Chapter
four

The day after Frank’s funeral, Britt sat on her mountain bike, hands braced, one foot on the pebbled ground. Her breath came hard as she eyed Zander with both irritation and respect.

She wasn’t interested in leisurely outings on mountain bikes or snowboards or rock-climbing mountains. In fact, she loved adventure sports precisely because she could make them into a competition.

Zander claimed he hadn’t been on a bike since leaving for his Grand Tour. If not, whatever he’d been doing to exercise his muscles and cardiovascular system had been working. He was just as hard to beat as he’d ever been.

“Good effort, Britt.” He needled her deliberately.

“It was better than good. I’d—”pant pant—“call my effort valiant.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” He shot her an affectionate smile that lifted her spirits and made her forgive him for beating her.

Yesterday at the funeral he’d looked bleak and lost. Seeing him like that had left her feeling equally lost and almost desperate to help him through the hard knock of Frank’s sudden death. Zander had suffered too many hard knocks already.

Not today—and maybe not for a long time—but eventually, Zander would return to his full self. She refused to have it any other way.

It was critically important to Britt that Zander Ford find happiness.

The woman at the front office of Forest Lawn Cemetery in Enumclaw had given them a map. She’d drawn lines in blue pen illustrating the route to the grave of Frank Joseph Pierce, which she’d marked with an X.

Zander came to a stop. “Here,” he said.

Britt halted beside him in the heartbreaking portion of the cemetery named Baby Land. Kneeling, she cleared an infringing grass root from one corner of the small headstone.

FRANK JOSEPH PIERCE

BELOVED SON

2/2/1955–8/20/1956

Before this, they’d visited Enumclaw’s library to hunt for information. They’d decided not to search for Frank Pierce, seeing as how Zander’s uncle couldn’t very well have remained in Enumclaw after pilfering the name of one of its residents. If their Frank was to be found in Enumclaw, he’d no doubt be found before he’d switched identities, under the name James Ross.

A friendly librarian had helped them search 1950s newspapers and city directories, but they’d come up empty. If James Ross had ever lived in this town, he’d left no discernible trace.

The sounds of nature wrapped around them as they paid their respects to a boy whose short life had ended abruptly in tragedy.

It was creepy here. But then, Britt had always found cemeteries creepy. She usually only visited the one outside Merryweather with her family on Memorial Day, to leave flowers on the grave of her Grandfather Bradford, who’d died before her birth.

Cemeteries reminded her—uncomfortably so—of her own mortality. Everywhere she looked, graves. Hundreds upon hundreds of graves. Corpses lying under the ground in different stages of decomposition.

Because of her faith, she knew she was supposed to look forward to heaven with anticipation. Or at the very least, have reached a truce with the idea of death. Instead, she’d drifted further and further from a truce since early last summer when she, like baby Frank here, had gained experience with drowning—

Don’t think about it, Britt.

She hated thinking about it. In fact, she worked hard not to think about it whenever the memories came. But sometimes, like now, the memories overpowered her resolve, the same way the swollen river had overpowered her mastery of her kayak when it had swept her fast around the outside of a bend.

By the time she’d caught sight of the submerged tree, there’d been no avoiding it. The current rammed her kayak sideways against it. When she tried to yank herself free, she lost her balance and pitched into the rapids. The kayak flipped and surged against the embankment. The tremendous force of the water thrust her body beneath the river’s surface and against the strainer, the tree’s underwater branches.

She wasn’t a novice. She’d acquired a great deal of experience with Class II+ rapids. She’d paddled that stretch of river numerous times. But recent rain combined with the newly fallen tree had conspired against her, and before she’d had a chance to process what was happening, she found herself trapped and looking death in its murky, cold, watery face.

The river pressed against her with crushing force. Panic and the need for air clawed her brain.

Blindly, she groped for her kayak. She could only feel its smooth body. Nothing to grab on to. Terrified, she reached out farther, then farther. Her fingers curved around the edge of the cockpit. Marshaling all her strength, she pulled as hard as she could, freeing the bow from the bank. The kayak swung out and began to tug downstream through a narrow opening in the branches.

She pushed off desperately against the branch beneath her feet and the kayak towed her into open water. She’d come up wheezing, injured badly—

And really. That was enough of that. Time to abort her charming little walk down memory lane.

She made a production out of retying both her shoelaces.

Zander didn’t know what had happened to her that day because she’d opted not to tell him. She hadn’t wanted to ruin even one of his days overseas. And she definitely hadn’t wanted to risk the possibility—if one of her sisters had called him from her hospital room—that Zander might cut short his trip and return home. She’d wanted him home. But on his own terms. She refused to be the one responsible for forcing him to end his trip of a lifetime.

She hadn’t remained silent about her accident for his sake alone, however. She’d also remained silent for her own sake.

Independence and adventurousness were two of the qualities she knew Zander appreciated most about her. She hadn’t wanted him to think less of her. Nor had she wanted him, who’d always cautioned her to be more careful, to know just how careless she’d been and just how badly she’d screwed up. It was humiliating.

She’d been seriously injured the day of the accident. Even so, she hadn’t been able to bear the pity and coddling her family and friends had tried to foist on her when she’d been recovering.

Yes, she’d been hurt. But she’d also been fine.

Fine.

Only Zander wouldn’t be fine at all if he found out that she’d hidden her accident from him. He’d be wounded and angry and rightfully so.

She pressed to her feet.

Zander continued to peer at the grave, his face inscrutable.

“What’re you thinking?” she asked.

“That Frank must have stood on this same spot decades ago and looked down at this very same thing.”

“It’s crazy to think he then decided to become Frank Joseph Pierce.”

“Right. He arrived here James and left here Frank.”

“In an odd way, it’s almost as if he gave this child a chance to grow into a man. Because of your uncle, Frank Pierce lived an adult life.” Britt clasped her hands behind her back. Had they been here long enough? It seemed like long enough.

“Why would he have come to this cemetery?” Zander murmured. “In this town?”

“We know Frank moved to Seattle around the time he changed his identity. Seattle’s only an hour from here.”

“It seems to me that a city kid from Chicago would have made his way straight from one big city to another big city,” Zander said. “Chicago. Seattle. If so, then what was he doing in Enumclaw?”

“And why exactly did he need this boy’s identity?”

Zander looked across his shoulder at her. The blue of his eyes tempted a person to think he might have the ability to see into souls. “I wish I knew,” he said.

“You bet. Good-bye.” Zander ended the call on his cell phone, then set the phone facedown on the desk inside his room at the Inn at Bradfordwood. He’d just finished talking to the last of Frank’s relatives that he’d been able to find.

According to them, Frank had not been involved in their family’s life since around the time he turned twenty. They were aware of his underage drinking arrest. And one sister had heard a rumor of his drunk and disorderly charge. But none were aware that he’d robbed a gas station or been sent to prison. None had a clue why he’d moved to the Pacific Northwest or, indeed, even that he had moved to the Pacific Northwest. And, unfortunately, none of them knew why he’d changed his name.

All of the siblings he’d spoken with had agreed that the Ross family’s home life had been extremely difficult. Poverty, alcohol, and arguments had marked their mother’s relationships. Frank’s half sister had told Zander that Frank hadn’t run away from home so much as he’d simply gotten a job at the age of sixteen and moved out.

Frank’s brother told Zander that Frank had fallen in with a group of rough boys during his freshman year in high school. One of them had been Ricardo Serra, who later became Frank’s partner in crime. “Ricardo was very smart, but slick, you know?” Frank’s brother had said. “He never struck me as somebody who could be trusted.”

Restlessness clawed at Zander as he settled his vision beyond the room’s window toward the spring green forest.

Casey, the soft-spoken man who managed the inn, had served breakfast a few hours before. Zander had decided that he’d spend the time between breakfast and lunch each day working on his manuscript. However, his laptop lay beside him on the desk, shut and cold. Since arriving in Merryweather, he hadn’t yet managed to focus his mind enough to write.

His lack of productivity wasn’t the inn’s fault. In fact, he’d be hard-pressed to think of any place more ideal for writing. The inn had been constructed of stone in the late 1800s in one corner of Bradford’s two-hundred-acre plot. Dense woods hid the structure from the rest of the world. Its own entrance road linked it to the nearest street.

Zander remembered when Britt’s mom, Kathleen, had decided to renovate what had once been the property’s dower house and change it into an inn. He’d walked with Britt and her mom through these rooms back when they’d been covered in dust, as surely as the furniture had been covered in sheets. The bathrooms had been few and far between. The kitchen small, dark, and ancient.

Kathleen had kept the building’s quality and character intact, but she’d added every possible comfort when she’d overhauled the place. The downstairs common room and dining room and the inn’s five guest rooms and their adjoining bathrooms were now on par with what you’d find at a Four Seasons.

As soon as Britt had heard he was returning for Frank’s funeral, she’d insisted he stay here. He hadn’t needed convincing. He was comfortable here, in this inn owned by the family he knew so well. The Bradfords often housed friends and family here free of charge, and though he wasn’t okay with staying here without paying anything—especially because he might be staying for weeks—he knew he’d be able to sweet-talk Kathleen into a payment arrangement later.

So, no. His irritability and wrecked concentration wasn’t the inn’s fault.

Pushing to his feet, he set his hands on his hips.

Maybe he needed a walk? A run? Maybe he should get in his rented Jeep Wrangler and go . . . where? He knew for sure he should pray. Too much time had passed since he’d spent a significant amount of time in prayer.

His guilt over that fact only increased his reluctance.

He’d go for a walk because he just—he needed out.

After exiting the inn’s front door, he crossed a small bridge over the creek, then took the walking path that bent to the right. Moist wood and moss scented the air. The grumpy gray clouds matched his mood.

He’d never gone to church while growing up in St. Louis. The Bradford family, Aunt Carolyn, and Uncle Frank had first introduced him to church. As much as he appreciated their efforts, in the end, Britt had been the one who’d motivated him to cultivate a relationship of his own with God during their high school years. He’d wanted what he’d seen that she had. And when she’d explained how overwhelmingly God loved him, Zander had wanted that, too.

Years later, when he’d been in college and Britt had been in France apprenticing under master chocolatiers, he’d realized Britt’s second-hand faith wasn’t going to be enough to sustain him over the long haul. He’d been gut-wrenchingly lonely during that stage of his life. In need of God’s presence. Eager to trust someone far bigger and more permanent than he was. He’d deepened his communication with God and reaped the benefits.

For the next several years, he’d felt close to God. His heart had been fiery and committed.

Over time, though, his enthusiasm had begun to dry.

He’d attended churches all over the world during the past eighteen months. He’d watched people in every language and culture praising the Creator of all things. He’d worshiped alongside them.

He’d hadn’t worshiped from a place of gratitude, however. He’d worshiped from a place of duty.

His former closeness with God seemed distant to him now, like clothes that had belonged to him when he was much younger. Between then and now, life had changed him—

Was that right?

No, to say that life had changed him wasn’t specific enough. Certainly, age and experience hadn’t helped. Neither had the demands and pressures of his adult life. If he was honest with himself, though, the worst enemy of his faith had been his own disappointment.

He’d started praying that Britt would fall in love with him when he was a teenager. He’d continued praying that same prayer all the years since.

When you prayed for something every day and heard nothing but silence for more than a decade, it ground down your hope like corn into cornmeal. Zander had begun to wonder if God could still be good while denying him the one thing he’d prayed for most. Could he depend on a God who refused to give him what he’d waited years for?

The right answer was yes. God was still good. God was still dependable. However, disillusionment had driven a wedge into his relationship with God. What had once been simple was now complicated.

He watched an orange-chested robin glide into the air. The branch it had left trembled.

His walk hadn’t helped cure his restlessness because his restlessness couldn’t be fixed through a change in location or activity. He was restless because he didn’t want to do the work he should be doing. His grief over his uncle weighed down both his body and his heart. And he missed Britt.

He didn’t know how to exist in Merryweather, unless she was beside him.

Since his return, he’d either been with her and thinking about her, or apart from her and thinking about her. There was no other category. At the reception following the funeral, his awareness had tracked her instead of concentrating on the blur of faces offering him condolences. While making calls in his room just now, he’d wondered if Britt was tired today after staying up late with him the night before binge-watching Star Wars movies.

During his months overseas, she’d sometimes been more than seven thousand miles away. Now she was only five miles away. Five miles.

He could drive to Sweet Art in under ten minutes.

He should do that. He should go see her.

He turned toward the inn, then stopped. It was madness to get even more tangled up in her than he already was.

Missing her wasn’t fatal.

He’d return to his room, and he’d try to write because he needed to protect himself from her as much as he possibly could.

Text message from Britt to Zander:

Britt

You haven’t been searching the Internet for shootings that might have involved Frank without me, have you?

Zander

I wouldn’t dare.

Britt

Thatta boy. Do you want to meet at my house tomorrow night to see what we can find? I’ll have my laptop and you can bring yours.

Zander

I talked with Nora, and she told me that the odds are against us if we simply search the web for news stories about shootings that happened thirty-five years ago. She thinks we’ll have better luck if we look through back issues of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. They’re stored on microfilm at the Central Library in Seattle.

Britt

I’m game for a trip to Seattle tomorrow if you are. I can leave work as early as 1:15.

Zander

You’re going to be tired at 1:15 on a Friday. I don’t want you to feel obligated to visit the Central Library with me.

Britt

Since when have you known me to feel either tired or obligated? I’m going with you and I’ll be ready to leave at 1:15.