocking look. “Oh, yes, that’s it. I was treated to the only bed in the house, and you made yourself miserable for my benefit. I
cannot
suffer this kind of treatment another night.”

“I wasn’t.”

Confusion crossed her face. “You weren’t what?”

“Miserable . . . you said I made myself miserable.”

She hid her expression under lowered lashes and took a long sip of coffee.

He searched for a way to explain that wouldn’t scare her off or make her look at him with pity. “It was . . . comforting . . . to have someone here last night.”

Her gaze snapped back to his face, her eyes questioning, but she didn’t say anything.

He said, “It can get pretty boring alone when the lights go out.”

“You heroes,” she said glibly, “always deflecting a compliment.” Leaning forward in her chair, she added, “But really, I have to get back to the hollow. That’s why I’m here, for Granny.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ve got an idea. But if I decide getting around the washout is too dangerous, you’re stuck with me for another day or two. No more talk of walking miles on your own—and no arguing.”

“Deal.”

There was a glint in her eye that told him it was a deal only if it went her way. But he’d fight that battle if and when it presented itself.

Twenty minutes later, Glory was pressed against his back as they took his normally garaged motorcycle up the winding road into the hollow. He felt her turn and look at the spot where her car had gone off the road. They’d called the towing service before they left his house. There was no reason to stop and let her look at how precariously her car had been hanging on the side of the mountain.

He couldn’t deny his disappointment when he saw that most of the inside lane at the washout remained intact. After getting off and inspecting it, he took the bike as far to the left as he possibly could, skirting the hole with plenty of room to spare. As he picked up speed again, the wind blew away his pleasant fantasy of having another person in his house when he returned home after work.

He stopped in front of Tula’s. Glory got off and removed her helmet.

“Thank you . . . for everything.” She handed the helmet to him.

As he was fastening it onto the rear seat, Tula came out on the porch.

“Good gracious, Glory! Don’t you know those things are dangerous?” She pointed to the motorcycle.

When Glory turned around, Tula gasped. “What on God’s green earth happened to you?”

Glory walked to her grandmother and linked an arm through hers. “I’ll tell you over breakfast. It’s a long story.”

Tula’s lips were pressed together in disapproval. “I suppose you know this story,” she said to Eric.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you knew it last night when you called me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Maybe you’d better come in here, too.”

“Sorry, Tula. I’m late for work.” He started the bike before she could say anything else. As he drove off, he realized just how sorry he was; he’d have liked nothing better than to have lingered over breakfast with those two women—even if Tula was scolding.

Late that evening, after Glory had soothed her sore muscles in a hot shower, Granny insisted on rubbing her back, shoulders, and knee with an ointment that smelled like a combination of old lard and camphor. Glory subjected herself without complaint as atonement for keeping her accident a secret the night before. She twisted her hair on top of her head, unsure what Granny’s concoction would do to it.

Granny’s hands were surprisingly strong as they massaged her shoulders. “Now by mornin’ you should be feelin’ much better.” She finally put the cap back on the jar. The smell lingered—as it probably would long after Glory’s next shower.

“Thanks, Gran.”

Granny sat down on the bed next to Glory. “I didn’t thank you proper for them flowers. Nice as they are, you shouldn’t have spent your money on something like that. You need to think about your future.”

Glory took her hand—for such strength there certainly wasn’t a lot of substance; it felt thin and bony. “I just wanted you to know how much I love you.”

With a squeeze of her hand, Granny said, “That’s nice. Next time just tell me. It’ll be a lot cheaper.”

Glory laughed and gave her a fierce hug. “You’re one of a kind.”

“That’s what Pap used to say—but it didn’t sound so flatterin’ when he said it.” She leaned back, and her face grew more serious. “I don’t want you wastin’ your money on me.” Her back stiffened, ready for battle. “I still wish you’d contested that will. You had a right.”

This was an old argument, one Glory had been surprised had waited so long to bubble to the surface. Andrew’s parents had been the beneficiaries of his will and, thanks to a change months before the fire, his life insurance. Glory hadn’t had the fortitude to face the legal fight—plus there was a part of her that didn’t want to contemplate what had prompted Andrew to do such a thing. There were things about her relationship with Andrew that she felt were best left buried in the murky past.

Unbeknownst to Glory, all of their assets had been solely in Andrew’s name, with the exception of her car and the house. Once the mortgage had been paid off, there hadn’t been a lot left from the homeowner’s insurance settlement. But that didn’t matter to Glory. She hadn’t been able to consider touching the money. It felt . . . tainted. It was in the bank, waiting for her to decide which charity would receive it.

“Granny, I really don’t want to argue about this. I didn’t contest the will. I never worked after we were married. I didn’t earn that money. Andrew always said it was his job to take care of me. Most of it was in a trust that Andrew inherited from his grandparents with a stipulation to pass to a blood relative anyhow. And the life insurance . . . I don’t want it.”

“If it was Andrew’s job to take care of you, why didn’t he provide if somethin’ happened to him?”

“He was young and healthy. He didn’t plan on dying. I’m sure once the baby came, he would have changed the beneficiary.”

Granny looked doubtful, then said, “Nobody plans on dyin’. You did your part in that marriage.” Her gaze hardened. “More’n your part, I’d say. Even the law sees that. If you’d divorced, you’d have got half. You’re left a widow, and you get nothing? It just ain’t right.” She softened. “I just don’t want to see you without a place. You need a home.”

Glory doubted she’d ever feel at home anywhere again, but instead of saying so, she smiled and said, “I thought I was home.”

Granny chuckled. “Oh, darlin’, I love havin’ you here, but one woman in a house is enough. You’ll soon get tired of me. I’m used to living alone and you’ll be wantin’ your own place.”

“I thought I might be a help. You can’t drive at night anymore. And with your sight—”

“Don’t talk foolish. I ain’t goin’
blind
. I got an
impairment
. Livin’ alone might take some adjusting, but I won’t need a nurse. You got your own life.”

“Oh, Gran, that’s just it . . . I don’t.”

Granny patted her hand. “Then you’ll have to find yourself one.”

Glory flushed with shame; Granny’s vow for independence actually
disappointed
her. She realized that at some point since Gran’s call to Minnesota, she’d begun to cling to Granny’s “impairment” as a direction for her own life.

Chapter Eight

A
S GLORY LAY
in bed the next morning trying to figure out how she could be missing a man she barely knew, thinking herself sinful for the covetous way she recalled pressing herself against Eric’s muscular back on the motorcycle, there was a swift rap on her bedroom door. Granny’s voice called, “Time for church.”

Glory paused in midbreath. Excuses or truth? She could claim herself too sore from the accident, or she could face Granny’s disapproval straight on. As much as she leaned toward the former, she realized that was just putting off the inevitable.

She called through the still-closed door, “You go on, Gran. I’m not going.” The last thing she wanted was dozens of curious eyes on her.

The door opened a crack. “I reckoned you were hurt worse than you let on.”

“It’s not that. I’m just a little sore. I . . . I don’t go to church anymore.”

Immediately the door swung fully open. Granny stood there with a frown on her face and her fists on her skinny hips. “What do you mean, you don’t go to church? Since when?”

“Since I left here.”

“Dear Lord. No wonder you’re such a mess. A person can’t bear all of their troubles alone. You got to ask for help.”

Glory turned on her side and pulled the sheet up to her ear. “Please, Gran, I don’t want to argue about this. I’m not going.”

“Suit yourself.” She took one step toward the hall, then paused. “The Lord has a way of healing—you’re making a big mistake.”

“It’s not the first one.”

Glory heard Granny come back into the room. Her steps were soft and her hand gentle when she laid it on Glory’s shoulder. “Sometimes the mistakes that hurt the most are the ones you refuse to look at afterward.”

Glory twisted to look over her shoulder. “What do you mean?”

Granny looked at her as if she were a dull-witted child and patted her gently. “I think you need to take a good clear look at the past afore it lets you go on to your future.”

“Now that sounds just as multilayered as a Bible verse.”

“That’s the good thing about a Bible verse—makes you think.” She bent down and kissed Glory’s forehead. “You just go on ignoring the help being handed to you, and a day’ll come you won’t want to get out of bed a’tall.”

As Granny left the room, Glory called, “I don’t need help.” What she didn’t say was that she’d been to that place already, where each day is too much of a burden to face, where the hours hiding in bed slide night into day and back again. The only way to avoid going back there was to turn her back on the past.

Which was going to be very hard to do as long as she stayed in Dawson.

After Granny left for church, her words buzzed around inside Glory’s head like a droning insect.
Ask for help . . . Clear look at the past . . . the past . . . the past . . . Ask for help . . .

She didn’t want to capture them and hold them still long enough to examine any truth they might carry. And the only way Glory had ever been able to shut off her mind was to push her body. So she climbed out of bed, pulled on a pair of shorts, T-shirt, and tennis shoes, put her hair up in a ponytail, took three of Granny’s generic over-the-counter pain relievers, filled a bottle with water, and went out the front door.

She stretched her sore shoulders and back before she descended the steps. She had intended to go out for a fast-paced walk, but as she looked out on the vast greenness surrounding Granny’s house, she decided on a longer hike; it was going to take a lot of physical activity to drown out Granny’s words.

After running back inside and dashing off a quick note to explain her absence and switching to hiking boots, she headed off on the path she and Granny had taken when they went to the raspberry bramble.

When she reached the little white church, she paused. It sat on a narrow road that stopped at the church and graveyard. Beyond this point, she would follow a path through the woods. The entrance to the trail was just beyond the vehicles parked across the end of the road.

There were a dozen or so cars and pickups in the crushed-stone parking lot. Of course, Granny’s wasn’t among them; she’d walked to church nearly every Sunday of her life. It surprised Glory that, after all of her years away from this church, she recognized so many of the vehicles: there was Blackwell’s Ford crew-cab truck parked in the shade at the end of the road. BJ, Mr. Blackwell’s brown-and-white bird dog, sat panting in the bed—Mr. Blackwell couldn’t get in that truck without BJ jumping in the back, so the dog went everywhere with him. Next to that truck was an eighties-era Ford station wagon with imitation wood grain on the sides. Glory recognized it as belonging to Denzelle Hibbard; her husband had died of cancer right after he bought that car, leaving her with very little insurance and six young children. And surprisingly, next to Mrs. Hibbard’s car was cousin Charlie’s old gray-and-red Suburban.

Charlie had always been more interested in Saturday night hell-raising than Sunday morning worship. Granny must have stayed after him until he relented—the woman could be like water on stone, slowly, carefully wearing away any resistance to what she deemed right. When Glory had gone to church with Gran, there had been very few Sundays when Charlie made an appearance on the inside of those walls. And on the few occasions he’d been coerced into coming—say, a family baptism or Easter holiday—he’d propped himself in the back pew and fought a losing battle to keep his bloodshot eyes open. It had been Glory’s job to sit next to him and keep him from snoring.

Glory’s mother had stopped going to their church in town after Glory’s father died. Granny had worried for Glory’s eternal soul; so for nearly as long as she could remember, Glory had gone to church with Granny. It was a habit that lasted until Glory had married Andrew. After that, she joined the Harrison family at the stately United Methodist church at the corner of Commerce and Abigail Streets, the same church in which she’d been married.

Glory remembered being a new bride sitting next to her husband in the fifth row on the right-hand side of the sanctuary, the Harrison pew. She had missed the robust sincerity of Granny’s little church, where heartfelt “Amens” occasionally rose in agreement to the sermon, instead of only at the appropriately programmed times in the orderly Methodist service.

That first Sunday, Andrew had leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Quite a bit different from the snake handlers and faith healers out in the hollow, eh?”

He’d made Granny’s wholesome little church seem like something to be ashamed of, as if the members were the equivalent of some bizarre cult. It shamed Glory to this day that she’d just smiled and let it go instead of setting him right.

As she stood in the hot parking lot, there was a hitch in Glory’s chest.
That was always the way I dealt with Andrew—avoiding confrontation, convincing myself that there was no reason to argue over the little, insignificant things
.

Why did that thought, coming as fresh as the new day, bring with it a feeling of revelation?

A smattering of goose bumps covered her arms in spite of the powerful sun in which she stood. There was more to that memory, but it was hiding around a sharp corner.

Instead of forcing herself to look around that corner, Glory stared at the church, thinking of sitting next to Granny. On hot mornings like this one, Glory remembered making little fans out of the offering envelopes.

As always in the summer, the front door at the top of the wooden steps was open, and the windows were raised in hope of a breeze. A chorus of voices suddenly rose in praise and tumbled out the openings. For a long moment, Glory stood listening, letting the memories of childhood simplicity soothe her. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sun.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when a voice said, “I figured you’d be inside.”

She spun around and saw Eric Wilson walking toward her from an old stump at the edge of the woods beside the entrance to the cemetery. She felt a wash of guilt at being caught in the parking lot swaying to the hymn, just as if she’d been trying to take something that wasn’t hers or peeping in someone’s window.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Tula’s phone is still out. It’ll be at least Tuesday before the road is open again. I rode the bike up here to see how you are—and if you two need anything.” He lifted a shoulder as he said it, as if it were no big deal. Then he said, “So, why aren’t you?”

Her mind was still trying to absorb his presence. “Why aren’t I what?” she asked, trying not to sound like an idiot.

“Inside. Can’t imagine Tula letting you miss church.”

“I suppose I could ask you why you’re not in church yourself.” She crossed her arms over her chest—the best defense is always a good offense.

“Never been a churchgoer. I like to let the wind carry my prayers from my motorcycle.”

“Sounds like an excuse you’ve made up so you can ride it on Sunday mornings.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Might be. But you shouldn’t knock it until you’ve tried it. It’s very therapeutic.”

Glory remembered the exhilarating feel of cruising along, her arms wrapped around Eric’s waist—and didn’t think that thrill had anything to do with the motorcycle.

Before she gathered herself for another glib comment, he narrowed his eyes and asked, “Why are you here, if you’re not going in?”

“Just passing by. I’m going on a hike.”

“Ah. Good to know you’re not wearing those shoes to church,” he said with a chuckle as he eyed her scuffed boots. Then he said, “Where are you going?”

She hesitated. “Nowhere in particular.”

He bored a hole in her with his eyes. That hesitation had been her mistake, now he was suspicious. “You know you should always let someone know where you are—in case of . . . an emergency.”

She had to keep in mind, Eric’s job was saving people from such emergencies. He wasn’t very likely to give up and wave her on with a smile. “I’m going to Blue Falls Pond.”

“Alone?” He looked disapproving.

“Done it a hundred times,” she said confidently.

“Not two days after you drove your car off the mountain.”

“I’m fine.”

He took another step closer and fixed his gaze on the bruise on her cheek. “I’ll bet the one from the shoulder harness is ten times worse.”

“Luckily I walk with my feet and legs.”

His gaze traveled to her bare knee.

“See, your doctoring did the trick,” she said, trying to lighten the feel of his gaze on her. “No swelling at all.” She flexed the joint to demonstrate its agility.

“It’s purple,” he said flatly. He locked gazes with her again, and she felt like there was a little hiccup stuck in her chest. The sun glinted off the gold in his brown hair, and the pupils of his golden brown eyes were little more than pinpoints. He wore a white T-shirt that nearly sparkled in the sun. The odd question of who did his laundry crossed her mind; luckily, she stopped it before it fell out of her mouth.

She took a little step away from him and said, “Best thing for soreness is to keep it moving.”

“Not two miles on a 10 percent upgrade.”

“It’s not all up; there are lots of dips and curves along the way.”

He didn’t look any less disapproving.

“Hey, Granny just did it last week,” she said lightly. “Even banged-up I should be able to handle it.”

“I bet Tula wasn’t alone. Besides, what if something happens? You could get back there and discover you’re not nearly as fit as you think.”

She added, “Will you feel better if I promise to rest every half mile?”

“I’d feel better if you didn’t go.”

“Don’t make me feel guilty. I really
need
to go.” How could she explain the healing power that place had for her? Granny had taken her there for the first time the summer after her dad had died. The sparkle of the waterfall, the feeling of absolute isolation, the soothing sound of rushing water had all combined to give the place an air of magic to her five-year-old senses. That magic had never faded for Glory as she’d grown older and other childhood treasures—like Santa and rainbows and the belief that your parents knew everything—lost their luster.

Eric stood there for a long moment in silence. His gaze seemed to be taking her measure, calculating the odds of talking her out of her madness. He then glanced back at his motorcycle, which was parked in the shade beside the stump where he’d been sitting. His gaze then traveled to the church. “Tula know you’re going?”

“I left a note.”

The sideways you’re-gonna-be-in-such-trouble look he gave her said he knew just how Tula was going to react to that. Then he sighed and said, “Guess I’ll come along, then. Tula finds out I let you go alone and she’ll give me a real ass-chewing.”

Company on this hike was the last thing she wanted. The fewer people around Blue Falls Pond the better. She didn’t want to share. She didn’t want the magic to be worn away by hundreds of pairs of hiking boots and buried under picnic litter. True, Eric was just one person; but one could lead to two, two to four, and it wouldn’t stop until Blue Falls Pond was on all of the maps and trail guides. But she couldn’t see any way of preventing him from coming.

“You don’t have water,” she said, in a last-ditch effort to discourage him.

“Wrong.” He walked over to the motorcycle and retrieved a liter bottle and held it up to her as he returned.

“All right, then.” She turned and started toward the path. “If you can’t keep up, you’re on your own.”

He laughed and followed her into the shadowy woods.

Tula put on her new sunglasses, then descended the church steps, pausing to thank Pastor Roberts for the inspiring service.

Her grandson Charlie was waiting for her at the bottom of the steps.

She greeted him with a smile. “Glad to see you this morning, Charlie.”

He blinked his bloodshot eyes. “Glad, but not surprised,” he said, with an appropriate amount of respect.

Tula reached up and patted his cheek. “I gave you a choice.”

Charlie was nothing more than an overgrown boy, in both spirit and appearance. He’d kept the handsome looks that had fallen upon him at birth; he’d bewitched women from the moment he drew his first breath. He had a wide smile and eyes so bright blue that even when he was a child she’d seen grown women catch their breath as they looked into them. Of course, these things contributed significantly to his immaturity; women just fell for him, they either wanted to mother him or capture his heart. And Charlie was a charmer; the boy could talk the dogs off a meat wagon.