She giggles.
While we gather up wild blackberries, Ava belts out pop songs—a good bear deterrent—and I think of Wren. Frustratingly prickly, beautiful Wren. I’ve seen her around Paradise Springs before today. A couple times downtown, sitting on a bench, alone, sipping her coffee, and once when I passed her at Meyer’s Crossing. She’s noticeable, even when she’s surrounded by the clumps of tourists milling around due it being the height of tourist season.
Is Ava right, though? Is she here for reasons other than a simple vacation?
When we arrive at May Ranch, the sky is gray, heavy, and suffocatingly close. “Get some riding in before the rains hit,” I tell Ava. “Text me, and I’ll take you back to town when you’re done. Make sure you help Lacy get the horses settled in for the storm. Bear and I’ll be out in the south pasture.”
She hops out of the truck. “Okay,” she calls out before slamming the door shut and rushing toward the wooden steps that lead up to the main entrance of May Ranch.
5
HONEY
When I get backto the cottage, I strip off my coffee-stained shirt and soak it in the laundry sink. It’s probably irredeemable. I should just toss it in the trash. When you lose one shirt and you only have a few of them, it’s noticeable. And to top it off, that one was my favorite.
I literally came to Heaven with the clothes on my back, the book Aunt Birdie handed me—with a letter and a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills inside—and the pack of “essentials” (toiletries and clothing), they gave me at the Magnolia House Women’s Shelter.
I rub some cream on my pink, mottled chest and splash my face with water. I usually ignore the woman in the mirror. I’m having a hard time getting used to her. From the nose downward, I’m still me: my full lips and the softly pointed chin—the bottom of a heart on my heart-shaped face. Cat used to tell me when I was young that the shape of my heart meant I was destined for a life filled with true love. But the gash on my forehead, still healing and fortunately tucked close to my hairline—and the puffiness and bruising surrounding my eyes, is a constant reminder of Trey. And specifically, a reminder of how Trey tried to kill us.
Monster waits patiently while I slip my shoes and hat back on. “Ready?” He rushes to the door and noses it.
“Peanut butter or liver?” I ask him, grabbing a handful of treats from the container on the counter. Monster is treat-motivated, like me. If there weren’t treats for me at the end of my bike trip to town, like Dot’s pastries and maybe a new book, I wouldn’t push myself to bike into Paradise Springs. I would curl up in a ball with a box of tissues and wither away into nothing.
“Short walk now and a longer one later,” I inform Monster as I backtrack to nab my sunglasses off the kitchen counter. “Is that okay with you?”
It’s become a habit—asking Monster questions. At least I’m not delusional enough to hear him talking back to me. That’s when I’d have to worry.
I talk so little now that I’m afraid I’m going to forget how to open my mouth and create audible words that form sentences and make sense. Today, when I was in the car with Ava when John went searching for Ned, that was the first time I’ve talked to someone for more than a quick exchange—except Cat—in what seems like forever. Ava is a sweet kid, and I felt bad for her—she’s so young and yet, from what she told me, she’s obviously already seen too much of what life can so unfairly deal out.
When I open the door, Monster shoots past, sliding to a halt and barking frantically at the bushes edging the side of the path facing my front porch.Monster is sparing with his barks, even when there are animals rambling down the path.
Anxiety barrels through me, and I clutch at the door. Something large is in the bushes, rustling around.
“Come here, Monster.” I grab the thick, heavy stick by the door.
Monster sits on his haunches as Ned’s head pops up.
I grip the railing while my heart hammers hard and heavy against my chest wall.
Ned backs completely out of the bushes.It’s just Ned. It’s okay. Breathe.Monster, my emotionometer, pushes against my leg, looking up at me.
“Looks like I startled you two,” Ned calls out. “Sorry about that. I had to reposition the security camera.”
Ned’s words sound hollow and distant, like they’re coming from deep inside a tunnel. My body has already switched from zero to ninety, into fight or flight, and it’ll take a while for it to decelerate and return to normal. It can no longer recognize or smoothly adjust to false danger.
I scan the empty, sun-bathed path in front of the house.See, all’s well in your little world here. You’re safe.
Ned joins Monster and I and gestures to the bike on the porch. I force myself to move my lips into something that hopefully resembles a smile.
“I changed all the tires,” he says. “Hope you don’t mind the upgrades. I switched them out for some heftier off-road ones. It’ll handle better in the sand. Switched out your basket for a bigger one as well. Not as pretty as the other, but it fits this nifty cooler.” He knocks on the cooler he’s set in the large, rectangular metal basket. It’s larger than the one I’ve been using. “You can freeze the whole thing overnight and it’ll keep your groceries cool all day, in case you’re out and about longer. I thought you might want something a little bigger to fit more groceries in one trip. And these here are panniers. It’s just some fancy French term that means something that can hold more stuff.” He unzips the panniers, then zips them back up and points to a clip. “You can pull ‘em off when you get home and lug your stuff in, easy as pie. Then clip ‘em back on. Only thing you can’t fit in there is this furry fella’.” He bends down to stroke Monster on the head, and Monster immediately falls to the ground and goes belly up for a belly rubbing. “You don’t seemlike a monster to me.” He looks up and sees my expression as I study the bike.
“If it’s too much, I’ll take it off and put everything just as it was.” His voice is gentle.
“No,” I say softly. “It’s not that. It’s just… I really appreciate it.”
“No problem.” He stands and surveys the cottage. “You need anything? Anything causing you trouble?”
Pretty much every single day since I’ve moved in, Ned has stopped by to ask how I’m doing and checking on things that don’t need to be checked. The oven, the air conditioner, the water pressure, the cabinet under the bathroom sink “where it sometimes leaks.” But he never asks any personal details about my life. Even on the first day, when I was dropped off at Heaven with nothing but a small duffel bag supplied by Magnolia House, a bruised face, and the sutures on my forehead still red and puffy, he didn’t blink an eye. “Looks like you already paid online, three months in advance along with your deposit,” he said, referring to the arrangements Magnolia House made—not me. “But if you start having wild parties, I might ask for one.” His eyes had twinkled at that. “I don’t need anything else. The cottage’s yours for as long as you’d like it. Nobody’s booked it through the end of the year, so just give me some advanced warning if you want some more time here in Heaven.”
