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ST. SIMONS ISLAND, Georgia.
Rivers gripped the steering wheel tighter. For a brief moment, the beach views, the moss-covered trees, the beauty of this seaside town almost drowned the pain still screaming in her heart, tormenting her mind, stealing her sleep.
Almost. But black pain gathered in a huge glob on the palette of her life. Black like her insides. Void of color. Void of life. Void of capacity to feel joy.
Jordan should be at her side. He should be leading her around the town, telling stories of his childhood. The good ones, anyway. He should not be six feet under a slab in a Memphis cemetery. A memory flashed before her eyes—so much red—unearthing fresh anger, pushing the bile up her throat. One hand went to the indention in her left shoulder. Her blood ran cold and pounded in her ears. The exit wound was much larger. Too bad the shooter hadn’t hit his mark and finished her.
She’d been robbed of so much more than a piece of flesh. Her heart had certainly been torn from her chest. And for what? Money to buy OxyContin or a shot of heroin? Meth? Jordan would’ve given his wallet, his watch...any material possession if asked for it.
The Ms. Snarky GPS signaled for her to turn. She’d nicknamed the voice Cruella, and she’d tried to obey the harsh tyrant. The seven times she’d gotten lost already on this trip had been enough, thanks to the inability to focus on anything, even the irritating voice giving directions.
The Stink Bug was doing well to make it this far. Taking the Mercedes she’d inherited would’ve been safer for this eleven-hour drive...okay, thirteen counting the wrong turns. But the one time she’d driven the luxury vehicle, everything in the car smelled of Jordan. She’d parked it in his drive and hadn’t moved the thing since.
The roads narrowed before her. Vehicles and bright green trees crowded the streets in front of most of the houses. Jordan had always called his grandmother’s place a cottage, but that had come from a man who’d known wealth his entire life, not a teacher’s daughter with a disabled mother. The tints, ages, and styles of the beach homes varied wildly, as older ones had been torn down and replaced over the years.
At the end of the road that led toward the shoreline, the rude computer voice suggested that she’d reached her destination. Rivers scanned the place where the home should be. Overgrown hedges acted as a natural barrier in the front yard. No view of the cottage, no driveway yet, but the house was on a corner lot. She turned left, and there it stood.
Her pulse pounded as she slowed the car. The place looked just as she’d imagined. White cottage with a wraparound porch. Red brick chimney. Gray awnings. White picket fence around the back yard. A tattered American flag waved in the Atlantic breeze. She pulled into the short gravel drive—or maybe it was shell-lined—and parked. The fact that she’d inherited the summer home from the man who’d never become her husband shocked and overwhelmed her with fresh grief. Her parched throat dried as if it had filled with sand. She had to get out of the car, but how could she?
I don’t want this, Lord. I want to forget.
This house taunted her. Reminded her of all she’d lost. The quicker she sold everything, the better. She could get back to her clients. Her life before. If only Jordan’s family had been willing to help. But they’d had their own loss that still plagued them in this town, the accident that had torn their family apart. And she couldn’t ask her father. He had enough on his plate taking care of Mom. Bringing her mother would only make the task more complicated. Add too many obstacles, too many questions and frustrations. More negative emotions when she couldn’t handle the ones she’d already been dealt.
It’s You and me, Lord.
The heat besieged her now that she’d cut the engine, and sweat beaded on her forehead. Groaning, she opened the door and forced her feet to the ground, the mix of white rocks and shells crunching.
One moment at a time. Her pastor’s words. And she knew this concept from the counseling she did for others through art therapy. Part of healing was facing the trauma. Facing the grief.
God, help me get through this moment.
She made a path to the passenger door of her car and yanked it open. She threw her duffle over her shoulder and grabbed the pad and pencils Jordan had given her that last day. That horrific day. She stared at the tablet as though answers were locked somewhere inside the blank pages. How had it come away unscathed? That not even a drop of blood had splattered the cover seemed to be a miracle.
But not the miracle she’d begged for.
Hugging it close, she shut the door and trudged toward the front porch. The key was under a flower pot, according to the caretaker, some step-uncle of Jordan’s. Kind of careless, but what did it matter? The glass French doors provided little protection, and no one in Jordan’s family came here anymore. The cottage’s only visitors were the folks from the cleaning and landscape services.
Up the three stairs onto the wooden planks, she stepped, then stopped. The dead plant in the terra cotta container looked about like she felt. Lifeless and withered. She bent and lifted the pot. The key lay there. She stared at the dull silver finish and imagined the pain the simple piece of metal would unlock. A wind chime tinkled from somewhere nearby, its sound melancholy and haunting.
It had taken her a year to muster the courage to make this trip. Going inside was required. Emptying the place and readying the house for sale had to be done. No one in the family had come back after Jordan’s grandmother died. And as much as she wanted to forget, Rivers refused to let a stranger toss away Jordan’s past.
She picked up the key, its weight much heavier than the flimsy nickel should be.
With shaking hands, she inserted it and turned. Now the knob. Already the view through the glass wrenched her heart. Pictures and paintings lined the tongue-and-groove walls tinted a whitish gray. Likely photos of Jordan and his sister, before...
Blocking out her churning thoughts, Rivers burst through and stepped inside. She tossed her bag on a nearby bench but kept her sketch pad and pencils tucked under her arm. On the opposite wall, an antique side table held five photo frames. The first one she focused on jarred her, speared through her core.
Jordan, a young, smiling teen, his sister Savannah on his back. Both tanned, they dripped saltwater where they stood at the end of a boardwalk, sand covering their bare feet and calves.
Her breathing halted, imprisoned inside her chest. She couldn’t look at more. She had to get out of here.
Help me, Lord.
The chimes drifted into her thoughts again. Maybe she could draw. Outside. The beach might be the best place. With cautious steps, she glanced around, searching for where a beach towel or chair might be stored.
A set of blinders would be nice. How could she stay here with so many gut-wrenching photos? She’d have to box them up. A narrow hall opened from the living area, and a single door on the left looked to be a closet. Lips pinched and fearful of what she’d find, she cracked the door. A linen closet. Good. No pictures. A small sigh worked its way past her lips. Stacks of sheets lined the top shelf, then blankets on the next, and, on the bottom, beach towels. Beneath that shelf lay three folding sand chairs.
She snagged a red, oversized Coca-Cola towel and a fuchsia chair then made a beeline back out the door.
