13

Nell hadn’t realized that she had spoken the words aloud until she saw herself much later on the television in the RV. Clean, warm, dry, boneless with shock and fatigue, she sat at her dinette, her injured hands interlaced listlessly in front of her, and listened to the news. News about who Joe was. About the man she had married.

The reporter was one of those glowing, blond, palefaced, elegant city women who wore clothes and makeup like a model. Her excitement was palpable even through the TV screen. “Joseph Stevens, heir to the Gregory Stevens textile fortune and recently believed to be one of New York’s most eligible bachelors, is missing. Best known for his philanthropic work on literacy programs, he vanished in northern Tennessee on a white-water kayaking trip. Here is what his new wife said, coming off the water after today’s search.”

The scene flashed to a shot of Nell, sitting in her boat, looking pale and wan, eyes black and green, her helmet, skirt and boat hiding most of her. “In-laws? In-laws? What in-laws? Joe doesn’t have a family.” The picture flashed back to the reporter, her eyes glowing with gossip.

Claire cut off the TV, glancing uneasily at the cop sitting in the passenger seat. “You’ve seen it enough times already, Nellie baby.”

“He lied to me,” Nell said, staring at the black screen. “Our whole time together, he lied to me.”

“Joe loved you. He wanted to protect you.”

“Or he was ashamed of the little Appalachian girl he married,” she said, hearing the scorn and loathing in her own voice and helpless to stop it. “With her broken nails and river-wet straggly hair and Tennessee accent. And he didn’t want them to know about me.”

“He never told you about his family?”

Nell twitched, hearing the cop’s voice. When she turned her head, her neck muscles kneaded together like dry rubber; she had been sitting still so long, watching television, that her body had frozen in place. She focused on the man in his wrinkled suit. The cop from the hospital. Maybe fifty years old. His hair thinning. Slightly overweight. His chair was underneath the TV. Forgotten.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “The cop. The one who thinks I killed my husband.” Nell rubbed her eyes, so dry they ached. “My rich husband. God. I even have a motive, don’t I?” Nell turned and looked at her mother in horror. “He had money. And a family.”

“You didn’t sign a prenup?” the cop asked.

“A what?” Nell asked, bewildered.

“A prenuptial agreement. Limiting how much you get in the event of his death or of divorce,” the cop said.

“No, I—” Nell rubbed her head, remembering the attorney and his fancy office in Knoxville. “Joe and I saw a lawyer. We made out wills. We signed the corporation papers for the shop. I guess there could have been—” She stopped, everything hitting her at once. Her mouth opened slowly. She stared at the cop. “I need a lawyer, don’t I?”

When he shook his head and started to speak, she interrupted, “I don’t even know your name.” But she remembered the lawyer’s name. L. P. Berhkolter, at Berhkolter, Smith, Rector and Associates. Standing quickly, she held out her hand to Claire. “I need your phone.” Without a word, Claire passed her the cell and Nell stepped out into the night, leaving the cop to Claire’s untender mercies. She could hear Claire’s tone through the RV walls and smiled into the dark, not feeling the least bit of remorse for the cop and his tongue-lashing.

She punched into the Internet and looked up L. P. Berhkolter’s number. Fingers shaking, she dialed it. Listened to it ring.

The RV was parked above the Leatherwood takeout, Claire having handled all the details herself. Knowing what was coming, her mother had rented an RV site at Bandy Creek Park, shanghaied help from one of the auxiliary workers and taken both vehicles up the winding, sharply inclined roads. Always one to get things done, even if it meant asking for help, she had gotten another camper to show her how to hook up power, water and cable. All so she would have a place to take Nell. Nell had never been so grateful for her mother’s take-charge personality.

She had stopped calling Claire ‘mama’ the day of her father’s funeral. That day had dawned so bright, sunny and warm that it felt downright sprightly, a foul insult to the burial of her father. It should have rained and sleeted and winds should have howled down the mountain, giving voice to grief.

Daddy had been Nell’s shining star, her hero, her greatest joy. They had done everything together in life, fishing, canoeing, hiking, school projects. And yet, he had died while driving back from a romantic assignation with a woman not his wife, and not her mother. His family hadn’t been good enough for him, it seemed.

Nell didn’t sleep for two days after he died, and when Claire came out of her room the day of the funeral, dressed in black, her face looking composed and serene, no evidence of sorrow, something had hardened inside Nell. Hardened and frozen. She had hated her mother with a sudden and total and complete hatred, thinking she had felt no grief, no pain. But maybe it hadn’t been that. Maybe Claire had just been taking charge, doing what needed to be done, to survive through the next second, then the one after that. For her? Had Claire buried her own pain to be strong for her grieving daughter?

The phone was picked up by an answering machine, bringing Nell back to the present and her new pain, her new loss. She took a deep breath and forced calm, into her voice. After the message, Nell said, “This is Nell Stevens, Joseph Stevens’s wife. I need you to call me right away. I have a cop in my RV and reporters telling me—” She stopped, putting a hand on her neck. Her fingers were quivering and her skin felt cold and dead. “I need information. And help. Okay? Call me.” She gave Claire’s cell number.

The RV park was not well lit. In fact, it wasn’t lighted at all. Nell was wrapped in darkness, hidden in the night. To her left, the windows of a fifth-wheel travel home were bright. To her right, a horse trailer with live-in cab was illuminated by a lantern. Campfire smoke blew on the slow breeze. Overhead, the stars were so bright and numerous they were like a carpet, something no city person ever saw. Pollution and city lights hid most stars.

Joe had told her that. Joe. Her heart ached so badly she wanted to cry or scream. Joe, who was gone. Joe, who had lied to her.

And then she remembered a conversation they had shortly after they met. They had been paddling together in a group of kayakers, taking a break after a strenuous section of the Ocoee River. They had dinner plans for that night, the two of them. Third date. Already there were sparks between them. Had been from the moment they met.

“Would you date a rich man?” Joe asked.

“Nope.” She had laughed at the thought and twirled her paddle.

“Why not?” He rested across the cockpit, his eyes on her. Only on her. He had always given her his total attention, as if he found her the most interesting thing on the face of the earth. As if he’d been entranced.

“First off, no rich guy would want to live on the river. He’d live in some big city close to his job. Maybe commute on weekends or something. Second, no rich guy would want a poor Appalachian American. That’s what my granddaddy calls us. Not hillbillies. Appalachian Americans.” She laughed and saluted him with her paddle. “Though PawPaw is pretty much the epitome of a hillbilly. A rich guy would cheat on someone like me in a heartbeat, try to change me and make me move. And he’d likely bore me to death.”

“Ouch,” Joe said, his eyes amused. She’d ached to touch the two-day beard he’d sported. It had been rough under her fingertips later that night when she’d given in to the impulse. And he’d caught her hand and kissed her fingertips, his eyes intense, their steak dinners forgotten. On their wedding night, he had told her he’d fallen in love with her that day, the day she told him she wouldn’t date a rich man.

Is that why he had lied to her?

Nell closed her eyes on the tears. The phone rang, the trumpet ringtone Claire used for any unknown caller. Nell looked at the number, finding it watery. She touched her face. She was crying again. She sniffed and wiped her eyes, seeing the number she had just dialed. The lawyer. She answered. “Nell Stevens. Thanks for calling me back.”

“Louis Berhkolter here. I was working late, Mrs. Stevens. And actually I was waiting for your call. I’ve left several messages on your cell phone.”

“The cell was ruined in the accident.” Suddenly she didn’t know what to say, and an awkward silence followed her statement.

“I suppose you have questions,” Berhkolter said.

“You could say that.”

“Are the police giving you a hard time?”

“Was Joe rich?” she countered.

The awkward pause was on Berhkolter’s part this time. “He never told you,” he said.

“No. He never told me.” Nell could hear the bitterness in her voice, and knew Joe’s lawyer had to hear it too. “He lied to me. All the way through. About everything.”

“I suggested to him that you might not appreciate being kept in the dark.”

“The cops think I killed him for his money. They asked if I signed a prenuptial agreement. Was that what I signed? In your office? The one that said if something happened between us or to him, then our kids, if any, got his estate? It wasn’t important at the time, but I remember that one. Was that a prenup?”

“Of sorts,” Berhkolter said gently. “But Joe left you well provided for.”

“Joe can take his money and shove it where the sun don’t shine,” she said, turning to the RV and resting her forehead against the side, her arms curled up around her, the cell dangling from her fingers over her ear and cheek. “I don’t want his money. I just want…” Him…I just want Joe. But he isn’t here. He never was, not really. Joe was a shadow. A myth. A lie.

“Have the police questioned you in his disappearance?”

Nell laughed, her breath blowing back in her face. “Yes. Do I need a lawyer?”

“Tell the officer or detective that you will be happy to answer law-enforcement questions, but only with your attorney present. I don’t handle criminal law, but Jacob Smith, with our firm, does. He’s a very competent attorney. I’ll pass your name and the circumstances along to him, and he can meet you at police—”

“I’m not going anywhere till Joe is found,” Nell said, her tone aggressive. “That’s what I’m telling you and that’s what I’m telling the cop. And then you and me gotta have us a little chat about my rich husband and his damn lies.” She pressed the little red button that ended the call.

Throwing open the door to the RV, Nell stormed up the three steps and slammed the door behind her. The atmosphere inside was charged and heated, as if she had interrupted an argument. The cop and Claire were glaring at each other, and her mother’s fingers were curled into claws. The sight gave Nell a fierce satisfaction.

She looked at the cop. “What’s your name?”

If he was surprised that she didn’t remember his name, it didn’t show on his face. “Detective Nolan Lennox, Sr.”

“L. P. Berhkolter, at Berhkolter, Smith, Rector and Associates are Joe’s lawyers. Jacob Smith is my criminal attorney.” Nell’s eyes filled with tears. Oh, God. I have a criminal attorney. Who could think I killed Joe? “When they find Joe, I’ll come in for a talk. But for now, get out.”

Lennox sat there, his steady gaze on her. “And if they don’t find him?”

Don’t find him? How could they not find him? Because he’s stuck under an undercut. Dead, her mind answered instantly.

The world went black around the edges. Slowly, she shook her head. But the blackness grew, leaving only Detective Nolan Lennox, his face framed by the awful night. And then that too was gone.

 

Nell woke to a darkened room, the scent of herb tea soft on the air, that red tea Claire liked. There was no moment of uncertainty, no blissfully calm instant when she could relax, unaware that Joe was missing. She knew. She remembered. She rolled to her feet and walked out of her bedroom, down the short hallway to the dinette. Maybe eight feet. She wobbled all the way. Sat beside Claire. The TV went dark.

“I passed out.”

“Yes. We noticed,” Claire said, her voice emotionless.

“Lennox carried me to bed?”

Claire nodded. “You slept three hours. You’re under a lot of stress. You need to eat better. Drink more water.”

“I’ll rest when we find Joe.” Nell took a breath that made her bruised ribs creak. When she spoke, the words came out faint and hopeless. “If we find Joe,” she said. “But I’m staying off the water tomorrow. I’m too much of a distraction. I’ll join one of the auxiliary teams instead. Can I borrow your car? And can you stay on a couple more days if necessary?”

“Of course, to both questions.” Claire poured a mug of tea and placed it in her hand. “I know you love kayaking, but I agree. This time, I think it’s smart for you to stay off the river.” She smoothed Nell’s hair back, tucking the short ends behind her ears. Nell closed her eyes and leaned into her mother’s hand. It was warm, her skin soft and scented with something sweet, papaya or melon or something, a new cream Claire sold at the shop. Nell drew in the scent and some of her anxiety slipped away.

“I don’t know much about searches on a river,” Claire said, her words tentative. She stroked Nell’s face and Nell smiled, her eyes still closed. “Is it…likely that Joe is…still alive?”

Nell straightened, opened her eyes, her hands stiffening on the mug. It was Joe’s mug, federal blue with a red kayaker silhouetted on it, and the offbeat, suggestive phrase “Paddlers Go Down in Wild Water.” Joe loved this mug. Her throat tightened and she dragged her fingertips across the porcelain as if it were an amulet, full of wisdom, a bottle holding a genie. “No,” she whispered. “It isn’t very likely.”

The silence in the small RV was heavy, as if the air itself were weighted with pain. “Drink your tea, then go to bed,” Claire said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

For the second time in recent memory, Nell did what her mother ordered. She drained her mug, the red tea tangy and tart. Rising from the small sofa, she went back to bed.

 

The next morning, Nell was up before dawn, dressed for cooler temps, her lunch and hiking gear packed and her hiking boots laced up. She left the cell phone and a note for Claire on the coffeemaker.

Claire,

Like I said, I’m staying off the water. I’ll be with one of the auxiliary teams, probably at the O & W bridge. I packed a lunch. I’ll gas up your car and pick up cereal and milk on the way back.

Nell

Night still had dawn by the throat when she pulled out of the campground and headed to the O & W bridge. The railroad bed was close to Bandy Creek, as the crow flies, but a long drive on winding, gravel-surfaced, mountain roads. It was barely dawn when she reached the bridge, and far after dusk when the park ranger called for the day’s search to end. Nell was bruised, blistered and exhausted with both the physical strain of the strenuous hike and the emotional strain of knowing that Joe was likely dead. Lost to her forever.

Silently, during the long dusk, through lengthening shadows and dropping temperatures, she hiked with her team back down to a little-used rough trail and two ATVs with short trailers that waited to take them back to their cars. By the time they rendezvoused with the auxiliary team, they were all layering clothes back on and stars were glowing in a cloudless blue-black sky. Still silent, she rode in the trailer, holding on to the short sides to protect her body against the rough ride, the jounces irritating her healing bruises all the way back to the O & W bridge.

Failure weakening her resolve, Nell dropped her gear into the backseat of Claire’s car and started the engine, sitting in the driver’s seat. Tears striped her face with raw tracks, but her sobs were hushed, crying for her loss, crying for Joe. Crying alone as she waited for the other SAR searchers who were not camping at the O & W bridge to head out. Drained, she appreciated the warmth of the car’s heater on her grief-chilled body. Comfort and misery, tears and guilt warred within her.

In the dark, the cavalcade of cars and trucks left the bridge, traveling back through the long, meandering road, headlights once illuminating a lone black bear. It lumbered off without apparent fear, into the shadows. Full night fell before they reached Toomey Road and Nell was glad she could follow the taillights of the car in front, and even more glad when that same car stopped for groceries at a mom-and-pops style convenience store, reminding her that she needed a few supplies.

It was after eight when she pulled into the campsite and parked beside two strange cars, a black Lexus with a rental-agency sign on the bumper and a black Caddy with Tennessee plates. Worn and aching, she carried milk and a box of oatmeal to the door of the RV, the mingled scent of campfires and charred meat making her stomach rumble despite her tension and fear. All she wanted was a shower and her bed, but before she reached the door, she heard a raised voice from inside. Claire, angry, laying down the law. Or more than that. Claire had to have seen her car pull in. Her mother was giving her a warning. Someone else answered her back, more controlled in volume but still irritated.

Mutely thanking her mother for being a manipulative little Southern lady, Nell climbed the steps and opened the door, moving fast. Within, the voices shut off abruptly, but tension laced the air like electricity from a downed power line, the hazardous aftermath of a storm. She pulled the door closed behind her and scanned the small space.

Three strangers sat at the dinette, overdressed in city clothes: a woman whose perfume saturated the air, and two men, one young, maybe in his twenties, one older, maybe fifty. None of the unwelcome visitors looked like media. But they all looked like trouble.

Claire and Mike sat in the driver and passenger seats on their small raised platforms, the bucket-seat chairs swiveled around to face the rear. Part of the teaching that both Claire and Nell had absorbed at PawPaw’s feet—take the high ground. Look down at your adversary if possible. If not, take the best chair and the best angle of light. Find a way to establish control.

“Nell,” Claire said, a warning tone in her voice. “This is Yvette Stevens and her son Robert. They claim to be Joe’s mother and brother. And this is Louis Berhkolter of Berhkolter, Smith, Rector and Associates. Louis is here to put out fires. The Stevenses have come here to talk about Joe and his money. And to meet you.”

With all the years of confrontation-and-negotiation training from her grandfather under her belt, Nell measured the strangers and Louis, whom she recognized from the trip she and Joe took to his office when she signed the legal papers for the shop. The clothes and jewelry on the other two cost more than the RV, she was sure. Heck, their haircuts probably did too. Nell knew that Claire’s last four words were put at the end of the statement on purpose. Meeting Nell was an afterthought on the Stevenses’ part. There was no doubt that the pair were trouble at worst, a nuisance at best. The woman, with her pinch-mouthed moue—her mother-in-law, for heaven’s sake—could have passed as the Wicked Witch of the West. The young man was a follower, and would take Mommy’s lead. The lawyer was a different matter. He was holding his cards close, his face expressionless.

Before anyone could react, Nell dropped the groceries on the short counter, squared her shoulders and said, “I’m getting a shower. I see you’ve helped yourselves to my tea and coffee. You’re welcome to join me for dinner, too, when I get clean. We’re having oatmeal. Till then, frankly, you’re uninvited and in the way.” With that deliberately insulting statement, she turned and swept down the short hall, pulling the folding door shut behind her.

Behind her she heard Mike laugh. “That, boys and girls, is a gauntlet, just in case you missed it. Told you she could hold her own.”

Nell had no idea who he was talking to, but the words warmed her. Mike and Claire were solidly in her corner. Against the family Joe had denied existed.

Nell showered and washed her hair. Shaved her legs. Smoothed her nails and put on some concealer, powder and lipstick from Claire’s supplies spread across the tiny bathroom counter. She had been watching Claire make herself up all her life and though she would have rejected the claim that she knew how to use the stuff, Nell could figure out the basics okay. She dried her hair and put on fresh clothes. Added powdered deodorant to the toilet and flushed it into the holding tank to keep the stink down until she could dump the waste. Sprayed the shower with cleaner. By the time she was finished, the harsh scent of cleansers and chemicals filled the RV, overpowering the expensive perfume Mrs. Stevens wore. No, not Mrs. Stevens. Yvette. Nell grinned.

Having dawdled as long as she could, Nell turned on the exhaust fan in the steamy bath, stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind her. She walked to the front of the RV, all of five steps, and took the driver’s seat vacated by Claire. Her mother gave her a look as she sat, and Nell understood. Us against them. Gotcha. Claire held out a bowl.

“Thanks for fixing some oatmeal, Claire,” Nell said, accepting the bowl from her mother. Nell was finicky about her hot cereal, wanting it stone-ground, high protein and not instant. She wanted it cooked only one way, with the water salted and the cereal added after the water reached a boil. Then the stove was turned off and the cereal stirred for thirty seconds before being placed into a bowl, cooked fast so it still had texture and bite. Four heaping teaspoons of sugar went on top and milk was added. Comfort food that couldn’t be beat. Claire had taught her how to make oatmeal right, and even Nell couldn’t quite duplicate Claire’s touch at the stove. “Youns not eatin’?” she asked, deliberately drawing out her east Tennessee accent.

“Thank you, but no,” the woman said, not able to hide a faint shudder.

Nell shrugged and dug in, studying her new in-laws, letting her mind roam through how she would handle this interview. Because that was what it was—an interview, not a family gathering. Her mother-in-law clearly looked down on everyone in the RV, especially Nell. The Stevens were too good for the likes of Appalachian Americans, too hoity-toity. Which ticked Nell off.

Halfway through the silent meal, she met Claire’s protective glare, hoping to see if her mother understood what she was doing and why. Claire’s lips twitched and she gave a miniscule nod, waiting for Nell to take the lead. Unless PawPaw Gruber was present, that was the way they had always done things when trouble came calling, Nell in the lead, Claire shortly behind. They had dealt with bill collectors and IRS people, school principals, difficult neighbors, and, once, a revenue man in the same way. Which, in the case of the revenuer, had turned out to be a smart response. PawPaw did like his liquor. And he didn’t like revenuers.

When her bowl was empty, Nell handed it to Claire. “Thank you,” she said. Then she looked at the Stevenses, her decision made. These people were here to cause problems. She would beat them to the punch. The gloves came off. “Joe said he didn’t have family. I’m guessing he didn’t like you much.”

Mike barked with laughter. Yvette spluttered. The lawyer sharpened his attention on her, surprised. The younger man, Robert, looked amused, the way a cat looks amused at the mouse it has cornered. Nell smelled alcohol; the red rims around his eyes told her he’d had a few too many.

“Joe didn’t tell us he got married,” Robert said, waving a negligent hand. “But maybe it was because he knew the girl he married couldn’t measure up to family standards.”

Good. The city boy knew how to fight. Nell smiled, baring her teeth. “Joe knew I had no intention of moving into his life. I don’t like rich people. They’re two-faced and sly and you can’t trust ’em. Joe felt the same way. Probably because of youns, or people like you.

“So I’ll say this. Joe and his fancy lawyer here drew up papers that put the money I didn’t know he had where he wanted it to go. I won’t be fighting for Joe’s money. Whatever he did with it is fine with me. So youns can get up, get outta here and deal with Mr. Berhkolter. I’ll keep looking for Joe.”

Robert flipped that hand again and stared at Nell’s chest when he spoke. “According to the park rangers, Joe is probably dead.”

Nell smothered a flinch and hammered down her tears at the bald statement. This kid fought dirty. She admired that on some level. She wondered if he wanted to take it outside, and figured she could beat the drunken sot with one hand tied behind her back.

As if he read her thoughts, “And they say it’s possible they’ll never find his body. What then?”

“My eyes are up here, Robbie,” she said, pointing to her face. “Stop staring at my boobs. I’d ’a thought your mother woulda taught you better, you being a pure blood and all. But I guess breedin’, and the lack of it, will tell.”

Laughing softly, Mike said, “Nell’s got a bit of a temper.” It wasn’t an apology. He sounded proud. Then his laughter died and he leaned in toward the guests to answer Robert’s question for her. “Sometimes people don’t get found. But no one on this SAR is ready to consider that right now. Everyone who knew him liked Joe.”

“So go talk to Joe’s fancy lawyer. I’m tired and I need to sleep.” Nell stood and walked past them all to the back of the RV. She pulled the thin folding door shut and snapped it closed. Knowing she had just ticked off the new in-laws, and probably the lawyer too, Nell stood beside the door and waited until they left. The outside door closed and the cars pulled away. Through the plasticized door, Claire said, “Everybody’s gone but me. You really want to tick off your in-laws before you know what they’re doing here?”

Nell opened the folding door and walked to the refrigerator. From the freezer, she took a Hershey dark chocolate bar and broke off two of the rectangular pieces. On each, she smoothed a spoonful of extra-crunchy peanut butter, and gave Claire one. They both ate. When the treat was gone, Nell fixed them each a second piece. Usually she only allowed herself one, but she needed the taste, texture and consolation of the chocolate. Only when it, too, was gone did she answer her mother’s question, ticking off the reasons on her fingers.

“I’m guessin’ there’s a good reason Joe didn’t tell me about the Stevenses. I’m also guessin’ the lawyer knows what that reason is. It don’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that they’re here after his money. If they had loved Joe, at least one of them would have been on the SAR today looking for him, hiking and sticking a nose into the search business. They looked too comfy and too rested to have been on the search or to have been grieving.” Nell waved five fingers in the air. “Considering all that, would PawPaw have treated them any better?”

“That old coot woulda met ’em at the door with a shotgun. There’s plenty ’a room out back for a few more graves.”

Nell and her mother shared a grin. Family legend said that PawPaw’s daddy had buried a couple of revenuers out back when they came calling during the dark days of the 1930s Depression and Prohibition. For decades, every kid in town had gone digging to discover the truth, but the graves, if they really existed, were deep. And PawPaw and his daddy had made sure that any possible and subsequent stills were hidden too far back in the gullies and woods to be discovered. PawPaw claimed he no longer made ’shine, but the crusty old man always had a jug of the blue-flame good stuff hidden somewhere close by.

“You gonna be okay?” Claire asked.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.” Nell shrugged each shoulder hard, working out the kinks, knowing her reply wasn’t true but was expected. “Thanks for the warning when I drove up.”

“That’s what mothers are for. Get some sleep.”

Nell pulled the bedroom door closed and climbed into bed, hearing her mother move around as she made up and inflated the air mattress that fit on the dinette. The sounds were soothing, and she fell asleep knowing she was well protected.

 

Evil dreams woke her before dawn, images of Joe hanging from a branch, impaled just like a turkey she had seen on the hike, his entrails pulled from his body. Nausea assaulted her with gut-wrenching sickness. She made it to the bath, hugging the toilet, and emptied her stomach. Still she heaved, her ribs and stomach protesting with pain. She was so loud she woke Claire.

Her mother put an ice-cold wet rag on her neck and massaged her back. When the heaves lessened, Claire flushed the low-water toilet, flushed it again with clean water, and walked to the kitchen. She brought back two cups of thin red tea, then sat on the floor in the hall, her knees inches from Nell’s, drinking from her own mug. When she could stand it, Nell took a sip and sighed. Her stomach settled instantly. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” her mother said. Her un-madeup face impassive, her gaze steady, Claire said, “This isn’t the first time you tossed your cookies. You usually have a cast-iron stomach. Are you pregnant?”

Nell opened her mouth. But no sound came out. Not a word. Not even a squeak. Pregnant? She looked down at her stomach and stared. The scent of the red tea was sweet and tart, punctuating the moment. Pregnant?

“I’m on the Pill,” she managed to say. She looked at her mother, horrified, but with some other emotion, some nebulous feeling she couldn’t name, budding up within it. She wasn’t quite sure she wanted to acknowledge that emotion. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She put her hand on her stomach. Flatter than a fritter.

“Uh-huh. Lotta get babies born to women on the Pill, ya know. And I bet you forgot a time or two.”

Nell’s mouth dropped slowly open as she tried to remember the last time she took a pill. The day they left for the trip? The day before that? “Oh…crap,” she breathed as the unnamed feeling twisted inside her like water snakes.

Gently, tenderly, Claire smiled. “I never had me a single day ’a sickness with you, but some women do. I got one ’a them auxiliary ladies to pick up a few things in Newport when they went back yesterday. Day before yesterday, now. I told her I thought I was pregnant ’cause word of you being pregnant would be all over the TV if I didn’t. But I swore her to secrecy anyway. She brought me a couple pregnancy test kits. You want to pee in a cup for me?”

Nell stuttered hard with what could have been laughter had it not sounded so desperate. “I’m not pregnant,” she whispered. Claire shrugged as if she didn’t care one way or the other, but Nell had seen her face. Claire cared. Claire wanted Nell to be…She took a breath of spicy tea steam. Claire wanted her to be pregnant.

She made it to her feet and opened the cabinet door over the toilet. She kept paper supplies there, including cups. She pulled one from the plastic sleeve. Nell looked down at her mother, sitting on the RV floor. Pregnant? No way. But she pulled the bathroom door shut and sat, holding her teacup in one hand and the paper cup in the other. Thinking. No. No way. Joe’s baby? She smothered the thought and that tenuous, burgeoning emotion and collected a sample.

She opened the door and met Claire’s eyes, then took both cups with her to stand in front of the small kitchen sink. The drapes were drawn, covering the huge windshield. The narrow blinds on the other windows were twisted closed. It was just Nell and her mother. And the small plastic kit on the countertop. Nell put the sample cup in Claire’s hands.

Claire tore the box open and removed a white plastic kit that was shaped like a digital thermometer. Using a dropper, Claire added four drops of urine to a small, square depression on one end of the kit. Then she took her cup of tea and sat on her bed. Patted the spot beside her. Nell curled one leg under her and sat on the edge, tiny shocks of energy pelting through her. One toe tapped the floor, an irregular rhythm. She sipped the cooling tea. “How long?”

“Four minutes.”

Nell closed her eyes. Do I want this? Do I want to be pregnant? She couldn’t answer herself. She was afraid to answer. But that vague, jittery, expanding emotion seemed to sway and settle inside her.

The seconds ticked by. Long before the four minutes were up, a pink cross appeared on the wand. As if by magic, it grew darker, deeper. Nell turned to her mother. Questioning. Claire stroked Nell’s hair back behind her ear.

“Congratulations, Nellie baby. You gonna be a mama.”

 

The next morning, on the fourth day of the SAR for Joseph Stevens, a storm hit. The weather forecasters had said it would head miles east, dropping its rain on the North Carolina side of the mountains. It didn’t. It pelted the plateau with four inches of rain. The water level on the river and in the creeks rose fast, trapping two hikers on a boulder in the middle of a raging river. While rescuing the hikers, the rescue raft overturned and sent the searchers roaring downstream straight at the El. A paddler was lost and feared dead, turning up hours later stranded in a tree. Because of the rising danger, the search and rescue for Joseph Stevens was called off. The police investigation was stalled due to lack of evidence.

Nell, not knowing what else to do, went home. So did the other searchers. And Claire. Nell’s newfound in-laws went back to New York City. Weeks passed. Then months.

Joe Stevens’s body wasn’t found. Eventually, the talk died down, if not the suspicion. Nell understood that almost everyone she knew—with the exception of Jedi Mike, her family and maybe Turtle Tom—believed that she was somehow involved with the disappearance and probable death of her rich husband.