Even though I had no customers scheduled for Fridays, I would be working today. After loading my lawn care equipment in the back of the truck, I drove southwest out of the city. Forty-five minutes later, I pulled onto the half-mile driveway leading to my grandparents’s log cabin on the banks of Jordan Lake.
Granddad sat on the front deck, doing a crossword puzzle and drinking coffee. He waved me over. I approached carefully, unsure whether he’d been warned about me and, if he had, how mad he was about it.
“Why are you here?” he asked, giving me a hard stare from under bristling eyebrows.
“Yard work.”
“Don’t remember asking you to do that.”
“You didn’t.”
“Your mother did?”
“Yes, sir.”
His scowl deepened. “Did she cook up this plot by herself?”
“I think she talked it over with Gran.”
“Better go in and ask your grandmother what she wants you to do.” He tapped the puzzle book. “You can tell her I’m pissed as hell.”
“I don’t believe I’ll do that.”
“Smart boy.”
I walked through the front door. It was quiet in the house except for the hum of the air conditioner. I glanced up at the loft overlooking the two-story great room. Gran wasn’t there.
But I could tell where she had been—the kitchen. Gran had been baking this morning. A tray of cinnamon rolls lay on the counter top, oozing with gooey, buttery frosting. Yeast rolls browned in the oven. My grandmother had been expecting me.
I tore a corner from a cinnamon roll at the back of the tray and went looking for Gran. I found her in the bathroom, frowning at the toilet. I didn’t want to know why.
“Hey, Gran, I’m here.”
“Mark.” With a happy sigh, she gave me a hug, her head hitting me mid-chest. “Did your grandfather see you?”
“He did.”
“Did he harass you any?”
“No.”
“Liar.” She smiled. “Want something to eat before you get started?”
“Have I ever turned down one of your cinnamon rolls?”
Gran laughed and pushed me into the hallway.
There was a huge photo of my mother and her sister hanging on the wall across from the bathroom door. In it, Mom was ten, Aunt Pamela five. My mother stood behind her sister, arms curved protectively, while Pamela clung to one of her hands.
It always made me smile to see Aunt Pamela holding my mother’s hand like that, an unconscious indication of how much she’d depended on her big sister. Their relationship had totally turned around when they grew up. Mom became the kind nurse, and Pamela became the kick-butt Army officer with the soft but do-not-mess-with-me voice.
My aunt was the person who had helped me the most when I was bullied over my weight in middle school. Any time she called or emailed, she reminded me to be strong and not give in.
“Bullies are stupid, Mark,” she would say. “It won’t take them long to make a mistake. Wait and be ready.”
That became my motto. I ate a healthier diet and looked for a sport I could get into. It was my dad who bought me a mountain bike. I loved hitting the trails with him—and I turned out to be good. As my muscles grew, so did my confidence. And just like my aunt said, when the bullies got stupid, I was ready. The bullies earned their “reward” without my landing a single blow.
If there was anything I’d learned from my warrior aunt, it was that “small” didn’t have to mean “defenseless.”
After Aunt Pamela died in Afghanistan, Gran moved the photograph of her two daughters to this spot, where she’d see it each time she left the bathroom. Why? Didn’t the memories kill her? It hurt me to see it, and I was just a nephew.
I stopped in the kitchen for a couple of cinnamon rolls. After my second breakfast of the day, I gave Gran a sugary kiss on her cheek and headed outside.
Granddad waited for me on the deck, work gloves on. “What’ll you do first, Mark?”
“Edge the flower beds.”
“Good choice.”
I eyed his gloves. “What are you doing?”
“Supervising.”
“Why do you need work gloves?”
“Self-respect.” He winked.
I went to the back of my truck, donned my gloves and goggles, and grabbed the weed whacker. Soon I was edging the beds while my grandfather raked mulch and pointed out my every mistake, his supervisory skills in full force.
When I reached the end of that project, I took a wipe-the-sweat break. “Okay, Granddad,” I said in between chugs from a bottle of water, “what’s next?”
“I want to know what happened to the girl.”
I stiffened. “Alexis?”
He grunted.
“We broke up a couple of weeks ago.”
He leaned on his rake. “Do you miss her?”
My ex-girlfriend was a topic I would not discuss. I mopped my face with a towel, glad for the cover. “Not sure yet.”
Granddad grunted again. “Get the grass blower. We’ll clear off the deck and the walkways.”
I finished off my bottle and grabbed the blower from the back of my truck, glad my grandfather hadn’t spent much time on the Alexis thing. I liked efficiency in conversations.
After completing every task Granddad could dream up and polishing off an awesome lunch of my favorite dishes, I drove home, eager to squeeze in a training session before a visit to the falls. The sight of a black Ford SUV waiting at the curb in front of my house put a hold on the plan.
I parked the truck, exhaled a hard breath, and slid from the cab. Keefe met me halfway up the driveway.
He looked past me instead of at me. With a ball cap pulled low over his eyes, he seemed kind of fidgety.
“What do you want, Halligan?” I asked. He didn’t act any happier to see me than I was to see him.
“How’s training?”
As if I would tell him. “Fine.”
“Alexis dumped you.”
My inner radar went on full alert. Why did Keefe care? “I’m not dating anyone right now.”
He shuffled his feet. “Are you trying to get her back?”
“None of your damn business.”
He knew better than to fish for information from me. Every time I looked at him, my brain flashed back to middle school and memories of lying on the ground in a ring of bullies, being methodically and viciously kicked. In the bathroom. On the ball field. Behind the cafeteria. The helpless, hopeless fat kid at the mercy of thirteen-year-olds. Keefe’s face had always appeared on the fringe. Had he been a bystander—or was he the ringleader, watching while the others did his dirty work?
“You still want her.” Keefe jingled his keys, his lips thinned into a superior smile. “I’m going to win.”
“We’ll see.” I kept my face neutral. What were we talking about? Alexis or the race?
He shrugged and walked backwards down the driveway. “She won’t be by herself very long. Guys are getting in line to have a shot at her.”
My hackles rose. That was the point of this visit. Keefe was letting me know he intended to get in that line. The urge to curse his ass slammed me, but I fought it back. Aunt Pamela had always said that being nice to the enemy was the best possible revenge. “Good luck with Alexis.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you mean that.”
The thought of them together made me smile. Her demands would completely screw up his training schedule. “Actually, I do.”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Uh-huh. See you at the race.” He jumped into his truck and screeched down the street.
The conversation left me in a pissy mood, which a dozen miles of biking at top speed did nothing to fix. Back home, I cleaned up, made a fast PB&J, and jogged straight to the falls. Susanna stood in the tallest part of the cave, waiting calmly.
I had to figure out how to get her to branch out on facial expressions. “Hey.”
“Hey.” She studied me for a long moment. “You’ve had a peculiar day.”
“I have.” I flopped onto the rock and gestured at the one across from me. “How could you tell?”
“Your face speaks.” She sat in the middle of her rock, well away from the edge, her legs tucked beneath her skirt. “What did you do?”
“I hung out with my grandparents.” Did her face speak? If body language was seventy percent of communication, I’d be practically deaf where Susanna was concerned. “My grandmother cooked a special lunch.”
“What made your meal special?”
“The quiche.”
She frowned and shook her head.
At least I understood that gesture. I’d have to define terms again, which should’ve been annoying, but wasn’t. Actually, it was fun, like unraveling a mystery for another person, someone who really wanted to know. “It’s a pie with eggs, cheese, and ham.”
“Is this a treat?”
“Big time.” I smiled with remembered pleasure. When my grandmother pulled the pan out of the oven, I had nearly collapsed with joy. The only problem was that I couldn’t eat the whole quiche by myself. Granddad wanted some, too. “What’s a treat for you?”
“Eating my fill.”
Holy. Shit.
Talk about a depressing answer. And she said it matter-of-factly, like it was a normal part of her life.
I lost the smile and looked at her. Really looked at her. She didn’t look hungry, but then again, she didn’t look anything other than calm. How did it feel on the inside—to want and not get? Did the mind learn to ignore the stomach? I’d never had to worry about having enough food to eat. There was always plenty on the table and plenty in the fridge.
Well, I knew one thing for damn sure. She wouldn’t go hungry while I was around.
“Let’s try that again. If I were to bring you any treat, what would you want?”
Her gaze flicked to mine, then down. She stared into the water foaming past her rock. “You would bring me anything?”
“Yes.”
“Ice cream.” Her lashes lay like dark smudges against her cheeks. “My mistress has had it before. It sounds lovely.”
“I could bring you ice cream next time I come.”
There was a faint curve to her lips. “Whisper Falls allowed your arm to pass through, but will it permit your arm and a dish?”
“Yeah, there is that one little glitch.” I’d give it a try, anyway. Ice cream, probably vanilla to start with, as much as she wanted.
She shifted her legs. Grimy feet and ankles emerged from her skirt.
“Are you barefoot all the time?”
Her eyes rose warily to my face. “Yes.”
I waited, but she added nothing. If my grandfather liked how I used an economy of words, he’d love Susanna.
“Do you have shoes?”
“One pair, for the winter.” Her fingers picked at some dried mud on the curves of her calves.
Wait a minute. I focused harder.
It wasn’t mud she picked at. It was dried blood. There were several thin lines of scabs criss-crossing her calves, relatively fresh, with numerous scars hinting at older wounds.
I knew the amount of force it took to cause that kind of injury. My throat burned with something sour and angry. “How did you get those marks on your legs?”
She went completely still except for her eyes. Even though she wasn’t looking at me, I could see her eyes tracking down her calves. Then, slowly, she drew her legs back to her body and covered them with her skirt. “My master thrashed me.”
I swallowed hard and said, in as controlled a voice as I could, “Why did he thrash you?”
“I made a mistake.”
All voice control left. “He beat you until you bled for making a mistake?” She had so many marks. There was a hollow ringing in my ears. I’d been beaten up plenty of times, but not like that. “What kind of mistake?”
She wrapped her arms about her legs, rested her chin on her knees, and closed her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was light, almost dreamy. “I overslept. Breakfast was late.”
My jaw clenched so tightly, it was a wonder my teeth didn’t crack. “How often does he beat you?”
“Perhaps once each month.”
I jumped to my feet, too outraged to sit still any longer. Her master was a complete asshole. A prick. A bully. How could he hit her? “What can you do about it?”
She straightened, knees down, chin high, hands folded in her lap. “There’s nothing I can do. It’s Mr. Pratt’s right to punish me as he sees fit.”
Her response put my outrage on pause. Beating her was his right?
Hell no.
Why wasn’t she pissed? This couldn’t be legal in any century. I faced away from her to fume at the trees. After sucking in a couple of deep breaths, I spun around. “I can’t believe he can just whip you, and it’s okay.”
“To whom shall I turn?”
“Don’t you have policemen or mayors or somebody in charge?”
“Indeed we do, and it does me little good. The town magistrate is Mr. Pratt’s uncle!”
Damn. That did make things tougher, but maybe she’d given in too soon. “Have you asked the uncle for help?”
“Mr. Worth has seen my wounds, yet he does nothing. I shall not humiliate myself further by begging.” She stood, cheeks flushed, face grim, hands on hips. “You can’t tell me masters in your world don’t thrash their servants.”
“Americans don’t have masters anymore. We have employers. And if the government finds out they hit their workers, they’re thrown in jail.”
She snorted. “I don’t believe people have changed so much. The strong will always hurt the weak, and there will never be enough justice to stop them.”
We glared at each other across the divide, breathing hard. Breathing in rhythm.
She looked away first, arms dropping. Her face slipped into its familiar, neutral expression. “In my world, I have no recourse. I have learned to accept it. Since my failure to act offends you, I shall go.”
Her weary, softly spoken words doused me like ice water. What was wrong with me? Had I really just argued with the victim? Like I didn’t know how it felt to be one?
“No, Susanna. Wait.” I threw myself at the waterfall, but it stopped me at my wrists. “I’m sorry.”
She hesitated, then held her hands next to mine. Hers were rough and red, the nails dirty and broken.
“Our worlds are very different,” she said, her voice flat.
The falls pushed me upright on my rock, away from Susanna, as if protecting her from my stupidity. What an idiot I was. Even the falls were disappointed in me. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I just hate to think of him hurting you.”
“I don’t like to think about it, either. Therefore, I don’t.” She turned away from me and walked to the cliff.
Watching her climb the rock wall was amazing. She had such grace and strength. I wanted her to come back, tomorrow and the next day and every day after that. Had I completely screwed things up with my mouth?
“Don’t leave pissed.”
“If pissed means angry, have no concern.” She smiled from high above me. A slow, sad smile. “I had pissed beaten out of me long ago.”