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She pulled out an enormous trash bag, flipping the plastic open. She dropped into the bag the glass jars that she’d painted one summer and filled with dried wildflowers. She yanked out the slender center drawer of the desk and tipped it into the bag, a childhood of bits raining out. She shoved the drawer back in place and slid out the second, tipping it, too. Magazines. More pieces of nothing. Then several canvas-covered books fell out from the bottom of the drawer.
She caught at them, her haste fleeing as quickly as it had struck.
Her journals. She set them on top of the desk, her fingers lingering on the top one. The canvas was dull, but the delicate lines of the flower printed in the center of the cover was still clear. Sighing a little, she looked from the diary out the window in front of her, then back to the bedroom behind her.
So long ago, she thought, since she’d been in this house. Her childhood bedroom. And she wasn’t certain if she was grateful for the intervening years or not.
She looked at the journals again. Flipped the top one open randomly. The pages were stiff from age, but they parted easily midway through the book. She looked at the handwriting. Her handwriting. All loops and curls.
The handwriting of a girl.
Dear Gram,
Did you ever have one of those times when you were doing something you almost are always doing—like taking out the trash or washing the car on a Saturday morning—and then all of a sudden, time kind of stands still?
That’s what happened to me this morning. I was washing daddy’s truck, on account of he’d left it all muddy and Mom was totally mad about it and they were fighting. (They do that a lot, Gram, but I guess you can see that from up there in heaven.)
So there I was, standing in the truck bed hosing it down when Shane Golightly drove down the street in his dad’s pickup truck. He stopped in front of the house and said something. Gosh, Gram, I don’t even remember what it was he did say. Isn’t that silly? He was wearing a plain white T-shirt and his arm was hanging out the open window and he stopped and said something—maybe it was about Mom’s job at Tiff’s. See? I can’t remember even when I’m trying.
I haven’t seen Shane since he went off to go to college several years ago. And I hadn’t heard he was back, which was interesting, ’cause Jenny Travis usually calls me the very second she hears something major like that.
Anyway, there he was. And, oh Gram. He lifted his hand to wave and the sun was shining on him and everything else sort of disappeared.
Except for him.
The water, the mud, the yelling inside the house behind me, it was all gone.
Shane Golightly, Gram. I’ve known him—and Stu and Evie and Hadley, too, of course—all my life, seems like. He was always nice enough to me, probably because I was a little kid to him. But that moment—and I swear on a stack of Bibles that I’m not exaggerating like Mom’s always saying—that moment was…special, that’s all. Special!!
I just knew, Gram, that I’d remember that very moment, that I’d remember Shane in that very moment. The way he looked and the way the muddy water ran cold on my feet and the sun burned hot on my shoulders, and the grass smelled sweet, like it had just been mown.
I knew it.
I knew that I’d remember that moment all the rest of my life.
Laurel carefully closed the journal on those girlishly written thoughts, but doing so didn’t close her mind to the memories.
She wished she could say the memories at the end of the summer were as clear as those from the beginning, when the sight of Shane Golightly had struck with such singular clarity. If only the entire summer were so clear.
So much of her life would have been different.
She sighed again and stacked the diaries in the bottom drawer, which she slid back into place in the desk.
She was sweating by the time she finished with the bedroom and the single bathroom, a state that wasn’t helped by the sight of the sheriff’s vehicle parked at the curb, or the presence of Shane studying the pile of supplies she’d purchased from the hardware store.
“What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing?”
She gestured at the trio of weighty bags full of trash she’d pulled from the house. “What does the evidence tell you?”
He didn’t look amused. “You shouldn’t be staying here.”
She crossed her arms, staring down at him where he stood below the porch. “Because I have to take out some trash?”
He picked up one of the bags and tossed it at the steps. The wood cracked sharply and splintered beneath the bag.
“Well.” Laurel eyed the half-buried bag. “You can pull that out.”
“You’re missing the point.” With no seeming effort, he hefted the bag free of the jagged wood without managing to tear the plastic. “That could be you falling through the steps.”
“Instead, it was an innocent garbage bag. I’m staying, so if that’s your only reason for coming out here, you can go.” The sooner the better.
He just gave her a look and held out his hand for the remaining bags. She tightened her hold on them. “I can manage.”
“Hand me the bags, Laurel.”
She made a face and dragged the bags over to him. His hands brushed hers as he took hold and lifted them off the porch, carrying all three around to the trash bins next to the garage.
It was a fine time to realize that Shane Golightly’s touch still had the ability to make her mind go completely blank.
He was back in seconds, and the hope that he would simply leave died rapidly when he stepped up onto the porch and lowered himself onto the faded wicker love seat near the door.
She leaned against the wall. “What do you want, Sheriff?”
He doffed his hat, balancing it on his knee. His hair was darker than it used to be. Particularly near the nape of his neck where it was cut severely short.
The last time she’d seen Shane so closely, his shoulders hadn’t been quite so wide, his chest not quite so deep, his forearms, where his white shirtsleeves were rolled up, not quite so sinewy. And his deep-gold hair had been long enough at the nape for her fingers to tangle in it.
She swallowed and looked away. Her gaze fell on his SUV. Sheriff.
She swallowed again. “I saw your father earlier. I was sorry to hear about your mother.” Holly Golightly had been his stepmother, actually, but Laurel knew he’d considered her his only mother, since his natural mother had walked out on her family when he’d been very young.
“Cancer. It was fast,” he supplied. “And a long time ago.”
“Does that make it hurt less? Time?”
His wide shoulders rose and fell. “Yeah. But it doesn’t stop us all from missing her. I moved back to Lucius when she got really bad, and decided not to leave again once she was gone.” The toe of his boot jiggled. “This place isn’t safe for you.”
She exhaled, impatience swirling through her. “I’m a big girl. I think I can avoid the bad steps until they’re fixed.”
“Who is going to fix them?”
“I will.”
His eyebrows rose. “Really.”
“Yes, really.”
“Gonna buy the lumber. Get the tools. Rebuild the supports that are rotting underneath.”
“If I have to.” She propped her hands on her hips. “Women are perfectly capable of—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He stood. “I’m not getting into that argument with you. I know plenty of women who can frame a house better than men. My point is that you’re a—”
“A what?” She angled her head.
“A third-grade teacher,” he finished mildly, and smoothly circled her wrists, turning her palms upward. “Without a single callus on these pretty hands of yours to indicate you’re accustomed to this sort of work.”
She curled her fingers into fists. He wasn’t being chauvinistic. His attitude was strictly based on what he knew—or thought he knew—of her.
“I’m perfectly capable of learning.” And hadn’t she learned her lesson where Shane Golightly was concerned?
His thumbs worked across the knobs of her knuckles. Soothing. “Of course you’re capable of learning anything. That’s not the point.”
The point. Remember the point. “This house is the only thing left of my father. Maybe I don’t want to abandon it the way he abandoned me.” She pulled her hands away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of things to take care of this afternoon, not least of which is planning a funeral.” She reached for the screen door, turning away from him.
“Laurel.”
Why did hearing her name on his lips make her heart still skip? She didn’t want to hesitate, but she did. “What?” When he didn’t respond, she finally looked back at him.
His eyes were unreadable. His expression no more helpful. Did she even know this man anymore?
“Be careful,” he finally said.
She nodded once. “I plan to be.” Then she went inside.
Chapter Three
The funeral service for Laurel’s father was on Friday morning, just three days after she arrived in Lucius.
Beau Golightly handled most of the details. When they’d met to discuss the service, he’d told her that Roger had left a plan a few years earlier. What hymns he wanted sung. What scripture readings.
The fact that Roger had left any sort of instructions had stunned Laurel.
He’d even prepaid for an arrangement of flowers, had prearranged his burial, had done nearly everything.
The only thing Laurel had done was purchase him a new suit, and she’d had to depend upon the funeral home director to advise her on the size.
She could have avoided that particular embarrassment if she’d only had the nerve to enter her parents’ bedroom.
But she hadn’t.
Picking out the navy-blue suit, white shirt and burgundy striped tie at the new department store on the far end of town was the most familial task she’d performed for her father in twelve years. And he had to be deceased for her to even be allowed the task.
She’d gone back to his house and had a glass of wine, after she’d delivered her purchases to the funeral home, and had felt guilty that she’d been unable to shed any tears.
She should be able to cry for her father, shouldn’t she?
Even now, sitting in the front row of the Lucius Community Church while a woman Laurel had never before met played “Amazing Grace” on the organ and Beau Golightly stood at the pulpit with his Bible in hand, and the unprepossessing casket rested ten feet away from her, Laurel wasn’t able to summon any tears.
Maybe there was still something wrong with her, after all.
There were no other mourners. She hadn’t expected there would be. Roger had worked for the town of Lucius all of his adult life. Even after the charges in her mother’s death had been dismissed against him, he’d kept his job with the town. He’d certainly never considered leaving Lucius to join her in Colorado, even though she’d asked him.
There was a small arrangement of summer flowers that had been sent by his department.
But there were no people who’d interrupted their day to attend his final service. Even the funeral home director, who was there to take care of transporting the casket, had chosen not to come in for the service but was waiting outside.
Nobody had loved Roger Runyan. Most people hadn’t even liked him. Even before that awful summer, he’d been sullen, standoffish and made it plain that he liked others as little as they liked him.
He may have begun attending church after Laurel left Lucius, but it seemed that nothing else about him had changed.
The organ notes slowly faded, and Beau gave her one of his unbearably kind looks. He opened his Bible and began to read.
Laurel closed her eyes and prayed for forgiveness. She’d loved her father, even if he hadn’t loved her.
So what was wrong with her that she couldn’t cry for him, now?
For a moment—a weak moment—she almost wished she’d asked Martin to come. Despite the way she’d left him only a few weeks earlier, he would have been here for her.
Which would have been as wrong as going through with the wedding.
A rustle sounded behind her and she glanced over her shoulder, starting as two people slid into the pew.
Evie and Stu Golightly.
She would have recognized them anywhere.
Evie, with her short, fluffy blond hair and blue eyes, and Stu, with his brown hair and eyes. He was Shane’s twin, but the resemblance between them was limited to their size and facial structure.
Evie sat forward, closing her hand over Laurel’s shoulder. “I had to find a sitter for my kids,” she whispered, “or we’d have been here on time.” She squeezed her hand a little, then sat back and pulled a hymnal from the rack on the back of Laurel’s pew and dropped it on her brother’s lap.
“I didn’t expect anyone,” Laurel whispered, feeling numb. This had to be Beau’s doing.
Evie’s smile was sympathetic and very much like her father’s. “Maybe not, but here we are.”
Beau continued reading, his voice beautiful and soothing and after a moment Laurel gathered herself enough to turn back around in her seat. Then the organist played again. The small congregation rose and sang the two hymns that Roger had requested. And that was it.
The end.
There was to be no graveside service, in accordance with Roger’s wishes, and Laurel rose as Beau stepped down from the pulpit and approached her. “Thank you.” She held out her hands to him.
He took them and gave her a hug. “Your father would be very proud of you, Laurel.”
Behind them, the funeral director and his associates were efficiently removing the casket. Laurel watched them for a moment. There was an awful, hollow feeling inside her, and it surpassed the emotional black hole that had prompted her to call off her wedding. “Proud? I can’t imagine why.”
“Remember? He told me you were a teacher. That you have a master’s degree in education from the University of Colorado, even. He was proud,” Beau assured. “Now, there’s a table waiting for us over at the Luscious. Evie, Stu, you’ll join us.”
