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“White River trout. We’re famous for it.”
Why not? “Uh, yeah. Know any good places to stay?”
“Well, there’s the resort—”
The mere word resort reminded him of California and all that he was fleeing.
“Then there’s a B-and-B, if you’re into that. Quiet place with all the comforts of home. The Edgewater Inn.”
All the comforts of home. Brady doubted it, but the word home resonated in a way nothing else had in weeks. “Can you give me directions to the B-and-B?”
“Sure.” She pulled a paper napkin from the holder and drew him a rudimentary map.
Later, crossing the bridge over the White River, Brady felt a stirring of interest. He’d done a lot of fly-fishing in Colorado as a kid. Maybe he’d hole up in the Edgewater Inn for a few days, outfit himself and spend time on the river fishing—and making some decisions.
Carl had been right. He couldn’t run forever.
“YOU LOOK BEAT,” Reggie Pettigrew, the sixty-year-old head librarian, said when Nell reported for work Saturday after taking Abby to the airport.
Setting down the stack of books she’d collected from the outdoor depository, she shot him an I-don’t-need-much-of-this look. “Full of compliments this morning, aren’t you?”
“Even beat you look good. Big weekend?”
“Reggie, are you trying to get my goat or does it just come naturally? You know I haven’t had a big weekend in years. And that’s not all bad. They can be highly overrated.” She cringed, remembering some of the “big weekends” of her past. “It’s Abby. I can’t help worrying when she flies to visit her dad.”
“Did she give you a hard time again about going?”
“As usual. This time, it’s for a week.” She began sorting the returned books. “I don’t know how I ended up being the bad guy in this arrangement, but she blames me for making her go.”
Reggie eyed her over the top of his thick bifocals. “While Prince Charming and his lady love live happily ever after?”
Reggie had a way of seeing straight through her. “Exactly.” She glanced at the wall clock registering 9:59. “But enough about me. The hordes are undoubtedly lined up at the door racing to get to Balzac, Dickens, Faulkner, et al.”
“I wish. At least we can count on Clarence Fury and his daily two hours with The New York Times.”
Nell filled a book cart and made the rounds reshelving. When she’d hit bottom after Rick left her, Reggie had been a godsend hiring her as his assistant. Gradually her role had grown until she was now the children’s librarian and coordinator of special adult programs. With the limited library budget, she wasn’t able to do as much as she would’ve liked, but the pre-school story hour was booming and she was having sporadic success with the adult forums she’d initiated in the past year. That reminded her to prepare the flyers for the September forum. A minister from the county hospice board was speaking on death and dying. Not exactly an upper of a topic, but several patrons had expressed an interest.
Automatically reshelving two misplaced volumes, Nell fought the familiar ache in her chest. She bowed her head. It had been nearly seven years. Even so, it was hard for her to believe her father was dead. In the snap of a finger. One day, here. Robust, laughing, vital. The next, gone. Without so much as a fare-you-well.
She straightened and slowly made her way to the main desk. Maybe that was why for so long she’d resisted the death topic for the forum. What if she went to pieces during the discussion? Seemingly her mother and Lily had moved on better than she had after her father’s massive heart attack, but there wasn’t a day when Nell didn’t think of him and miss him.
Like now, with Abby protesting vehemently about her upcoming week with Rick. Her dad would’ve reassured her that she wasn’t the worst mother in the world, that adolescence, too, would pass, that Abby appreciated her more than she was able to let on. Although Nell could spout that kind of self-talk all day, it did nothing to ease the cramping loneliness that fused to her like a second skin.
“Has Hazel Underwood returned that new Patricia Cornwell yet?”
Nell looked up into the scowling face of Minnie Foltz, whose boundless knowledge of murder and mayhem was acquired from the numerous mysteries she devoured.
Nell searched the books lined up on the reserved shelf. “Looks like you’re in luck, Minnie.”
“Hmphh. I should hope so. I can’t figure what takes Hazel so long. That’s the real mystery.”
Nell processed the checkout, acknowledging that at least she’d made one person happy today.
MORNING SUN SILVERED the ripples on the surface of the slow-moving river. Swallows soared and dipped above their mud nests built into the crevices of the facing cliff. Standing thigh-deep in the clear, cold water, Brady pumped his arm, flicking the fly several times before letting it settle upstream from a deep hole. He’d discovered this spot yesterday, pulling in two browns nice enough to keep. Sally, the proprietress and cook at the Edgewater Inn, had been pampering him all week, and last night she’d prepared his fish, which they’d eaten in the kitchen out of sight of the other guests. Somehow the older woman had sensed he was a troubled soul. He’d give her credit. She provided all anyone could ask—good food, soft beds, lazy afternoons in a hammock and splendid fishing.
But it wasn’t enough. He wanted to share the place with those he loved. Wanted Brooke nestled beside him in the soft four-poster bed, wanted to hear Nicole’s infectious laugh when she caught her first trout, wanted to watch both of them hunched over the chessboard in the inn’s living room.
Wading downstream, he reeled in, then cast toward a boulder near the far bank. On either side of the river, the forested hills rose, the deep greens of the trees a contrast to the blue sky. Rounding a bend upstream were three canoes, the occupants grinning and sweating with exertion. Three men and three boys. A father-son outing, maybe. Longing, fierce and potent, stabbed him.
Would anything ever be normal again? How could it be? Not when everywhere he looked were reminders of what he was missing. Not only what he was missing now but, worse by far, what he had bypassed in the name of work when it had been right under his nose.
Too late, he felt the quick tug on his line. He couldn’t react fast enough. Asleep at the switch and the big one had gotten away. He barked an ironic “Story of my life.” Reeling in, he made his way to shore, removed his waders and gathered his gear.
He’d already been at the Edgewater Inn longer than he’d stayed anywhere. It was time to move on. He couldn’t remain here forever, counting on Sally’s hospitable and generous nature. Move on where? That was the sixty-four-thousand dollar question.
Because no place had the slightest meaning for him.
Back at the inn, he told Sally he would be leaving in the morning. That final evening he sat on the deck outside his room, his feet up on the railing, watching the sun sink behind the mountain. The occasional cooing of a pair of mourning doves and the soothing sound of the river lapping the rocky shore kept him company. In his hands he held the guest journal Sally had asked him to sign. Each room had one. He opened the paisley cover. The first entry was from 1995, the year Sally had bought the inn. “Wonderful food, wonderful hostess, wonderful place! The slow pace was very therapeutic. Thank you.” It was signed “Ron and Shari Huxley, Tulsa, OK.”
Brady turned the page. “Oh, Sally, John and I really needed this time away from the children and all our responsibilities. You’ve created a little piece of heaven here on earth. We can’t wait to come back and be spoiled again.” This one was signed “Rowena.”
Then there was the honeymoon couple who cleverly implied the wedding night had been all anyone could hope for and vowed to return on every anniversary.
Couples. All of them. Made supremely happy by the Edgewater Inn. What could he possibly write? This was a place to be shared, but what was he doing? Nursing his wounds. How did he write about that?
Flicking through the book, he came to one particular entry where the margins were embroidered with small colored pencil drawings of a spruce tree, a dogwood blossom, the rocky cliff above the rushing river, and, at the bottom, a rainbow.
Brady smoothed the page with his hand and began reading.
A sanctuary. That’s what you’ve created here, and I will be forever grateful. I have been so alone. Unable to see a direction for my life. Not sure if there even is one. When you’ve loved and lost, doubt replaces hope, insecurity replaces confidence and you wonder who you are. Whether you can go on. Or even want to.
Looking up just in time to see the sun drop behind the dark curtain of mountain, Brady pondered whether he should continue reading. The words were too confessional, too emotionally raw—and threatening. Some other individual had come here full of the same thoughts and feelings.
Unable to help himself, he turned back to the graceful handwriting covering the page.
This time of quiet and contemplation has been a great gift, restoring my belief that no matter how severe the storm, rainbows can happen. Regardless of how desolate I feel right now, I have to believe that somewhere out there is someone for me. Someone I can trust. Someone I can love. When I find him, dear Sally, the two of us will come to the Edgewater Inn. Together.
Brady stared for the longest time at the signature. Simple. Bare. Exposed. “Nell.”
He stood abruptly and walked to the railing, peering at the grove of pine trees bordering the property. Nell, whoever she was, was more optimistic than he was. As if, like Dorothy, you could click your red-shod heels and suddenly find yourself on the other side of whatever hell you were in.
God, he hated his blatant, whining self-pity. If Nell, desolate and alone, had been willing to look for something better, why couldn’t he?
He leaned against a post. This attitude of his was downright depressing. He needed a plan—any plan—and at this point he didn’t give much of a damn what it was.
Absently he realized he was still holding the guest book, his forefinger marking Nell’s page. He opened it again and squinted in the dim light, just making out the line beneath her signature. “Fayetteville, AR, 1997.”
He carried the book back into his room and reread the entry. Several times.
A crazy idea entered his head. But no crazier than what he’d been doing. He needed a purpose. A direction. Short-term, this would work as well as anything.
Tomorrow, after he checked out, he would drive to Fayetteville to find this Nell, a woman who still believed in rainbows.
CHAPTER TWO
TOWERING ABOVE the broad expanse of lawn in front of Old Main, the landmark building of the University of Arkansas campus, were massive oaks and maples, their leaves hanging lifeless in the heat of the late August day. Patches of shade offered only the illusion of coolness. Brady paused, gazing across the sward where members of a fraternity gathered on the porch of their house to welcome a group of rushees. He envied them this carefree time of life. College. What would that have been like?
Once, long ago, he’d assumed that was his destiny. But that was before his mother died and his father hastily remarried. Before he rebelled against his father’s unreasonable restrictions and demands. Before he stood up to the old man, told him to take a flying leap and left home. On his own at eighteen. No enlightening classes, fall football weekends, frat parties or eager coeds for him.
All he had in his favor was a knack for computers, a willingness to work his butt off and a cold, simmering rage fueling his ambition.
He headed toward Dickson Street, an off-campus shopping area housing several watering holes. He needed a cool drink. He had thought his plan of starting his search with the university telephone directory was ingenious. The U of A was the town’s largest employer, so the odds of finding Nell on campus were better than average. However, after a day hunched over a table in the college library, his eyes were raw from reading endless lists of names. He’d found several Nells. When he’d called, one had turned out to be a secretary in the engineering department suspicious of his motives. Another was a graduate student who knew nothing about any Edgewater Inn. A third, who sounded like Minnie Mouse, asked him what he had in mind, then giggled coquettishly.
The tavern was an oasis in a frustrating day. He settled on a bar stool and ordered a cola. In a nearby booth, three barrel-chested young men were playing a chug-a-lug game. Brady’s lip curled. He wanted to knock their pitcher to the floor and demand to know if they were driving. Didn’t they understand their stupidity could lead to tragedy? He no longer had any tolerance for overindulgence.
Instead of acting on his instinct, he turned to the bartender and asked if he knew any women named Nell. “That’s kind of an old-fashioned name. Most of the chicks these days are Chelseas or Tiffanies, know what I mean?”
Yeah, he did. Besides, he wasn’t picturing Nell as a younger woman. More someone his age. Somebody who’d obviously lived through hurt. Then another thought hit him. What if Nell was older, maybe a widow who’d lost her husband after forty years of marriage?
He drained his glass. This was insane. Even if he found his Nell, how could he explain his actions? She might even accuse him of stalking. What was he hoping to find?
He signaled the bartender for another soda. What would Carl say if he could see him now, sitting in Fayetteville, Arkansas? Everywhere you looked in this town was a depiction of the butt-ugly razorback hog, the beloved mascot of the university. Yet the place had an appealing, slow-paced charm. He grinned sardonically. He had wanted to get away from the Silicon Valley. Well, he had certainly succeeded.
Nursing his drink, he noticed a local newspaper on the seat beside him. He picked it up and scanned the headlines. Zoning issues. School orientation programs. A public library forum. A controversy over pollution of the Illinois River.
As he started to shove it aside, out of the blue he recalled a seemingly vague remark Sally at the Edgewater Inn had made when he’d asked about Nell. “I can’t give out personal information about my guests,” she’d said. They’d been standing in the living room at the time, where one entire wall was lined with books. “Say,” she’d added, gesturing to the shelves as if changing the subject, “do you like to read? I do. Libraries have always been favorite places of mine. How about you?”
At the time he’d mumbled something about not having much time for reading. He remembered being irritated that she hadn’t given him any information about Nell. Now, though, he wondered. Maybe she had and he’d been too dense to realize it.
He drained his glass, then began reading the article about the library forum. In the final paragraph, he found what he was looking for. “August’s forum on Arab-Israeli relations will be moderated by Nell Porter.” He checked the date. Tomorrow night.
At last a genuine lead. He could blend into the audience and size up the latest Nell candidate.
He couldn’t believe he was thinking like this. What would he say if he ever found the Nell? “Hi, I think we have misery in common?” What kind of way was that to impress anybody? Why did he care?
There was another obstacle. Her entry was dated 1997. Six years ago. What made him think time had stood still for Nell?
Despite the harsh light of reason, he felt compelled to follow his search through to its conclusion. He would find Nell.
“DID YOU GET Abby off all right for her vacation with her father?”
To free her hands, Nell settled the phone against her shoulder and continued searching through her office file cabinet. “Yes, Mother. As usual, she trudged through security like a condemned prisoner.”
“Why can’t you say something to Rick? What’s the matter with that man anyway?”
“If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn’t be where I am right now.” She pulled out a file folder, skimmed the contents, then discarded it. Where was that background information for her introduction for tonight’s forum? “As for communicating with Rick about Abby, a cabbage is a more attentive listener. At some point, Abby is going to have to speak up for herself. She’s the only one I can think of who might make a dent in his self-absorption.”
“Do you think it’s wise to keep sending her, dear?”
“What choice do I have? Her visits are court-mandated. Besides, in his own way, Rick does care about her.”
Her mother’s voice modulated into that concerned, faintly judgmental tone Nell had come to dread. “Are you sure you’ll be all right by yourself? It’s a whole week alone. Don’t you want to come stay with me?”
Rolling her eyes, Nell prayed for patience. “I’ll be fine, Mother. You can count on it. Besides, I need some time at home to clean out closets and get organized for winter.”
“That doesn’t sound much like fun.”
Fun? What would that be like? “I’ll take peace and quiet over fun any day.” She extracted two folders that had become stuck together. There it was. Her introduction. Breathing a sigh of relief, she grabbed up the phone. “Look, Mom, I’ve got to go. The forum starts in half an hour.”
“I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
Nell gritted her teeth. How long would it take before her family trusted her again? “Thanks, I appreciate your concern. I’ll call you later in the week.”
With a sigh of relief, she hung up the phone and studied the bios in front of her—one for a local rabbi and another for the head of the Arab Student League. Using a highlighter, she marked the sections she wanted for her introduction.
Yet she was distracted by her mother’s interference. Was being treated like a child a price she would always have to pay?
BRADY FOLLOWED a frumpy-looking pair of retirees into the library meeting room and took a seat on the aisle near the back. He looked around wondering which of the librarians was Nell. Two stood at a side table arranging books about the Mid-East. Another was bent over, conferring with one of the men seated beside the podium. When she straightened, smiled around the room and asked for order, Brady’s breath caught in his chest. This was no old woman looking for a dapper widower with whom to share her twilight years.
“Good evening and welcome to tonight’s forum. My name is Nell Porter and I’ll be your moderator this evening….”
Brady tuned out her words. She was a tall, slender woman—midthirties he judged—with short straw-colored hair cut in uneven lengths, a style that complemented the casualness of her high-waisted denim jumper. When she smiled, her eyes narrowed in delighted crinkles. She wore little makeup and he couldn’t help noticing her ringless fingers.
“…it’s my pleasure to introduce…”
He became aware that a short, bearded gentleman had stepped to the microphone. Brady’s eyes, however, were glued on the graceful way Nell Porter sank into her chair, crossing one long leg over the other, smoothing her skirt, then fixing her attention on the speaker.
She was not like Brooke, a sleek blonde made for designer clothes, Porsches and expensive, understated jewelry. Nell had a fresh, wholesome look, although her tousled hairstyle suggested an impish streak. She appeared thoroughly likeable. Comfortable.
He’d made his living by exercising logic. The thought in his head, however, was anything but logical.
He wanted Nell Porter to be his Edgewater Inn Nell.
“YOU’RE WHERE?” Carl did not sound pleased.
“Fayetteville. Arkansas.”
“Hmm. I’d hoped you were on your way home.”
Home. There was that word again. Didn’t Carl understand. He no longer had a home. Staring at the anonymous, monochromatic motel room walls, Brady absently brushed a hand through his hair, still damp from his morning shower. “Not yet.”
“I don’t suppose it would hurry things along if I said we’ve got a lotta deals poppin’ here and we need you.”
The familiar clenching of his stomach gave him his answer. “Sorry, Carl, but I’d be no good to you now.”
His partner’s tone mellowed. “I don’t mean to rush you. I know you need time. It’s just—”
“When I’m ready, buddy, I’ll let you know.”
