Chapter 1

2014

I first noticed the girl walking past my house the day after I’d moved in. Over the next month and a half, I saw her shuffle by a few times a week, head down and shoulders hunched. For a long time, neither of us said a word to each other.

I suspected she was in her teens—something about the way she carried herself suggested she was struggling beneath the twin burdens of low self-esteem and irritation at the world—but at thirty-two I’d reached the age where it was almost impossible for me to tell. Aside from noting her long brown hair and wide-set eyes, the only thing I knew for sure about her was that she lived in the trailer park up the road and that she liked to walk. Or more likely, she had to walk, because she didn’t own a car.

The April skies were clear, the temperature hovering in the low seventies, with just enough breeze to carry the perfumed aroma of flowers. The dogwoods and azaleas in the yard had roared into bloom almost overnight, framing the gravel road that wound past my grandfather’s house just outside New Bern, North Carolina, a place I’d recently inherited.

And I, Trevor Benson, convalescing physician and disabled veteran by profession, was shaking mothballs from a box along the base of the front porch, lamenting that it wasn’t how I’d planned to spend my morning. The problem with doing chores around the house was never knowing quite when you might be finished, since there was always something else that needed to be done…or whether fixing up the old place was even worthwhile at all.

The house—and I used the term loosely—wasn’t much by way of appearance and the years had taken their toll. My grandfather built it himself after returning from World War II, and though he could build things to last, he didn’t have a lot of talent when it came to design. The house was a rectangle with porches on the front and back—two bedrooms, kitchen, family room, and two bathrooms; the cedar siding had faded to a grayish silver over the years, mimicking my grandfather’s hair. The roof had been patched, air seeped through the windows, and the kitchen floor slanted to the point that if liquid spilled, it became a tiny river that flowed to the door that led to the back porch. I like to think it made cleaning up easier for my grandfather, who’d lived by himself the last thirty years of his life.

The property, however, was special. It was a shade over six acres, with an aging, slightly tilting barn and a honey shed—where my grandfather harvested his honey—and dotted with seemingly every flowering plant known to mankind, including clover patches and wildflowers. From now until the end of summer, the property would resemble a ground-level fireworks display. It was also situated on Brices Creek, where dark, brackish water flowed so slowly that it often reflected the sky like a mirror. Sunsets turned the creek into a cacophony of burgundy and red and orange and yellow, while the slowly fading rays pierced the curtain of Spanish moss draped over the tree branches.

The honey bees loved the place, which had been my grandfather’s intent, since I’m pretty sure he loved bees more than people. There were about twenty beehives on the property; he’d been a part-time apiarist all his life, and it often struck me that the hives were in better condition than either the house or the barn. I’d checked on the hives a few times from a distance since my arrival here, and though it was still early in the season, I could tell the colonies were healthy.

The bee population was growing rapidly, as it always did in spring—I could actually hear them buzzing if I listened—and I’d left them to their own devices. Instead, I’d spent most of my time rendering the house livable again. I cleaned out the cupboards, setting aside a few jars of honey to keep, and tossing the remainder—a box of stale crackers, nearly empty jars of peanut butter and jelly, and a bag of dried-out apples. The drawers were crammed with junk—out-of-date coupons, half-used candles, magnets, and pens that didn’t work, all of which went into the garbage. The refrigerator was mostly empty and oddly clean, without any of the moldy items or disgusting smells I’d expected. I purged a ton of junk from the house—most of the furniture was half a century old, and my grandfather had a minor hoarding issue—and then hired various crews to do the more difficult work. I had had a contractor do a cosmetic remodel on one of the bathrooms; a plumber fixed the leak in the kitchen faucet; I had the floors sanded and stained, the interior painted; and last but not least, I had the back door replaced. It was cracked near the jamb and had been boarded over. Then, after bringing in a crew to clean the place from top to bottom, I got my laptop set up with Wi-Fi and picked up some furniture for the living room and bedroom, as well as a new television for the family room. The original television had rabbit ears antennae and was the size of a treasure chest. Goodwill declined the donation of my grandfather’s used furniture, despite my argument that it could all be regarded as antiques, so it ended up at the dump.

The porches were in relatively good shape, though, and I spent most of my mornings and evenings there. Which is how and why I’d started with the mothballs. Spring in the South isn’t only about flowers and honey bees and pretty sunsets, especially when you live adjacent to a creek in what seemed like the wilderness. Because it had been warmer than usual recently, snakes had begun to wake from their winter slumber. I’d spotted a big one on the back porch when I’d wandered outside that morning with my coffee. After having the bejesus scared out of me and spilling half the coffee down the front of my shirt, I quickly ducked back inside the house.

I had no idea whether the snake was poisonous or what kind it was. I’m not a snake expert. But unlike some people—my grandfather, for instance—I didn’t want to kill it, either. I just wanted it to stay away from my house and live over there. I knew that snakes did useful things—like killing mice, which I’d heard scurrying in the walls at night. The sound creeped me out; despite spending every summer here when I was a kid, I’m not used to country living. I’d always considered myself more of a condo-in-the-city guy, which is what I had been, right up until the explosion that blew up not only my entire world, but me as well. Which was why I was convalescing in the first place, but more on that later.

For now, though, let’s get back to the snake. After changing shirts, I vaguely remembered that my grandfather used mothballs to keep snakes away. He was convinced that mothballs had magic powers to repel all kinds of things—bats, mice, bugs, and snakes—and he would buy the stuff by the case. I’d spotted plenty of them in the barn, and figuring my grandfather must have known something, I seized a box and began to scatter them liberally around the house, first in the back and along the sides, then finally in the front.

That was when I again spied the girl trudging down the road that led past the house. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and when I lifted my gaze, she must have felt my eyes on her because she glanced in my direction. She didn’t smile or wave; instead, she ducked her head as if hoping to avoid acknowledging my presence.

I shrugged and went back to work, if dropping mothballs could actually be considered work. For whatever reason, though, I found myself thinking about the trailer park where she lived. It was at the end of the road, about a mile away. Out of curiosity, I’d walked down there shortly after I’d arrived. It had sprung up since the last time I’d visited, and I suppose I wanted to know who the new neighbors were. My first thought upon seeing it was that it made my grandfather’s place look like the Taj Mahal. Six or seven ancient and decrepit trailers appeared to have been dropped haphazardly on a dirt lot; in the far corner were the remains of another trailer that had caught fire, leaving only a black, partially melted husk that had never been cleared away. In between the trailers, clotheslines drooped between slanting poles. Scrawny chickens pecked an obstacle course of cars on blocks and rusting appliances, avoiding only a feral pit bull chained to an old discarded bumper. The dog had teeth the size of bacon and barked so ferociously at my presence that spittle flew from its foaming mouth. Not a nice doggy, I remembered thinking. Part of me wondered why anyone would choose to live in a place like this, but then again, I already knew the answer. On my walk back home, I felt pity for the tenants and then chastised myself for being a snob because I knew I’d been luckier than most, at least when it came to money.

“Do you live here?” I heard a voice ask.

Glancing up, I saw the girl. She’d doubled back and was standing a few yards away, clearly keeping her distance, but close enough for me to notice a spray of light freckles on cheeks that were so pale as to seem almost translucent. On her arms I noted a couple of bruises, like she’d bumped into something. She wasn’t particularly pretty and there was something unfinished about her, which made me think again that she was a teenager. Her wary gaze suggested that she was prepared to run if I made the smallest move toward her.

“I do now,” I said, offering a smile. “But I don’t know how long I’ll be staying.”

“The old man died. The one who used to live here. His name was Carl.”

“I know. He was my grandfather.”

“Oh.” She slipped a hand into her back pocket. “He gave me honey.”

“That sounds like something he’d do.” I wasn’t sure if that was true, but it struck me as the right thing to say.

“He used to eat at the Trading Post,” she said. “He was always nice.”

Slow Jim’s Trading Post was one of those ramshackle stores so ubiquitous in the South and had been around longer than I’d been alive. My grandfather used to bring me there whenever I visited. It was the size of a three-car garage with a covered porch out front, and it sold everything from gas to milk and eggs, to fishing equipment, live bait, and auto parts. There were old-fashioned gas pumps out front—no credit or debit accepted—and a grill that served hot food. Once, I remember finding a bag of plastic toy soldiers wedged between a bag of marshmallows and a box of fishing hooks. There was little rhyme or reason to the offerings on the shelves or displayed on the walls, but I always thought it was one of the coolest stores ever.

“Do you work there?”

She nodded before pointing at the box in my hand. “Why are you putting mothballs around the house?”

I stared at the box in my hand, realizing that I’d forgotten I was holding it.

“There was a snake on my porch this morning. I’ve heard that mothballs will keep them away.”

She pursed her lips before taking a step backward. “Okay, then. I just wanted to know if you were living here now.”

“I’m Trevor Benson, by the way.”

At the sound of my name, she stared at me. Working up the courage to ask the obvious.

“What happened to your face?”

I knew she was referring to the thin scar that ran from my hairline to my jaw, which reinforced the impression of her youth. Adults usually wouldn’t bring it up. Instead, they’d pretend they hadn’t noticed. “Mortar round in Afghanistan. A few years back.”

“Oh.” She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” she said again. “I guess I’ll get going now.”

“All right,” I said.

She started back toward the road before suddenly turning around again. “It won’t work,” she called out.

“What won’t work?”

“The mothballs. Snakes don’t give a lick about mothballs.”

“You know that for sure?”

“Everyone knows it.”

Tell that to my grandfather, I thought. “Then what should I do? If I don’t want snakes on my porch?”

She seemed to consider her answer. “Maybe you should live in a place where there aren’t any snakes.”

I laughed. She was an odd one, for sure, but I realized that it was the first time I’d laughed since I’d moved here, maybe my first laugh in months.

“Nice meeting you.”

I watched her go, surprised when she slowly pirouetted. “I’m Callie,” she called out.

“Nice to meet you, Callie.”

When she finally vanished from view, blocked by the azaleas, I debated whether to continue putting out mothballs. I had no idea whether she was right or wrong, but in the end, I chose to call it a day. I was in the mood for some lemonade and wanted to sit on the back porch and relax, if only because my psychiatrist recommended that I take time to relax while I still had time.

He said it would help me keep The Darkness away.

Chapter 5

Here’s a lesson that was ingrained in me by my mom starting at a very young age: If you’re expecting guests, then you’d better clean the house.

I’ll admit that when I was a kid, it didn’t compute. Why would anyone care whether all my toys had been put away in my bedroom or if I made my bed? It wasn’t as though any politicians or lobbyists made their way up the stairs to my bedroom while my parents were throwing their parties. They were too busy sipping wine and downing martinis and feeling very, very important. I remember vowing that when I was older, I wouldn’t care about such things. But lo and behold, with Natalie’s visit looming as a possibility, my mom’s directive came roaring back.

Long story short, after I finished my run and other exercises, I tidied up the house, ran the vacuum, wiped the counters and sink, cleaned the bathroom, and finally made the bed. Washed myself, too, while singing in the shower, and then spent the rest of the morning catching up on my reading. The section in the book I was perusing dealt with the effectiveness of music as an adjunct to therapy, and as I worked my way through the material, I remembered the years I’d spent playing the piano. In all candor, I’d always had a bit of an on-again, off-again relationship with the instrument; I played throughout my childhood, ignored it completely while at the Naval Academy, picked it up again while I was in medical school, and then didn’t so much as tap a key during my residency. In Pensacola, I played a lot, as I was lucky enough to rent a place with a beautiful 1890 Bösendorfer in the lobby of the building; but Afghanistan was another music-free period, as I doubted whether there was a single piano left in the entire country. Now, with missing fingers, playing like I once did was impossible, which made me suddenly realize how much I missed it.

When I finished studying, I closed the book, got in the car, and made a trip to the grocery store. I stocked up on the essentials and made myself a sandwich when I got home. By the time I rinsed the plate, it was coming up on one o’clock. Still uncertain as to whether Natalie would show up but hoping for the best, I headed out to the honey shed.

Like the house and the barn, it wasn’t much from the outside. The tin roof was rusting, the cedar planking had turned gray over the decades, and hinges supporting the large double doors screeched as I pulled them open. After that, however, the similarities ended; inside, the honey shed was like a museum. There was electricity, plumbing, and bright fluorescent lights; the walls and ceiling were insulated, and the concrete floor had a drain in the center. To the left was a stainless-steel sink with a long hose attached to a faucet, as well as shallow supers and queen excluders for the beehives, stacked neatly atop each other. On the right was a plastic garbage can filled with kindling for the smokers, next to deep shelves crammed with dozens of jars of honey. Directly ahead was all the other equipment and gear necessary for an apiarist: five-gallon plastic buckets with honey gates, a plastic wheelbarrow, crates filled with extra jars, and rolls of self-adhesive labels. On the back wall, supported by hooks, were nylon strainers, honey sieves, uncapping knives, two smokers, lighters, a dozen bee suits, and gloves and hoods in various sizes. There were also two extractors, which were used to spin the honey from the combs. I recognized the manual one I used to crank until I could barely move my arm, as well as the newer electric one my grandfather had purchased after his arthritis set in, and both appeared to be in perfect working order.

As for the suits, I knew I’d find ones that would fit both Natalie and me. He had so many because he was always willing to educate people—often groups—who were interested in learning about the bees. Most people weren’t comfortable visiting the hives without a bee suit; my grandfather, on the other hand, never bothered to put one on.

“They won’t sting me unless I want ’em to,” he would say with a wave. “They know I take care of ’em.”

Whether that was true or not, I don’t remember him ever getting stung while tending the hives. He was, however, a believer in the Southern folklore that bee venom could mitigate the pain of his arthritis, so every day without fail, he’d collect two bees. While holding them by the wings, he’d taunt them into stinging him, once in each knee. The first time I saw him do it, I thought he was crazy; as a physician, I now understand that he was ahead of his time. In controlled clinical studies, bee venom has actually been shown to relieve arthritis pain. If you don’t believe me, look it up.

I’d tended to the hives so many times in the past that the next steps were automatic. I filled the smoker with kindling, collected a lighter and an uncapping knife, as well as a pair of suits, hoods, and gloves. On an impulse, I also took down two jars of honey from the shelves and brought everything to the front porch. I shook the dust from the suits and hoods before draping them over the railing, stacking everything else on the small table near the rockers. By then, it was a quarter past one. Things weren’t looking good on the Natalie front, but even worse was the idea of her discovering me waiting for her on the porch if she did show up. A man has got to have some pride, after all.

I went back inside and poured myself a glass of sweet tea from the pitcher I had brewed the night before, then wandered to the back porch. As fate would have it, I had taken only a couple of sips before I heard a car pulling up in the drive. I couldn’t suppress a smile.

Walking back through the house, I opened the door just as Natalie mounted the porch. She wore jeans and a white button-up shirt that accentuated her olive-colored skin. Her sunglasses hid her eyes and her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, all of which made her especially alluring.

“Hey there,” I said. “I’m glad you decided to come.”

She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. “Sorry I’m late. I had to take care of some things this morning.”

“Not a problem,” I said. “My schedule’s pretty clear all day.” Then, remembering the jars I’d retrieved from the honey shed, I pointed to the table. “I pulled those for you,” I said. “Since you mentioned that you liked my grandfather’s honey.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” she murmured. “But are you sure you have enough?”

“More than enough. Too much, really.”

“You could always get a table at the farmers’ market if you want to get rid of it.”

“That probably won’t be possible,” I said. “Saturday mornings are generally when I read to blind orphans. Or rescue kittens from trees.”

“Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?”

“I’m just trying to impress you.”

A smile played about her lips. “I don’t know whether I should be flattered or not.”

“Oh,” I said. “Definitely flattered.”

“Good to know, but I can’t make any promises.”

“I’m not asking you to,” I countered. “And regarding the honey, Claude over at the Trading Post said he’d take all I could spare, so I’m guessing most of it will end up there.”

“I’ll be sure to stock up before the rest of the town finds out.”

For a moment, silence descended and her gaze steadied on my own. I cleared my throat, suddenly self-conscious. “I know you came to visit the hives, but let’s sit out back first, so I can tell you what to expect. It’ll make things a bit clearer when you get out there.”

“How long will it take?”

“Not long. No more than an hour for everything.”

Pulling a phone from her back pocket, she checked the time. “That should be okay.” She went on. “I promised to visit my parents this afternoon. They’re at the beach.”

“I thought you had to make pies for your neighbor.”

“I did that yesterday.”

“Very efficient,” I commented. “Now come on in,” I said, waving her through the doorway.

Her footsteps echoed behind me as we passed from the family room to the kitchen. I paused. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Eyeing the sweating glass of iced tea in my hand, she nodded and said, “I’ll have one of those, if you don’t mind.”

“Good choice—I just brewed it last night, as a matter of fact.”

Retrieving a glass, I added ice cubes and filled it with sweet dark tea from the refrigerator. I handed it to her, then leaned against the counter, watching as she took a sip.

“It’s not bad.”

“As good as your pies?”

“No.”

I laughed, watching as she took another sip and surveyed the house. Despite myself, I was grateful for my mom’s training. Natalie, no doubt, now thought of me as tidy, in addition to rather charming. Or maybe not. I knew I was interested in her, but she was still a mystery to me.

“You’ve made some changes to the place,” she noted.

“Though I loved living in a time capsule, I felt the need to update the decor.”

“It seems more open, too.”

“My grandfather had a lot of stuff. I got rid of it.”

“My parents are like that. On the fireplace mantel back home, there must be fifty framed photographs. Try to dust one, and they topple like dominoes. I don’t understand it.”

“Maybe the older people get, the more important the past becomes? Because there’s less future ahead?”

“Maybe,” she said, without adding anything else.

Unable to read her, I pushed open the back door. “Ready?”

I followed her out onto the back porch, watching her settle in the same rocker as she had the first night I’d met her. Unlike me, she didn’t lean back; instead, she remained propped on the edge, as if ready to jump up and run away if she had to. After all our banter, I was surprised that she wasn’t more relaxed, but I was getting the feeling that Natalie was full of surprises.

I took a sip of my tea, watching as she gazed toward the creek, her profile as perfect as cut glass.

“I think I could stare at this forever.”

“Me too,” I said, looking only at her.

She smirked, but decided to let my remark pass.

“Do you ever swim out there?”

“I did when I was a kid. Right now, the water’s still too cold.”

“That might be a good thing. Apparently someone sighted some alligators a little ways upstream.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s pretty rare to find them this far north. We get reports of them once or twice a year, but I’ve never had any luck sighting any. They tend to be in places cars can’t reach.”

“If you’d ever like to go out on the water, I’ve got the boat right out there.”

“That might be fun,” she agreed before folding her hands in her lap, suddenly all business again. “What did you want to tell me about the bees?”

“Let’s start with this,” I said, setting my glass aside. “How much do you know about bees? And how much do you want to know?”

“I have about an hour, maybe a little more. So tell me whatever you think will be important.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Bee colonies have an annual cycle. In the winter, a hive might have five or ten thousand bees. In the spring, once it warms up, the queen begins laying more eggs, and the population begins to grow. During the summer months, a hive might hold up to a hundred thousand bees, which is why an apiarist might add another chamber to the hive. Then, as autumn approaches, the queen begins to lay fewer eggs. The population starts to diminish again, because the colony somehow knows it hasn’t stored enough honey to feed all the bees. In the winter, the remaining bees eat the honey to survive. They also cluster together and vibrate to create heat, so the colony doesn’t freeze. When it begins to warm, the cycle starts all over again.”

She digested that, then held up a hand. “Hold on,” she said. “Before you go on, I want to know how you learned all this stuff. Did your grandfather teach you?”

“We tended the hives together whenever I was down here visiting. But I also heard him give the talk to lots of different people. When I was in high school, I even did a semester-long project on bees for my science class.”

“Just making sure you know what you’re talking about. Go on.”

Did I detect a bit of flirting in her tone? I reached for my tea again, trying not to lose track of my thoughts. Her beauty was distracting.

“Every hive also has a single queen. Assuming the queen doesn’t get sick, she lives from three to five years. Early on in her life cycle, the queen flies around and gets fertilized by as many male bees as she can before returning to the hive where she’ll lay eggs for the rest of her life. The eggs turn to larvae, and then pupae, and when they’re mature, the bees are ready to serve the hive. Unlike the queen, these worker bees live only six or seven weeks, and they’ll cycle through a variety of different jobs in their short lives. The vast majority are female. The males are called drones.”

“And all the drones do is mate with the queen and eat.”

“You remembered.”

“It was hard to forget,” she said. “What happens if the queen dies?”

“Bee colonies have a fail-safe,” I answered. “No matter what time of year, when a queen is weakening or not laying enough eggs, the nurse bees will start feeding several of the larvae a substance called royal jelly. This food changes the larvae into queens, and the strongest one will take over. If necessary, that new queen will then replace the older queen. At which point, she’ll fly away and mate with as many drones as she can before returning to the hive to spend the rest of her life laying eggs.”

“That isn’t much of a life for a queen.”

“Without her, the colony will die. That’s why she’s called the queen.”

“Still, you’d think she’d get to go shopping or attend a wedding every now and then.”

I smiled, recognizing in her humor something akin to my own. “Now, yesterday I mentioned a few of the jobs bees do during their life cycle—clean the hive or feed the larvae or whatever. But the majority of bees in any hive collect pollen and nectar. A lot of people might think that pollen and nectar are the same, but they’re not. Nectar is the sugary juice in the heart of the flowers. Pollen, on the other hand, are tiny grains that collect on the anthers. Want to guess which one leads to the making of honey?”

She pursed her lips. “Nectar?”

“Exactly,” I said. “A bee will fill its nectar sacs, fly back to the hive, and turn the nectar into honey. A bee also has glands that turn some of the sugar in the honey into beeswax. And little by little, honey is created and stored.”

“How is nectar turned into honey?”

“It’s kind of gross.”

“Just tell me.”

“When a bee gets back to the hive with its load of nectar, it passes the nectar mouth-to-mouth to a different bee, who then does the same to another bee, over and over, gradually lowering the moisture content. When it gets concentrated enough, it’s called honey.”

She made a face. For a second, I could picture her as a teenager. “That is kind of gross.”

“You asked.”

“What happens with bees who bring in pollen?”

“Pollen is mixed with nectar to make bee bread. That’s what they feed the larvae.”

“And the royal jelly?”

“I don’t know how that’s made,” I admitted. “I used to know, but I’ve forgotten.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Always,” I said. “But that brings us to another important point. Because the bees need to eat the honey to survive the winter, an apiarist has to be careful not to take too much when they harvest.”

“How much is that?”

“My grandfather would only harvest about sixty percent of the honey in any given hive, some in June and the remainder in August. Some of the larger producers will take a higher percentage, but it’s generally not a good idea.”

“Is that what happened to the bees?”

“What do you mean?”

“I read some articles saying that bees were dying out. And that if they did, humanity wouldn’t survive.”

“The latter part is true. Without bees spreading pollen from one plant to another, many crops simply can’t survive. As to the first part, the decline in the bee population probably has less to do with overharvesting than the overuse of chemicals to clear the hive. My grandfather never used chemicals because, really, you don’t need them. I’ll show you when we get out there, but I think that’s it for now.” I set my glass aside. “Unless there’s something else you’d like to know?”

“Yeah, about the guard bees. Why do they buzz around your face?”

“Because it works,” I said with a laugh. “People don’t like it, so they retreat. Keep in mind that in the wild, bears will ravage beehives. The only way a tiny bee can protect the hive from a giant bear is to sting it in the eyes, the nose, or the mouth.”

She hesitated. “Okay. But I still don’t like them.”

“That’s why we’ll be wearing suits. You ready?”

Natalie stood from her seat and led the way inside before stopping in the kitchen to deposit her glass. Meanwhile, I pulled two spoons from the kitchen drawer, wrapped them in a paper towel, and put them in my pocket. Retracing our steps to the front porch, I handed the smaller suit to her. “Slip this on over your clothes,” I said. I pulled off my shoes, then put on a suit; Natalie did the same, and I made sure everything was zipped properly. After we put our shoes back on, I handed her the mesh hood—it was connected to a hat with a round brim—and the gloves, then used the lighter to get the smoker going.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a smoker. It calms the bees.”

“How?”

“The bees interpret smoke as part of a forest fire and they’ll begin feeding on the honey in case they have to move the hive somewhere else.”

I collected the rest of the gear and motioned for her to follow. We set off in the direction of the hives, passing clutches of azalea bushes, into an area dense with dogwoods, flowering cherry trees, and magnolias. The air was thick with the sound of buzzing, and bees could be seen clustering on practically every bloom.

Chapter 6

What to wear.

Normally, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but I found myself googling the restaurant to get a better idea of the dress code. As far as I could tell, the place was tasteful and charming. Built in a historic home, the photos showed heart pine flooring, smaller tables with white tablecloths, and plenty of natural light streaming in through the windows. I could imagine getting away with jeans, but in the end, I went with your basic Annapolis look: tan pants, a white button-up shirt, navy sport jacket, and Top-Siders. All I needed was a scarf, and I could walk around saying things like, Anyone up for some yachting?

It would take a little under an hour to get there, but not wanting to be late, I made it across the bridge to Beaufort with at least forty-five minutes to spare. The town was nestled on the Intracoastal, and I parked near the waterfront, just around the corner from the restaurant. I spotted a pair of wild horses across the waterway, grazing on one of the many barrier islands that make up the coastline of North Carolina. My grandfather told me these horses were descended from the mustangs that survived Spanish shipwrecks off the coast, but who knew if that was true?

I decided to use the extra time to browse the art galleries along the waterfront. Most of the work was by local artists, featuring either beach themes or the historic architecture in Beaufort. In one of the galleries, I saw a painting of a house where Blackbeard the Pirate had allegedly lived; I vaguely recalled that the wreck of Blackbeard’s ship, the Queen Anne’s Revenge, had been discovered in the Beaufort Inlet. The gallery owner confirmed my recollection, though he also admitted that there was some uncertainty about the whole thing. The wreck was estimated to be the correct size and the cannons they’d found on the ocean floor were from that period, but there was nothing to specifically indicate the name of the ship. It wasn’t as though they’d been able to reach into the glove compartment and check the registration, and the ocean can cause a lot of damage in three hundred years.

Wandering to the waterfront again, I noticed the sun slowly going down, casting a golden prism across the water. Heavenly light, my grandfather used to call it, and I smiled, reminiscing about all the times he’d brought me here for an afternoon at the beach, followed by an ice cream cone in Beaufort. Thinking back, I was amazed by how much time he’d been able to make for me whenever I was in town. I found myself turning again to his strange journey to Easley, my last visit with him, and his final, mystifying words to me.

Go to hell…

Not wanting to dwell on it, I shook the thought away. By then, it was coming up on six thirty, and I started toward the restaurant, wondering whether she’d show. Just then, however, I saw Natalie’s car pulling into an open space near my SUV. I turned in that direction, reaching her car just as she climbed out.

She’d changed into a flowered, high-necked sleeveless dress that accentuated her figure, and black medium-heeled boots, with a sweater draped over her arm. A thin gold chain around her neck glowed in the waning light. When she reached inside the car for her purse, I noted how graceful her every move was. Her arms and legs were lithe and toned, swishing the thin fabric of her dress around her in a tantalizing motion.

Closing the car door, she turned and startled.

“Oh, hey,” she said. “I’m not late, am I?”

“You’re actually a few minutes early,” I said. “You look great.”

She adjusted the thin necklace, as though making sure the—locket? medallion?—was hidden from view. “Thank you,” she said. “Did you just get here?”

“I came a little early,” I said. “How did your visit with your parents go?”

“Same as usual.” She sighed. “When he’s at the beach, my dad likes to read on the back porch. My mom has been slowly decorating the place since they bought it, and was dying to show me the redecorated guest room. I love them to bits, but sometimes spending time with them feels like the movie Groundhog Day, where every day is the same.”

I nodded in the direction of the restaurant. “Do you want to head over?”

“Let me put my sweater on. It’s a bit chilly, don’t you think?” She held out her purse. “Can you hold this for a second?”

As she slipped the sweater on, I found myself wondering if she felt self-conscious in her lovely, formfitting dress. I wasn’t cold in the slightest.

Wrapping it tightly around her, she took her purse back and we crossed the street. There were few other people out and about; the town, I observed, was even sleepier than New Bern.

“When was the last time you ate at the Blue Moon Bistro?”

“It’s been a while,” she said. “A year and a half, maybe?”

“Why so long?”

“Life. Work. Errands. Unless I’m visiting my parents, it’s a little out of the way. As a general rule, I tend toward quieter evenings at home.”

“Don’t you and your friends ever go out?”

“Not too much, no.”

“Why not?”

“Life. Work. Errands,” she said again. “Because I’m still low on the totem pole at work, my schedule changes a lot. Sometimes, I work days, other times, it’s nights and it changes regularly. It can be a challenge to schedule things with friends.”

“That’s inconvenient,” I said.

“It is,” she agreed. “But it pays the bills. And I’m very responsible.”

“Always?”

“I try to be.”

“That’s too bad.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I beg to differ,” I said. “In the end, people generally regret the things they didn’t do, not the things they did.”

“Who told you that?” she scoffed.

“Common sense?”

“Try again.”

“My psychiatrist?”

“Did he really say that?”

“No, but I’m sure he would have. He’s a very smart guy.”

She laughed, and I noted how different she was from the first night I’d met her. It was almost as though her uniform had the ability to transform her personality. But then I realized that the same was true about me. In a lab coat or scrubs, I was one person; dressed like a yachtsman, I was someone different.

When we reached the restaurant, a teenage girl welcomed us. About half of the tables were occupied. She pulled a pair of menus from the stand and led the way to a small table near one of the many windows. As I walked, I heard the floor creaking with age and history.

I pulled out Natalie’s chair for her, then took a seat across from her. Through the window, the view didn’t offer much: just another historic house directly across the street. No water view, no potential sunset, no wild horses. As though reading my mind, Natalie leaned across the table.

“It’s quaint, but the food is really good,” she said. “Trust me.”

“Anything I should have in particular?”

“Everything is great,” she assured me.

I nodded and after spreading my napkin in my lap, I perused the menu. “I’ve decided to go on the seafood diet,” I announced.

“What’s that?”

“See food and eat it.”

She rolled her eyes, but I saw her crack a faint smile. In the silence, I studied the menu again before suddenly remembering what I’d left in the car.

“By the way, you forgot to take the jars of honey I left for you.”

“I remembered as soon as I got home.”

“Well anyway, I brought them for you, so remind me on our way out.”

The waitress arrived and took our drink orders. Both of us ordered iced tea, along with water. When we were alone at the table again, I tried not to stare at her, the burnished halo of her hair in the candlelight framing her delicate features and unusually colored eyes. Instead, I delved into learning more about her, hungry for details about her past and everything that shaped the person she was now.

“So your dad fixes old electronics, your mom bakes and decorates,” I summarized. “How about your siblings? What can you tell me about them?”

She shrugged. “They’re both in baby hell right now,” she said. “Or, rather, toddler hell. Both have two kids under three. Even compared to me, they have no life at all.”

“And you?”

“I’ve already told you about my life.”

Some things, but not really. “Tell me what you were like as a kid.”

“It’s not that exciting. I was pretty shy as a girl, although I loved to sing,” she began. “But lots of young girls love to sing and it’s not as though I did anything with it. I guess I started coming into my own in high school and finally escaped my older siblings’ shadows. I won the lead in the high school musical, joined the yearbook committee, even played soccer.”

“We have that in common,” I said. “Music and soccer.”

“I remember,” she said. “But I don’t think I was as good as you were at either of them. I played soccer mainly so I could spend time with my friends. I didn’t even start until I was a senior, and I think I only scored one goal the whole season.”

I quickly chose the fried green tomatoes as an appetizer and tuna for the main course, setting the menu aside.

“Did you go to high school in La Grange?”

“La Grange is too small for a high school, so I ended up going to Salem Academy. Have you heard of it?” When I shook my head, she went on. “It’s an all-girls boarding school in Winston-Salem,” she said. “My mom went there, and so did my older sister, Kristen. My brother went to Woodberry Forest in Virginia. My parents were big on education, even if it meant shipping us off to boarding schools.”

“Did you like that?”

“Not at first. Even though my sister was there, I was homesick and my grades were terrible. I think I cried myself to sleep every night for months. But I eventually got used to it. By the time I graduated, I loved it, and I still keep in touch with a few of the girls I met there. And I think going away to school helped when I went to NC State. When I moved into the dorms as a freshman, I was used to living without my parents, so the transition to college was super easy. But I’m still not sure I’d go that route with my own kids. If I ever have them, I mean. I think I’d miss them too much.”

“Do you want kids?”

It took her a few beats to answer. “Maybe,” she finally offered. “Not right now. And for all I know, it might never happen. The future remains unwritten, right?”

“I suppose.”

She set her menu on top of mine at the edge of the table. I saw her eyes come to rest on my injured hand. Instead of hiding it, I spread my remaining fingers on the table. “Looks strange, doesn’t it?” I commented.

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. It was rude of me to stare…”

“It’s understandable. Even though I’m used to it, I still think it’s strange. But losing fingers is better than losing an ear.”

At her puzzled expression, I pointed to the side of my head. “This isn’t real,” I said. “It’s a prosthetic.”

“I wouldn’t have known unless you’d told me.”

“I’m not sure why I did.”

But I knew the reason. As much as I wanted to know her, I also wanted her to know the real me, to feel as though I could be completely open with her. She was silent for a moment and I thought she’d change the subject, or even excuse herself to go to the restroom. Instead, she surprised me by reaching out and gently tracing the scarred stumps where my fingers used to be. The touch was electric.

“The explosion must have been…horrific,” she said, her fingertip still on my skin. “I’ve thought about it since you told me. But you didn’t go into any detail. I’d like to hear about it if you’re comfortable telling me.”

I offered a condensed version of the story: the random mortar blast after I’d exited the building, a flash of sudden heat and searing, and then nothing at all until I woke after my first surgeries. The flights to Germany and then back to the US, and the series of additional surgeries and rehabilitation at Walter Reed and Johns Hopkins. At some point while I was speaking, she removed her hand from mine, but even after I finished, I could still feel the ghostly remnants of her touch.

“I’m sorry you had to endure all that,” she said.

“If I could go back in time, I’d leave the hospital a few minutes earlier or later. But I can’t. As for right now, I’m trying to move forward in positive ways.”

“I’ll bet your parents are still proud of you.”

As soon as she said it, I remembered my previous experiences when I’d shared what had happened to them. I knew I should simply offer something ambiguous like, I hope so, without going into details, but with the way Natalie was looking at me, I realized I didn’t want to keep the words inside me.

“My parents died a month before I graduated from college. They were taking a trip to Martha’s Vineyard, some political soiree that probably meant virtually nothing in the long run. A client had chartered a plane, but they never made it. The plane crashed in Virginia less than five minutes after takeoff.”

“Oh my God! That’s awful!”

“It was,” I said. “One day they were there, and the next day they were gone and I was crushed. The whole thing felt surreal—still does sometimes. I was only twenty-two, but I still felt like I was closer to being a teenager than an adult. I can still remember when my commanding officer came into my class and called me to his office so he could tell me.”

I hesitated, the memories still vivid.

“Because I was largely done with my classes, the Academy gave me leave to handle the affairs and that was in some ways even more surreal. My grandfather came up to help, but still…I had to find a funeral home and choose caskets and pick out a dress for my mom and a suit for my dad, figure out what they would have wanted for services. I’d just spoken on the phone to them a few days earlier.”

“I’m glad your grandfather was there for you.”

“We needed each other, no question about it. He’d already lost his wife, and had just lost his only child. We ended up driving back to New Bern after the services, and I don’t think either of us said a word the entire trip. It wasn’t until we got to his house that we could even talk about it at all, and we both shed a lot of tears that week. It was just so sad for me to think of all the things they would never have the chance to do, or what my future would be like without them.”

“I can’t imagine losing my parents like that.”

“There are moments when I still can’t. It’s been a decade now, but sometimes, it still feels like I should be able to pick up the phone and call them.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“No one does. It’s hard for people to fathom. I mean, who becomes an orphan at twenty-two? It’s not as though there are many people who ever have to deal with something like that.”

Chapter 7

I hadn’t been lying to Natalie when I’d said I had things to do on Monday. As opposed to most days, when I had time to goof off before taking a break and then goofing off some more, the responsibilities of life sometimes intruded, even if I didn’t have to punch a clock or show up at the hospital or office. For starters, it was almost the middle of April, and my taxes were officially due.

The documents had been waiting for weeks in a cardboard box delivered courtesy of UPS. I used the same accounting firm my parents had used, initially because I knew nothing about finance or accounting, and after that because I assumed that switching to another firm would add unnecessary complications to my life, when things were already complicated enough. Frankly, thinking about money bores me, probably because I’ve never had to really worry about it.

My taxes were complicated because of the various trusts, investments, and portfolios I’d inherited from my parents, some of which had been funded with more life insurance than either of my parents needed. Still, whenever I saw my net worth—my accountants would meticulously prepare a balance sheet for me every February—I would sometimes wonder why I’d been so insistent on becoming a doctor in the first place. It wasn’t as though I needed the money. The interest I collected annually was a lot more than I would ever earn as a doctor, but I think something inside me craved my parents’ approval, even if they were no longer around. When I graduated from medical school, I imagined them clapping in the audience; in my mind’s eye, I saw my mom’s eyes welling with tears while my father beamed with pride at a job well done. In that moment, I understood clearly that I’d rather my parents were alive than to have received the generous inheritance they’d left me. When my statements arrive in the mail every year, I’m always reminded of those losses, and there are times when I’m too overwhelmed to even peruse them.

Even though I’d tried to explain it to Natalie while we’d been at dinner, I knew I hadn’t been able to find the words to adequately express the loss or grief I really felt. Because I was an only child, I hadn’t just lost my parents; I’d lost my entire immediate family as well. Over the years, I’d gradually come to believe that family is like your shadow on a sunny day, always there, just over your shoulder, following you in spirit no matter where you are or what you’re doing. They’re always with you. Thank God my grandfather was there to carry on part of that role, as he had so many other roles when I was younger. With his passing, however, the days are now endlessly cloudy, and when I glance over my shoulder, there is nothing there at all. I know there are others in my situation, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. It just makes me think that no shadows follow them either; that they, like me, often feel entirely alone.

Reflecting on all of this made me wonder whether I would actually sell my grandfather’s property. Though I’d told myself that I’d come to New Bern to get the place ready for the realtor, it was also the only remaining link to both my mother and my grandfather. At the same time, if I didn’t sell, I wasn’t sure what I’d do with it. I couldn’t simply lock it up—the vagrant might break in again, right?—but I wasn’t sure I wanted to rent it, either, because I didn’t want strangers messing with the peculiar charm of the place. In the room where I’d slept as a kid, there were pencil marks on the closet door where my grandfather had duly etched my height next to those he’d marked for my mother; the thought that someone might paint over that history wasn’t something I wanted to contemplate. My condo in Pensacola had simply been a place where I lived; this house, my grandfather’s house, carried the ghosts of meaningful memory; it was a place where the past continued to whisper, as long as I was willing to hear it.

Knowing I had a lot to do, I went for a halfway decent run, showered, and poured myself a cup of coffee. At the table, I went through the documents from my accountants. As always, there was a cover letter that explained everything I needed to know, and little stickers on various forms indicating where I needed to sign. My eyes began glazing over at the thirty-second mark, which was normal, and I finished two additional cups of coffee before finally sliding the various documents into the appropriate preaddressed envelopes. By midmorning, I stood in line at the post office, making sure everything was postmarked, before heading back to the house and writing an email to my accountants, letting them know the deed was done.

Next on the to-do list were the beehives. After donning the same suit I’d worn the day before, I loaded the wheelbarrow with the equipment I needed, then collected a few shallow supers, along with some queen excluders. I hoped that I wasn’t too late. Without the queen excluder, the queen might suddenly fly off in search of a new hive, taking her swarm with her. That was what had happened in Brazil in 1957 after scientists bred Africanized honey bees, aka killer bees, thinking they would thrive in the tropical conditions. A visiting beekeeper, believing the queen excluders were hindering the movement of the bees inside the hives, removed them, and twenty-six queens as well as their swarms escaped, traveling north, eventually reaching the US.

I pushed the wheelbarrow along the same path I’d used the day before, intending to work from left to right. As I got settled in place, I glanced toward the road and saw Callie walking, most likely on her way to the Trading Post. Like the other times I’d seen her walking, her head was bowed and she shuffled along with what seemed to be grim determination.

Wandering toward the edge of the property, I held up a hand in greeting.

“Off to work?”

My sudden appearance must have startled her and she stopped.

“You again.”

They were the same words Natalie had said to me at the park by the river, and I was struck by the notion that Callie was equally mysterious and guarded.

“It’s me,” I said. Then, realizing I was wearing the suit, I motioned toward the hives. “I have to do some work on the hives so the bees stay happy.”

She continued to eye me almost warily. When she crossed her arms, I noticed a bruise near her elbow. “They’re bees. Can’t they take care of themselves?”

“You’re right,” I admitted. “They’re not like Termite in that you have to feed them, but they still need a little tending now and then.”

“Do they like you?”

“Who? The bees?”

“Yes, the bees.”

“I don’t know. They seem okay with me.”

“You’re wearing a suit. I never saw your grampa wear a suit. When I walked past here, I mean.”

“He was braver than I am.”

For the first time since I’d seen her, she cracked the slightest of smiles. “What did you want?”

“Nothing. I saw you walking past and thought I’d say hello.”

“Why?”

Why? I hadn’t expected the question and for a moment, I couldn’t think of a response. “Just being neighborly, I suppose.”

She seemed to stare right through me. “We’re not neighbors,” she said. “I live a ways down the road.”

“You’re right,” I said.

“I have to go,” she said. “I don’t want to be late for work.”

“Fair enough. I don’t want you to be late, either.”

“Then why did you stop me to talk to you?”

I thought I’d answered that with the whole being neighborly thing, but I guess to her mind, I hadn’t. But feeling as though she wanted to end the conversation sooner rather than later—again, like Natalie at the farmers’ market, which made me think how similar they were in temperament—I took a step backward toward the wheelbarrow.

“No reason,” I said. “Have a great day.”

She waited until I’d retreated a few steps before starting to walk again. And though I didn’t turn around to check, I was certain she didn’t cast so much as a single glance my way. Not that it was any of my business.

I put on the hood and gloves, then moved the wheelbarrow closer to the first of the hives. I got the smoker going, puffed enough to calm the hive, and waited another minute before removing both lids. I added the excluder to the top of the upper deep, put the shallow upper super on top of that, and put the lids back on. Same things with the second, third, and fourth hives. I refilled the wheelbarrow multiple times, lost in the routine and remembering my grandfather, until all the hives were done.

Fortunately, all the queens were still in place—eating food and laying eggs, doing their thing—and I was able to finish in under three hours. By then, it was coming up on lunch, and thinking my morning had already been exceedingly productive, I treated myself to a beer with my sandwich.

Sometimes, it just hits the spot. Know what I mean?

After lunch, there were two more things on my agenda, both of which I considered important for my own peace of mind.

Natalie had been right about the possibility of finding answers in my grandfather’s truck. She was also smart to suggest that I call the hospital first. For all I knew, my grandfather had been transported from another county. I found the phone number on the internet and spoke to an older lady with an accent so thick it could have been bottled, who had absolutely no idea how to help. After hemming and hawing for a couple of minutes—in addition to her drawl, she spoke incredibly slowly—she finally landed on the name of one of the hospital administrators and offered to connect me. While she was doing so, unfortunately, I was cut off.

I called again, asked for the appropriate name, and then was connected to voicemail. I left my name, number, a brief message, and asked him to return my call.

Maybe because of the experience I’d had with the first lady, I wasn’t all that certain I’d receive a call back. Even so, I felt like I’d just taken the first step on a journey to find the answers I needed.

In the various phases of my life—high school, Annapolis, medical school, residency, and the Navy—I became friends with some extraordinary people. In each of those phases, I became particularly close to a small circle of individuals, and I simply assumed that I would remain close with them forever. Because we were hanging out then, my thinking went, we’d hang out forever.

But friendships, I’ve learned, aren’t like that. Things change; people change. Friends mature and move and get married and have children; others become doctors and deploy to Afghanistan and have their careers blown up. Over time, if you’re lucky, a few—or maybe just a couple—remain from each of the various phases of your life. I’ve been fortunate; I have friends who date back to high school, and yet, I sometimes find myself wondering why some people remain in your life while others drift away. I don’t have the answer to that, other than to observe that friendship has to flow both ways. Both of you have to be willing to invest in the friendship in order to maintain it.

I mention this because I sometimes wonder whether to consider Dr. Bowen a friend. In some ways, he is. We speak every week and he knows me better than anyone. He’s the only person who knows how much I actually used to contemplate suicide after my injuries—daily, if you’re curious—and he’s the only one who knows that I feel very low every year on the day my parents’ plane crashed. He knows how much sleep I get, how many beers I drink in the course of a week, and how hard it used to be for me to control my anger in situations where I should have simply rolled my eyes and gone on with life. Once, about nine months ago, I was standing in the checkout line at Home Depot when the next aisle opened up. The clerk there said he could help the “next person in line,” which was me, but the man behind me rushed over instead, taking what was rightfully my place. No big deal, right? Maybe an irritation, but what was really at stake? A few minutes? On a day when I wasn’t really doing anything at all? The point is that it shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. I was bothered, then angry, and then, as the emotion continued to build, enraged. I stared at the back of his head with death rays, and I ended up walking out the door less than half a minute behind him. Watching him in the parking lot, I had to fight the visceral urge to chase after him and tackle him to the ground. I imagined pummeling him with my fists, even if I could make a fist with only one of my hands; I imagined driving a knee into his kidneys or his stomach; I visualized ripping his ear off, just as I’d lost mine. My jaw was set, my body bracing for confrontation as I began to walk faster when all of a sudden, it dawned on me that I was experiencing a symptom of PTSD, one that Bowen had repeatedly warned me about. I’d been in therapy for a while by then, and like a steady voice of reason amid an orchestra of emotional noise, Bowen was telling me what to do, telling me to change my behavior. Stop and turn away. Force yourself to smile and relax the muscles. Take five long breaths. Feel the emotion, and then let it go, watching as it dissipates. Weigh the pros and cons regarding the action you want to take. Check the facts and realize that in the broad scheme of things, what really happened doesn’t matter at all.

When my anger finally dissipated to a manageable level, I was able to drive home. Days later, I poured the whole story out to my doctor, but in the following months, I told none of my friends. Nor did I tell my friends about the nightmares and the insomnia or anything else that was making my life a trial. And I wondered: Why can I tell Dr. Bowen, but not the people I consider friends?

I suppose it has to do with fear: fear of rejection, fear of disappointing others, fear of their anger or their judgment. This says more about me than it does them, but I don’t feel this way when I speak with Dr. Bowen. I’m not sure why. Maybe it has something to do with the simple fact that I pay him. Or maybe it has to do with the idea that, for all our conversations, I know little about him.

In that way, we’re not friends at all. Because he wears a wedding ring, I assume he’s married, but I have no idea who his wife is, or how long they’ve been married, or anything else about his wife at all. I don’t know whether he has children. From the diplomas on the wall of his office, I know he went to Princeton as an undergraduate and Northwestern for medical school. But I don’t know his hobbies, or the kind of house he lives in, the food he likes, or any books or movies that he may have enjoyed. In other words, we’re friends, but really, we’re not.

He’s just my therapist.

Chapter 8

I didn’t hear from Natalie on Tuesday, which disappointed me, but my offer was out there. I knew she was working and busy, and I had things to do as well. Well, sort of. But I didn’t text her. It wasn’t as though I was thinking about her all the time. Just…too much for my own good.

I also spoke to both ambulance companies. As with the hospital, it took a couple of transfers before I was able to reach someone who could help. Yes, I was told, there were records of pickup locations for patients who had been transported to the hospital; no, I was told, they didn’t have that information readily available. It would take them a few days to find it, maybe until the end of the week, and if I didn’t hear from them to call again.

Hurry up and wait.

Just like so many other things in life.

Hoping for a chance to speak with Claude’s father, I decided to visit the Trading Post for lunch. Pulling up, I spotted a bin offering bags of ice, firewood for sale, propane tank refills, an air compressor to fill tires, and an old-fashioned vending machine, which seemed redundant since people could purchase sodas inside. Unfortunately, there was no one out front in the rockers.

Inside, Claude was back at his usual spot behind the register and he raised a hand in greeting as I headed toward the grill. As usual, all the tables were occupied, so I found myself at the counter. A massive man—at least a head taller than me and twice as wide—nodded toward me before handing me a small bowl of boiled peanuts. I assumed this was Frank, the regular grill man. Unlike Claude, he said nothing. Not much of a chatter, which was fine with me.

In honor of my grandfather, I ordered a BLT with fries and a pickle. Behind me, I overheard two guys at one of the tables talking about their fishing trip the weekend before, lamenting their lack of luck, and debating better places to try the following weekend. I peeked over my shoulder. Both were wearing baseball caps; one had the sinewy arms associated with construction, while the other wore a uniform of one of the propane distributors. When one of them mentioned that he’d spotted an alligator recently, my ears perked up.

“Four of ’em actually,” he went on. “Sunnin’ right there on the bank between the trees.”

“Big ones?” his friend asked.

“Nah. Juveniles, probably.”

“Where?”

“You know where the boat launch is? A couple of bends in the river after that, on your right. You remember the bald eagle’s nest in the cypress tree? Right around there.”

“What eagle’s nest?”

“Same nest as last year.”

“I didn’t see it last year.”

“That’s because you never take the time to look around.”

“I’m fishing,” he answered, “not sightseeing.”

“You try the quarry? I’ve had some luck with bass there lately…”

The conversation returned to fishing again and I found myself tuning out. I was, however, interested in the alligators and the bald eagles and wondered if Natalie might want to join me.

By then, my meal was ready, and Frank placed the plate in front of me. I took a bite, confirming that it never tasted as good anywhere else. I finished the sandwich and the pickle, but had only a few of the fries. I could feel my arteries hardening as I sampled them, but my taste buds were happy.

As I was finishing up, I glanced through the windows toward the front of the store and saw a pair of elderly gentlemen sitting in the rockers on the porch. Just what I’d been hoping for. Rising from my seat, I approached the register. Claude, without the apron and shiny face, seemed far more content than he was the last time I’d been here.

“Hey, Claude,” I greeted him. “Is that your father out front?”

He leaned forward to peek over my shoulder. “Yeah, that’s him. The one with the overalls. The other guy is Jerrold.”

“Do you think your dad would mind if I spoke with him about my grandfather?”

“Feel free. Can’t guarantee he’ll know anything. Assuming he even hears what you’re asking.”

“Of course.”

“Word of advice? Watch out for Jerrold. Half the time, I have no idea what he’s talking about or what he finds so funny.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant exactly but I nodded. “How long do you think your father will be here?”

“They haven’t eaten yet, so I reckon he’ll be here at least another hour.”

“What does he usually have for lunch?”

“The barbecue sandwich with slaw. And hush puppies.”

“How about I buy that for him?”

“Why? It’s not like I can charge him. He still owns a portion of the store.”

“I figure if I’m going to try to get some information from him, it’s the least I can do.”

“It’s your money.” He shrugged.

I pulled some cash from my wallet and handed it over, watching as he added it to the drawer. He cupped a hand at the corner of his mouth and called across the store. “Hey, Frank. Get Daddy the usual, okay? And hand it to Trevor here. He’ll bring it out.”

The meal didn’t take long to prepare and when it was ready, I ferried the plate to the front door. As I passed the register, Claude loosened the cap on a Yoo-hoo, then tightened it slightly before holding it out to me. “You’ll need this, too.”

“Yoo-hoo?”

“It’s his favorite. He’s been drinking it as long as I can remember.”

I took the bottle and with my hands full, I used my hips to push open the door. As I approached, Jim looked up, his face as gnarled and wrinkled as his hands, all bone and skin and liver spots. He wore glasses and a few of his teeth were missing, but I thought I saw a spark of curiosity in his expression that made me believe he was sharper, and more aware, than Claude’s description of him might indicate. Then again, maybe I was just being optimistic.

“Hi, Jim. I thought I’d bring out your lunch,” I started. “I was hoping to talk to you for a few minutes.”

Jim squinted up at me. “Huh?”

Jerrold leaned toward Jim. “Boy here wants to talk to you,” Jerrold shouted.

“Talk about what?” Jim asked.

“How the hell should I know? He just walked out here.”

“Who is he?” Jim asked.

Jerrold swiveled his gaze toward me. He was younger than Jim, but still well past retirement age. I noticed a hearing aid, which might—or might not—make things easier.

He leaned toward Jim again. “I’m figurin’ he’s a salesman,” Jerrold shouted. “Maybe selling them women’s panties.”

I blinked, unsure whether to be offended, and suddenly remembered what Claude had told me.

“Tell him to talk to Claude,” Jim said with a wave. “I’m retired. I don’t need nothing from any salesman.”

“The hell you don’t,” Jerrold said to him. “You need a woman and one of them winning lotto tickets, if you ask me.”

“Huh?”

Jerrold leaned back in his seat with mirth in his eyes. “Women’s panties.” He cackled, clearly pleased with himself. “You sellin’ women’s panties?”

“No,” I said, “I’m not a salesman. I just wanted to speak with Jim.”

“About what?”

“About my grandfather,” I said. “And I brought Jim his lunch.”

“Then don’t just stand there.” He waved a bony hand at me. “Give it to him. Don’t be slow, now.”

I leaned down and handed Jim his lunch. As I did, Jerrold frowned, the grooves in his forehead so deep they could hold a pencil.

“Where’s my lunch?” Jerrold demanded.

I hadn’t expected the question but realized that I probably should have considered the idea they’d want to eat together. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. What would you like? I’d be happy to get you something.”

“Hmmmm,” Jerrold said, bringing a hand to his chin. “How about filet mignon with a lobster tail and lots of butter, with some of that rice pilaf?”

He’d pronounced it pea-laff.

“Do they serve that here?” I asked.

“Of course they don’t. You need to order it special, from one of them fancy places.”

I assumed he meant a different restaurant—a real restaurant—and I was caught off guard.

“Where would I order that?” I asked.

“What’s he saying?” Jim asked.

Jerrold leaned toward Jim again. “He’s saying he won’t buy me lunch,” Jerrold shouted. “And he says he’ll buy you a Cadillac if you’ll talk to him.”

I blinked, wondering how I’d lost control of the conversation. A Cadillac? Where did that come from? “I didn’t say that,” I protested. “And I’d be glad to get you anything the grill offers…”

Jerrold slapped his thigh, not letting me finish before suddenly locking eyes with me again. “Boy, you is dumb as dirt. A Cadillac! What on earth would he do with a Cadillac? He can barely drive as it is.” He shook his head, cackling. “A Cadillac!” he shouted to Jim.

Standing in place, I could think of nothing to say. Jerrold didn’t seem to need me to say anything; he was too happy with himself to care what I might be thinking. Jim, meanwhile, struck me as oblivious. I decided to seize the initiative.

“I was hoping to ask Jim about my grandfather, Carl Haverson.”

Jerrold reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of snuff. After opening the package, he pinched a few of the leaves together before placing them between his lip and gum. His mouth made a few contortions and he settled back in the chair, looking like he had a tumorous growth in his jaw. “You’re telling me that you’re kin to Carl?”

“He was my grandfather,” I said again. “I’m trying to learn what he was doing in South Carolina. Claude said Jim and my grandfather were close and I was hoping he could answer some questions.”

“Might be hard,” Jerrold said. “Jim here, he don’t hear too well. And he wanders when he talks. Half the time, you don’t know what he means.”

I could say the same about you, I thought. “It’s important,” I said instead. “Maybe you can help?”

“Don’t know how.”

“Did you know my grandfather? Did you speak with him before he left?”

“Sure,” he drawled. “I got out here now and then and we’d talk. Not as much as Jim here, though. But then, one week, he wasn’t around, so it was just me and Jim. I was as surprised as anyone when I found out what happened to him. Carl was in good health as far as I knew.”

“How about the trip to South Carolina? Did you know anything about that?”

“He never mentioned anything about it to me.”

“Was he acting differently? Anything like that?”

Jerrold shook his head. “Not that I could tell.”

Chapter 9

On Wednesday, while pondering my maybe-but-not-guaranteed date with Natalie, I decided to take my grandfather’s boat out to try to find the alligators and bald eagles I’d heard about the day before.

I made a quick inspection before untying the lines and starting the motor. There were no other boats in the vicinity, which was fortunate, because I would need to get used to the steering again. I had no desire to participate in a water-based demolition derby or accidentally run aground, so I gently eased the throttle, turning the wheel as I pulled away from the dock. To my surprise, the boat was a lot easier to maneuver than I remembered, which meant my grandfather must have done some work on it, and I was quickly able to get it headed in the proper direction like the highly skilled Naval Academy graduate that I was supposed to be.

As a kid, I always loved going out with my grandfather on the boat, but unlike most people, who preferred the wider Trent and Neuse Rivers, I always favored Brices Creek. Because the creek wound its way through the Croatan National Forest, it probably hadn’t changed since settlers first arrived in the area in the early 1700s. In a way, it felt like traveling back in time, and when my grandfather shut down the engine, we would hear nothing but birdcalls from the trees, while every now and then a fish would jump, making ripples on the otherwise black and silent water.

I settled into the ride, keeping to the middle of the creek. As ugly as it was, the ride itself was surprisingly stable. My grandfather had built the boat the way he had because Rose was afraid of the water. As an epileptic whose seizures grew in frequency and intensity as she’d aged, she’d never learned to swim, so he’d designed something impossible to capsize or sink, with rails to keep her from falling overboard. Even then, it usually took some convincing for Rose to accompany him, so my grandfather often went alone, at least until my mom was old enough to join him. When I began spending my summers with him, we spent almost every afternoon on the water.

Boating always seemed to put my grandfather in a contemplative mood. Sometimes, he would tell stories about his childhood, which was far more interesting than my own, or talk about bees or his work at the mill, or what my mom had been like as a child. Almost always, though, his thoughts would turn to Rose, melancholy settling over him like a familiar shawl. The older he got, the more he repeated himself, and by the time of my last visit, I’d heard all of his stories often enough to recite them by heart. But I would listen without interruption, watching as he lost himself in the memories, because I knew how much she’d meant to him.

I had to admit, their story was charming; it harkened to a place and time I knew only from black-and-white movies, a world replete with dirt roads and homemade bamboo fishing poles and neighbors who sat on their front porches to beat the heat, waving to passersby. After the war, my grandfather had first spotted Rose having a soda with her friends outside the drugstore, and he’d been so taken with her that he swore to his friends that he’d seen the woman he would one day marry. After that, he saw Rose everywhere, outside Christ Episcopal Church with her mother or strolling through the Piggly Wiggly, and she began to notice him as well. Later in the summer, at the county fair, there was a dance. Rose was there with her friends and though it took him most of the evening to work up the courage to cross the floor to ask her to dance, she told him that she’d been waiting all night for him to do just that.

They married less than six months later. They spent their honeymoon in Charleston before returning to New Bern to settle into their life together. He built the house, and both of them wanted a brood of children. However, perhaps because of Rose’s condition, one miscarriage followed another, five in total over an eight-year period. Just when they’d given up hope, my mother was conceived, and the pregnancy went the distance. They considered my mom a gift from God, and my grandfather swore that Rose had never been more beautiful than when he saw mother and daughter together, playing hopscotch or reading or even standing on the porch, shaking dirt from the rugs.

Years later, when my mom went off to college on a full scholarship, my grandfather told me that he and Rose enjoyed a second honeymoon, one that lasted until their very last day together. Every morning, he would head out early to pick Rose a bouquet of flowers; she would make breakfast, and the two of them would eat together on the back porch, while watching the mist rise slowly from the water. He would kiss her before heading off to work and again when he returned at the end of the day; they held hands as they took their evening walk, as though touch could somehow make up for the lost hours they’d spent apart.

My grandfather found her on the kitchen floor on a Saturday, after he’d spent an afternoon building additional hives. He took her lifeless body in his arms and held her. He cried for more than an hour before finally calling the authorities. He was so destroyed that for the first time ever, my mom took a monthlong leave of absence from her practice and came down to stay with him. He spent part of the following year carving her headstone himself, and up until our last phone call, I knew he continued to visit her grave every single week.

There was Rose and only Rose; he’d always sworn no one could ever replace her. There was no reason to doubt him and I never did. Toward the end, my grandfather was more than ninety years old, with arthritis and a dying truck; he led a simple life that included tending to honey bees and tinkering with the boat, all the while cherishing the memories of a wife that he could never forget.

I turned all these things over in my mind while my thoughts circled back to my conversation with Jim. I tried to reconcile Jim’s comments with the grandfather I’d known but simply couldn’t do it. Despite what I’d been told, I knew with sudden certainty that my grandfather had never, nor would have ever, gone to South Carolina to visit a woman named Helen.

I continued upstream, motoring from one curve to the next, eventually reaching the public boat ramp in the Croatan National Forest. Interesting tidbit about the forest: It’s one of the few places in the world where you can find Venus flytraps and other carnivorous plants growing in the wild. My grandfather used to bring me out to search for them. Somehow, despite constant poaching, they’re still relatively common.

The boat ramp was one of the reference points I’d overheard at the Trading Post. Supposedly, the eagles and alligators were a couple of curves farther upstream, but for all I knew, it might be zero or ten curves. The guy’s description had been a little vague, so I slowed the boat and scanned the trees on either side of the creek. The problem, I soon realized, was that I had no idea what I was supposed to look for.

Technology, however, is a wonderful thing. Pulling out my phone, I did a quick internet search and was able to find images of bald eagles’ nests. To my eye, they looked like regular birds’ nests, only much larger, which made me feel foolish for not assuming that in the first place. In the end, I finally spotted it high in the branches of a cypress tree, a feat made even simpler by the fact that mama or papa eagle was sitting in the nest, while the mate perched in the limbs of a nearby tree.

It wasn’t two bends in the river past the boat ramp, by the way, but four.

I stopped the boat and scanned the banks for the alligators but had less luck there. I did note a cleared and muddy spot with some telltale burrows, however. Having lived in Florida, I’d seen them before. Unfortunately, no alligators were around, but alligators were territorial, which meant it was likely that they’d return.

In the meantime, my gaze was drawn toward the bald eagles and I snapped some pics with my phone. With brown bodies and white heads, they looked just like the one on the Great Seal of the United States, my first sighting of them in the wild. It soon became rather boring, though. Aside from occasionally turning their heads, they didn’t move much, and after a while, they were no more exciting to watch than the trees. I wondered if there were eggs in the nest, but I soon noticed a pair of baby eaglets. Every now and then, one or both of the little ones would poke up their heads and I had the urge to tell someone about it. Reaching for my phone again, I typed out a quick message to Natalie.

Again, I found myself watching the phone to see if she’d read it; to my surprise, her response came quickly:

I smiled, thinking that things with Natalie were getting interesting. It wasn’t exactly my grandfather and Rose, but definitely interesting.

There was still no word from the ambulance companies, but I figured that I’d give them until Monday before I contacted them again. Despite that, the rest of my afternoon was productive, if you consider taking a long nap after a leisurely boat ride productive.

For dinner, I decided to eat at Morgan’s Tavern. Located downtown, it was my kind of place: wood floors, lots of rustic brick, high-beamed ceilings, and an extensive menu. It was bustling, so I ended up sitting at one of the tables in the bar, but the service was quick and the food was tasty. A good place to kill time until I called Natalie.

Not wanting to be too punctual, I dialed seven minutes after the hour. Perhaps not wanting to appear too eager, Natalie answered on the fourth ring. Oh, the silly games people play…

“Hey there,” I said. “How was work?”

“Fine, but I’m glad I’m on days for the next few weeks. It’s hard for me to sleep when the sun is shining. My body just doesn’t like it.”

“You should do a residency. Then you never have to sleep at all.”

She giggled. “What’s going on?”

“You’ll never guess where I went today,” I said.

“You called because you want me to guess?”

“No,” I said. “I went out on the creek today.”

“On your grandfather’s boat?”

“I prefer to think of it as a yacht.”

“Ah,” she said, amusement in her voice. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I was hunting for alligators.”

“Don’t tell me you found one.”

“I didn’t, but I’m pretty sure I know where to find them. I was thinking we might try to find them on Saturday. We could take the boat out, maybe follow that up with dinner at my place. How does that sound?”

A second of silence on the line. Then: “Won’t it be crowded on the water this weekend?”

Your grandfather’s boat draws way too much interest from others, she didn’t have to add, and I’d prefer that no one else know I’m spending time with you.

“Not where we’d be going. We’ll be heading up the creek, probably in late afternoon. It’s usually pretty quiet. And afterward, we’d eat at my place. I can grill a mean steak.”

“I don’t eat red meat.”

Natalie, I was beginning to learn, seldom offered a simple yes or no, but I was growing used to it. “I can grill seafood if you’d prefer,” I suggested. “Seafood’s okay, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then how about coming by around four thirty? We’ll spend a couple of hours on the boat, head back, fire up the grill. Maybe open a bottle of wine. And I promise that even if we don’t find the alligators, you’ll see something pretty amazing.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a surprise. What do you think?”

“Four thirty?”

“We could go earlier, but I wouldn’t go later or we’ll lose the daylight when we’re on the water.”

In the silence that followed, I tried and failed to imagine her as she was speaking. Where was she? In her kitchen? The family room? Her bedroom? Finally, I heard her voice again. “All right,” she said, still sounding hesitant. “I guess I should drive to your place?”

“If you’d rather, I could pick you up.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said.

Because you don’t want me to know where you live? “Great,” I said, ignoring that internal query. “A couple of questions…are you okay with tuna?”

“That’s fine.”

“And my odds that you show are better than fifty-fifty this time?”

“Ha ha,” she said. “I’ll be there at four thirty.”

Maybe I was just imagining it, but I think there was a little part of her that was flattered by my persistence. “Good night, Trevor.”

“Good night, Natalie.”

On Thursday, I heard from the first of the ambulance companies, who let me know that they hadn’t attended to or transported my grandfather.

On Friday, I heard from the second one and struck pay dirt. After a brief conversation, I was emailed a scanned copy of the report.

I read that my grandfather, Carl Haverson, had been picked up near mile marker 7 on Highway 123, and transported to Baptist Easley Hospital. Though light on details, the report showed that he was unconscious, with a thready pulse. Oxygen was administered en route, and he reached the hospital at 8:17 a.m.

It wasn’t much information and told me little that I didn’t already know, other than the pickup location. A quick search on the internet, including Google Earth, showed a stretch of highway near a dilapidated strip mall, which didn’t add any helpful information, primarily because I had no idea of what exactly had led to the call in the first place. He could have been walking to his truck or already driving or heading into a restaurant. I didn’t know who’d called the ambulance, or even what near mile marker 7 actually meant. Perhaps the only way to find the answers to any of these questions was to go there and check it out.

But noting the time of his arrival triggered an additional thought, one that I should have realized before. Easley was at least six hours away by car; in my grandfather’s truck, at his age, it might have taken him as long as nine hours to get there. Had he driven through the night? Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine that. He was, and always had been, an early riser. In my mind’s eye, I could visualize him getting into the truck early in the morning, after sleeping in a hotel or motel…

Where, then, had he stayed the night? Near Easley? Farther east?

Also, if he’d been found near the truck, I knew there was no way it would still be sitting alongside the highway, not after six months. So how was I going to find it?

I wrestled with the questions on and off the rest of the day, without answers. What I did finally come to accept, however, was that a road trip to Easley was in my very near future. To understand what had happened to my grandfather, I knew I had no choice but to go there.

Chapter 10

Saturday felt like early summer, at least while I was out for my run. By the time I finished, I was able to wring the perspiration from my shirt before showering, which was kind of gross, but reminded me of the years I’d actually been an athlete, as opposed to a guy who was simply trying to keep his pants from nipping at the waist.

After breakfast, I cleaned the house again, paying special attention to the kitchen and bathrooms, then hauled the small dining room table and chairs out to the back porch. I rearranged the rockers, slid the grill to a new spot, and rifled through the cabinets and closets for a tablecloth and candles, doing my best to create a subtly romantic ambiance.

Getting the boat ready was more of a chore. While I didn’t care whether the recliners were ratty or moldy, I figured she might, and I had to run to the store to buy the cleanser I needed. After detouring to the grocery store, I then took the boat to the gas pumps at the Trading Post to fill the tank, but it took longer than expected due to the long line. Three different people whipped out their phones to take photographs of me while I was in the queue, being that I was so handsome and all. Then again, maybe they were more interested in the boat. Who knew?

I set the table, added flowers from the front yard to the vase, put the bottles of wine in the refrigerator to chill, chopped vegetables, and tossed a salad. I loaded the cooler with ice, beer, soda, and bottles of water and ferried it to the boat, along with a snack platter. By that point, it was midafternoon; I tried and failed to remember the last time it had taken me so long to get ready for a date.

I showered for the second time that day and considering the sultry temperature, my instincts told me that shorts and a T-shirt would be most appropriate for the boat. Instead, I opted for jeans, a blue button-up shirt, and Top-Siders. I rolled up my sleeves and hoped the breeze would keep me from sweating through my shirt.

I should have listened to my instincts. Natalie showed up a few minutes later, stepping out of her car in jean shorts, sunglasses, sandals, and a Rolling Stones T-shirt, a casually sexy appearance that registered immediately. I swallowed hard.

After collecting a medium-sized canvas bag from the passenger seat, she turned, stopping in her tracks when she saw me.

“I thought you said we were going on the boat.”

“We are,” I said. “This is my captain’s uniform.”

“You’re going to get hot…”

Yes, I am, I thought, already feeling the sun beating down on me. “I’ll be fine…”

Approaching her car, I was unsure whether to lean in for a hug or stand in place like an idiot. I opted for the latter. She acted equally uncertain, which made me wonder whether she was as nervous as I. I doubted it, but it still made me feel better.

“I wasn’t sure if I should bring anything,” she said, motioning to the car. “But I have a small cooler in the back seat with drinks.”

“I put some in the boat already, but I’m happy to load what you brought just in case.”

Opening the back door, I retrieved the cooler.

“How’s your day been?” she asked as we walked toward the house.

“Relaxing,” I lied. “You?”

“Typical Saturday.”

“Farmers’ market?”

“Among other things.” She shrugged. “Do you really think we’ll find an alligator?”

“I hope so,” I said. “But no guarantees.”

“If we do, it’ll still be a first. That’s always kind of exciting.”

“What’s in your bag?”

“Clothes for later,” she said. “I didn’t want to get cold.”

Frankly, I would have been happy if she stayed in the outfit she was wearing, but I kept quiet.

I pushed the front door open. “Come on in. Feel free to leave your bag anywhere.”

“How long do you think we’ll be on the boat?”

“Hard to say. But we’ll definitely be back before dark.”

She dug out some sunscreen from her bag while following me through the house and onto the back porch. When she saw all I’d done, she arched an eyebrow.

“Wow,” she said. “You’ve been busy.”

“My parents raised me to make a good impression.”

“You already have,” she said, “or I wouldn’t have agreed to come.”

For the first time in her presence, I was at a loss for words. I think she knew she’d thrown me because she laughed.

“All right,” she went on. “Let’s get on the boat and find some alligators.”

I led the way down to the dock, setting her cooler next to mine as we climbed on board. The boat rocked slightly under our shifting weights.

“I’ve never been on a yacht before,” she cooed, picking up the thread of my earlier joke. “I hope it’s safe.”

“Don’t worry. She’s seaworthy.” I hopped back on the dock briefly to untie the ropes, then rejoined her, asking, “Would you like a beer or glass of wine before we get going?”

“A beer sounds good.”

I reached into my cooler and pulled out a Yuengling. Twisting off the cap, I handed it to her. I opened a beer for myself as well, privately celebrating our first drink together.

I held my bottle toward her. “Thank you for coming,” I said. “Cheers.”

She tapped her bottle against mine before taking a small sip. “This is good,” she commented, inspecting the label.

Wasting no time, I moved to the stern and started the engine with a pull of the cord. Back in the cockpit, I increased the throttle and inched away from the dock. I made my way toward the middle of the creek, grateful for the breeze. I could already feel a thin sheen of perspiration beginning to form, but Natalie seemed more than comfortable. She stood at the railing, watching the scenery with her hair fanning out behind her, gorgeous in the sunlight. I found myself admiring her legs before I turned my attention back to steering the boat. Crashing might mar the good impression I’d made earlier, what with the whole tablecloth-and-candles-on-the-porch thing.

We puttered through one wide turn after the next. Housing on either side of the creek gave way to fishing camps dotting only one bank; and after that, nothing but wilderness. Meanwhile, despite my lack of depth perception, I expertly avoided various hazards and would have pointed out my boating mastery to her, but for the ubiquitous presence of neon-colored buoys alerting boaters to keep a safe distance.

After slathering sunscreen on her arms and legs, Natalie joined me in the cockpit.

“This is the first time I’ve gone up Brices Creek,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

“How can you live here and never come up this way?”

“No boat,” she said. “I mean, I’ve been on the Trent River and the Neuse River with friends, but we never came up this way.”

“I thought you don’t go out much.”

“I don’t,” she said. “Not lately, anyway.”

Though I could have asked her why, I could tell she didn’t want me to. “If you’re hungry, there are some snacks on the table.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine for now. I can’t remember the last time I had a beer, so I’m kind of enjoying this.”

She stared out at the slow-moving black water, clutching her cold bottle and basking in the sun.

“How did you know where to find the alligators?” she asked.

“I overheard some people talking when I had lunch at the Trading Post, so I decided to check it out.”

“I’ve never eaten there.”

“Believe it or not, the food is actually pretty good.”

“I’ve heard that. But it’s kind of far from where I live.”

“Nothing is far away in New Bern.”

“I know, but I spend so much time behind the wheel when I’m on duty that I get sick of driving.”

“You drove here and my place isn’t far from the Trading Post.”

“The Trading Post doesn’t have tablecloths and candles.”

I chuckled. We continued upstream, trees pushing in from the banks, the water ahead as flat as a billiard table. Here and there, we saw the occasional dock, overgrown and rotting, jutting into the creek. Above us, an osprey circled.

Natalie continued to stand beside me, and I had the sense that something had changed between us. Every now and then, she took a sip of her beer and I wondered whether she’d been nervous about our date.

Was she seeing someone else? I still thought it likely, but if that was the case, why had she come today or gone to dinner with me? Because she was bored or unhappy? Or simply lonely? And what was he like? How long had they been going out? It was also possible that she’d just been curious about the alligators and viewed me as a friend, but then why stand so close to me? She knew I was attracted to her. Common sense indicated that asking her to a second dinner in as many weekends meant something more than a desire for simple friendship, yet she’d agreed to meet me again. If she really was dating someone else, how would she explain her absence today? Did he live out of town? Was he in the military and deployed elsewhere? As usual, I had no answers.

The creek continued to narrow until we reached the boat ramp and entered the national forest. On the dock, I saw a father and son fishing; they waved as we motored past. Though I was only half-done with my beer, it was already growing warm. Leaning over the railing, I dumped the remainder and slid the empty bottle into the wastebasket in the cockpit.

“How much longer?” Her voice drifted back to me.

“Almost there,” I answered. “Another few minutes.”

Rounding the final bend, I began to slow the boat. In the treetop, I spotted one of the eagles sitting in the nest, though its mate wasn’t around. Up ahead, on the opposite side of the creek, in the small muddy clearing, were two alligators sunning themselves. They were juveniles, no more than five feet from nose to the tip of their tail, but it still felt like a stroke of luck.

“There they are,” I said, waving her over.

She ran toward the bow, vibrating with excitement.

“I can’t believe it,” she offered. “They’re right there!”

Turning the wheel, I tried to angle the boat so we could sit in the recliners and enjoy the wildlife. Satisfied, I shut off the engine, then retreated to the stern to drop anchor, feeling the rope tighten as it caught on the bottom.

By then, Natalie had pulled out her phone and begun to take pictures.

“There’s something else, too,” I reminded her. “The surprise I told you about.”

“What?”

I pointed at the treetop. “There’s an eagle’s nest right over there, and there are eaglets, too. They’re kind of hard to spot, but keep your eye out.”

Natalie looked from the eagles to the alligators and back again while I removed the plastic cover from the tray of food and grabbed another beer from the cooler. I popped a strawberry into my mouth and settled into one of the recliners. Leaning back, I used the lever to raise the leg support.

“Comfy?” Natalie smirked.

“My grandfather was a wise man when it came to luxury.”

Natalie picked a few grapes from the platter and took a seat, though she didn’t fully recline the chair.

“I can’t believe I’ve finally seen an alligator,” she marveled.

“You mention a desire, I make it happen. I’m a bit like a genie in that way.”

She made a face, but I could tell she was warming to my humor. I balanced a piece of cheese on a cracker as Natalie set her beer on the table.

“So…is this your thing?” she asked.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“All of this,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “The setup back at your house, boat rides, surprises. Is this how you generally try to pick up women?”

“Not always.” I took a meek sip of my beer.

“Then why the big show today?”

“Because I thought you’d enjoy it.” I leaned my bottle toward hers. “To the alligators.”

“And the eagle,” she agreed reluctantly, reaching for her bottle and tapping it against mine. “But don’t try to change the subject.”

“I’m not sure what the subject is.”

“I get the vibe that you’re a player. When it comes to women, I mean.”

“Because I’m so clever and charismatic?”

“Because I’m not naïve.”

“Fair enough.” I laughed. “But it’s not just me. You could have declined my invitation.”

She reached for another grape. “I know,” she finally agreed, her voice dropping an octave.

“Do you regret it?”

“Actually, I don’t.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am,” she said, and for the next few minutes, neither of us said anything. Instead, we took in the view, Natalie finally spotting the eaglets in the nest. She lifted her phone to get some pics, but by that time, they’d ducked below the rim of the nest again. I heard her sigh, squinting at me.

“Have you ever been in love?” she asked.

Though I hadn’t expected the question, an unbidden memory of Sandra rose to the surface. “I think so,” I said.

“You think?”

“When we were together, I thought I was,” I admitted. “But now, I’m not sure.”

“Why wouldn’t you be sure?”

“If I were really in love, I think I’d miss her more than I do. I’d think about her more.”

“Who was she?”

I hesitated. “She was a trauma nurse—her name was Sandra. She was smart. Beautiful. Passionate about her work. We met in Pensacola and we were happy together at first, but it got complicated after I was deployed to Afghanistan.” I shrugged. “When I came back, I…”

I looked over at her.

“I already told you I wasn’t in a good space mentally or emotionally, and I took it out on her. I’m amazed she put up with me for as long as she did.”

“How long were you together?”

“A little more than two years. But you have to remember, I was gone a lot of the time. By the end, I wondered how well we even knew each other. After we broke up, it took me a while to understand that I missed the idea of having someone, as opposed to missing her. I knew I never loved her the way my grandfather loved my grandmother, or even the way my parents loved each other. My grandfather was a true romantic; my parents were partners and friends and they complemented each other perfectly. I didn’t feel either of those things with Sandra. I don’t know. Maybe I just wasn’t ready.”

“Or maybe she wasn’t the one.”

“Maybe.”

“Anyone else? When you were younger maybe?”

For whatever reason, my mind flashed to Yoga Girl, but I shook my head. “I went out with girls in high school and college, but nothing monumental. After my parents died, while in medical school and residency, I told myself that I was too busy for anything serious.”

“You probably were.”

I smiled, appreciating the response, even if we both knew it was an excuse. “How about you? You said that you’ve been in love? Are you more the romantic type, or the partner-and-friends type?”

“Both,” she said. “I wanted it all.”

“Did you get it?”

“Yes,” she said. She held up her bottle, still half-full. “What should I do with this?”

“I’ll take it,” I said, reaching for her bottle. I rose from my seat, emptied the remains into the creek, and put the empty beside my own in the wastebasket. On my way back, I gestured at the cooler. “Would you like another?”

“Do you have bottled water?”

“Of course. I came prepared.” I handed a water bottle to her before settling in my chair again. We continued to chat while we picked at the snacks, avoiding anything too personal. Our earlier discussion about love seemed to have butted up against some sort of internal personal limit of hers, so we talked about the town, the gun range where Natalie liked to shoot, and some of the more complicated surgeries I’d performed in the past. Eventually she was able to get photos of the eaglets and texted the images to me, something I realized only when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket and checked the screen.

As we floated in place, a thin layer of clouds had begun to form, turning the sun from yellow to orange, and when the sky began shading toward violet, I knew it was time to start back.

I raised the anchor and started the motor, Natalie covering the snack tray before joining me in the cockpit. I drove faster on the return, making for a shorter trip, but was still amazed at how quickly time had passed. By the time I’d tied up the boat, dusk was settling in, the sky a brilliant palette, and crickets had begun to chirp. I helped Natalie to the dock, then handed the smaller cooler to her. Balancing the platter on the larger cooler, I walked beside her toward the back porch.

Once on the porch, I lifted the cooler lid. “Would you like another bottle of water?” I asked.

“Do you have any wine?”

“Would you like red or white?”

“White.”

Heading inside, I pulled the wine from the refrigerator and located a corkscrew. Pouring two glasses, I returned to the porch. She was standing near the railing, watching the sunset.

“Here you go,” I said, handing her a glass. “Sauvignon blanc.”

“Thank you.”

We took a sip in tandem, taking in the view.

“I called the hospital, as you suggested,” I said. “About my grandfather.”

“And?”

“You were right—it was a critical first step.” I went on, filling her in. She listened carefully, her eyes never leaving my face.

“Where do you think he was going? If it wasn’t Easley?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you don’t think he went to see Helen?”

“Unless he’d undergone a radical change, I just can’t imagine him being interested in another woman. Not at his age, not so far away, and definitely not with the way he still spoke about my grandmother.”

“He told me about her once,” Natalie mused. “He said she used to hum to herself in the kitchen when she was cooking and that sometimes, even now, he imagined he could still hear it.”

“When did he tell you that?”

Chapter 11

Interesting,” Bowen said to me during our session on Monday.

We were sitting at the dining room table, which I’d moved back into the house, two glasses of iced water between us. He’d arrived almost an hour earlier and I’d walked him around the property and the house. I’d shown him the beehives from a distance (he didn’t receive the full song-and-dance I’d offered Natalie) as well as the boat. When our session had begun, I’d started the conversation as I usually did—with an update on various issues associated with PTSD—before finally proceeding to my date with Natalie. I’d told him just about everything, though not with any of the intimate details.

“That’s all you have to say about it?” I asked. “That it’s interesting?”

“What would you like me to say?”

“I don’t know. Something. Anything.”

Bowen brought his hand to his chin. “Do you really believe you’re in love with her?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Without a doubt.”

“You’ve known her for less than two weeks.”

“My grandfather fell in love with my grandmother the first time they ever spoke,” I countered. In all fairness, though, I’d been pondering the same question all morning. “She’s…unlike anyone I’ve ever met before,” I went on. “And I know it’s not logical. But yes, I love her.”

“And you’d give up your residency for her?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Interesting,” he repeated. The evasive neuter-speak Bowen used could be frustrating, to say the least.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Of course I believe you.”

“But you’re concerned about something, aren’t you?”

“Aren’t you?”

I knew exactly what he was referring to, of course. “You mean the other guy,” I said.

“It does add potentially challenging implications.”

“I understand that. But her feelings for me are real. And she told me that she loved me.”

He adjusted his glasses. “Based on what you’ve described, it sounds like she probably does.”

“You think so?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest. Sometimes you underestimate how others might perceive you. You’re young, intelligent, successful, wealthy, and some would regard you as a hero for your military service.”

“Well, gee. Thanks, Doc.”

“You’re welcome. However, my point was that while I can easily imagine a woman falling in love with you, that doesn’t necessarily mean that it isn’t complicated for her. Nor does it mean your relationship will progress in the way you hope it will. People are complex, life seldom turns out the way you imagine it will, and emotions can be contradictory. From what you said, it seemed she was trying to tell you she was conflicted about the relationship between the two of you. Until she resolves that conflict, it might be a problem.”

I took a sip of my water, processing what Bowen had just said. “What should I do?” I finally asked.

“About what?”

“About Natalie,” I said, hearing the frustration in my tone. “What do I do about her relationship with the other guy?”

Bowen raised an eyebrow. He said nothing, waiting for me to answer my own question. He knew me well enough to understand that I’d be able to eventually figure it out, which I did.

“I need to accept that I can’t control another person,” I intoned. “I can only control my own behaviors.”

“That’s correct.” Bowen smiled. “But I suspect it doesn’t make you feel any better.”

No, I thought, it really doesn’t. I took some deep breaths, wishing it weren’t the truth, before automatically repeating much of what I’d learned in our previous sessions. “You’ll tell me that for now, I should strive to be the best version of myself that I can be. I need to sleep, exercise, eat healthy, and keep mood-altering substances to a minimum. Practice DBT and CBT skills when I’m feeling on edge. I understand all those things. And I’m doing those things. What I want to know is what I should do with regard to Natalie, so I don’t go crazy with worry.”

If Bowen heard the emotion in my voice, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, in the calm way he always adopted with me, he shrugged.

“What can you do except to keep doing what you’re doing?”

“But I love her.”

“I know you do.”

“I don’t even know if she lives with him, or if she’s just dating him.”

Bowen appeared almost sad. “Do you really want to know?”

On the highway the following day, I ruminated on my conversation with Dr. Bowen. I knew what I wanted—I wanted Natalie to dump the guy—but I was only half of that equation. Or maybe only a third of it, which was even worse. I sometimes believe the world would run better if I were put in charge of everything and could indeed control people, but knowing me, I’d probably get tired of the responsibility.

I had the GPS on in the SUV, even though I probably wouldn’t need it until I reached the South Carolina border. It was straightforward until then—Highway 70 to Interstate 40 near Raleigh, then Interstate 85 near Greensboro, through Charlotte, and into South Carolina, all the way to Greenville. The computer was calculating that I’d reach my destination somewhere between one and two in the afternoon, which I hoped was enough time to get some answers.

The drive was easy, relatively flat, and sandwiched between either farmland or forest. Near the cities, the congestion was worse, though nothing like the DC area, where I’d grown up. As I rolled along, I tried to picture my grandfather taking the same route but couldn’t. His truck shivered and shook at speeds above forty miles an hour, and driving slowly on the interstates was dangerous. At his age, he would have known that his eyesight and reflexes weren’t up to par, either. The more I thought about it, the more I figured he would have opted for rural highways, with a single lane in each direction. It would have added even more time to the journey, and for all I knew, he’d taken two days to reach Easley.

I stopped for lunch south of Charlotte, then hit the road again. According to the GPS, Interstate 85 would intersect with Highway 123 in Greenville, and from there, it was a straight shot to my destination. Before I’d left, I’d learned that Highway 123 also led to Clemson University, which was a bit farther west, which made me wonder if Helen was a coed. My grandfather, the old dog, might have been robbing the cradle.

It was an absurd thought, but after more than six hours in the car, it made me laugh aloud.

I found Highway 123 without a problem, settled in for the final stretch, and when I was five minutes out, I began looking for mile markers. To my mind, had the stroke occurred farther east, he would have been transported to a hospital in Greenville, which was a much larger city and had more hospitals. Reaching the outskirts of Easley brought back memories, but none of the town itself. Nothing seemed familiar, nor could I remember the exact route I’d taken to the hospital, those memories overwhelmed completely by the worries I’d had at the time.

I eventually spotted mile marker 9 and I began to slow the SUV, scanning both sides of the highway. Unlike the majority of the drive, there was more than farmland or forest here; there were houses and pawnshops, used car lots and junkyards, gas stations, and even an antique store. The sight was discouraging; finding someone in any one of those businesses or houses who would remember my grandfather from more than six months ago—much less someone able to offer any helpful advice—might take days, even weeks, and while I was interested in the mystery, I already knew I wouldn’t commit to something like that. It made me wonder whether the trip had been worthwhile at all.

And yet, as I finally passed mile marker 8, my heart sped up. On the right was a Waffle House—my grandfather was a fan of their restaurants—and then, about a minute later, another smaller sign on the opposite side of the highway advertising the Evergreen Motel. I remembered from medical school that strokes were most likely to occur during two two-hour windows, one in the morning and one in the evening. Taking into account the normal time he woke, a possible breakfast at Waffle House, and his eventual arrival time at the hospital, I just might have stumbled upon the motel where he’d stayed the night.

My hunch deepened as I approached. I saw the same street scene that I’d spotted on Google Earth, but in real life, it was more easily understandable. What I thought was a strip mall was actually an old motel located directly behind mile marker 7, the kind of place that might prefer cash, which was a good thing since my grandfather didn’t have a credit card. More than that, I could easily imagine my grandfather staying there. It was one story, shaped in a U, with maybe twelve rooms total. The olive-colored exterior had faded to a dull green and there were a few decrepit rocking chairs placed out in front of the rooms, no doubt in an attempt to create a homier feel to the place. It brought to mind a cross between my grandfather’s house and the Trading Post, and I could imagine my grandfather breathing a sigh of relief when he’d stumbled across it.

A small sign in a window nearest the highway indicated the lobby, and I pulled to a stop in front of it. There were only three other cars in the lot, but even that struck me as three too many. It was past the normal checkout time, which meant whoever was in the room had decided to stay an additional night here, which was hard to believe. Either that, or they were paying by the hour while enjoying an afternoon fling, which I assumed was far more likely. Not that I was judging them, mind you…

I pulled open a squawky screen door, heard a bell jingle, and entered a small, dimly lit room fronted by a chest-high counter. On the wall behind the counter were hooks with actual keys attached to plastic fobs hanging from them. The doorway behind the counter was partially obscured by a beaded curtain, and I could hear a television blaring. The volume was lowered and a short, red-haired woman who could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty emerged from behind the beads. She seemed disappointed, as though my arrival had taken her away from her sole source of enjoyment at work, that being the television.

“Do you need a room?”

“No,” I said, “but I was hoping you could help me.”

I gave her a brief summary of the information I hoped to learn. As I spoke, her eyes traveled from my injured hand to the scar on my face, her expression openly curious. Instead of answering, she asked, “You Army?”

“Navy,” I said.

“My brother was in the Army,” she said. “He was in Iraq three different times.”

“Tough place,” I said. “I was in Afghanistan.”

“Not so easy there, either.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I agreed. “But at least I wasn’t there three times.”

For the first time, she smiled. “What were you saying? About your grandfather?”

I told her again about my grandfather before adding that the ambulance company indicated that he’d collapsed near the mile marker out front, early in the morning—which made it possible, if not likely, that he’d stayed at the Evergreen. “I was hoping you could check the register.”

“When was that?”

I told her the date and she shook her head.

“I’m really sorry. As much as I’d like to help, you’ll have to ask Beau about that. I’m not supposed to let people see the records unless they have a warrant. I could lose my job.”

“Beau’s the owner?”

“The manager,” she answered. “He runs the place for his uncle in West Virginia.”

“Do you have a number to call him?”

“I do, but I’m not supposed to disturb him. He’s sleeping right now. Don’t like to be disturbed. He works nights. Eight to eight.”

With hours like that, I wouldn’t want to be disturbed, either. “Would you happen to know anything about my grandfather? Were you working here then? Maybe you heard something?”

Her fingers drummed on the counter. “I recall hearing about some old guy needing an ambulance right out there in the parking lot. Might’ve been him. But might not. There’s been a few people who’ve died here in the last couple of years, so they kinda run together. Heart attacks mostly. One time, a suicide.”

I wondered if that was typical of this place or motels and hotels in general. “Will Beau be working tonight?”

“Yep.” She nodded. “But don’t be put off when you meet him. He looks kind of squirrelly, but he’s all right. He’s got a good heart.”

“I appreciate your help.”

“I didn’t do much,” she said. “What I can do is leave a note for Beau, telling him to expect you and to help you out if he can.”

“I appreciate that.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Trevor Benson.”

“I’m Maggie,” she said. “Thank you for your service. And sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

With hours to kill, I drove back to Greenville and spent some time browsing at Barnes & Noble before having a steak dinner at Ruth’s Chris. Figuring I’d need to stay overnight, I arranged for a room at the Marriott. While the Evergreen might have been fine by my grandfather’s standards, I preferred a place with a few more amenities.

I returned to the Evergreen Motel at a quarter past eight. By then, it was dark and my headlights illuminated four cars in the parking lot. They weren’t the same as the ones that had been there before, the afternoon delights long since over. I parked in the same spot and entered the lobby. Again I heard the television blaring before Beau emerged from the back room.

My first thought was that I understood what Maggie had meant: The man who approached the counter looked exactly like the kind of guy who worked the night shift at a place called the Evergreen Motel on a quiet highway in the middle of nowhere. I suspected he was about the same age as or younger than me; he was rail thin, with a scraggly half beard and hair that probably hadn’t been washed in a week. His white T-shirt was stained and he had a small chain hooked from a belt loop to his wallet. His expression flickered between indifference and irritation and I could smell beer on his breath.

“Are you Beau?”

He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and sighed. “Who’s asking?”

“Trevor Benson,” I said. “I came by earlier and spoke to Maggie.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “She left me a note and said that I should help you because you’re a veteran. Something about your grandfather.”

I went through the story again. Even before I finished, he was nodding. “Yeah, I remember him. Old guy—like really old, right? Driving a beater truck?”

“Probably,” I said. “It sure sounds like him.”

He reached under the counter and pulled out a notebook, the kind you might find at any office supply store. “What was the date?”

I told him, watching as he began flipping back through the pages. “Thing is, we only require an ID if they pay with a credit card. With cash and the key deposit, we don’t bother checking. There’s a lot of John Does in here, so I can’t guarantee anything.”

No surprise there. “I’m sure he would have used his real name.”

He continued thumbing back, finally zeroing in on the appropriate date. “What was his name again?”

“Carl Haverson.”

“Yep,” he said. “Paid cash for one night. Returned the key and got his deposit back.”

“Do you remember anything he might have said? Where he might have been going?”

“I can’t help you there. Sorry. Guests kind of run together, you know?”

“Can you tell me what you do remember?”

“I remember finding him,” he said. “He was in his truck, with the engine still idling. I don’t know how long he was there, but I remember looking out the window and seeing the truck about to turn onto the highway. A couple of minutes later, the truck was still there. I remember because it was belching out a lot of smoke. But anyway, the truck was blocking part of the exit, so I finally went out there and was about to knock on the window when I saw him slumped over the wheel. I opened the door and he didn’t look good. I wasn’t sure if he was dead or alive, so I went back inside and called 911. The police showed up and an ambulance came and the crew did their thing before loading him into the back. He was still alive at that point, but it was the last I saw of him.”

After he finished, I glanced through the window toward the exit, visualizing the scene. Squirrelly or not, Beau had been helpful.

“Do you know what happened to the truck?”

“Some of it.”

“Just some?”

“I asked the sheriff if I could move it so it wasn’t blocking the exit. Like I explained, it was still running. He told me to go ahead, but to put the keys in an envelope, in case the guy came back. So I moved the truck into the lot over by the end and did what he told me to do.”

“Do you still have the keys?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want any trouble. I waited a couple of weeks for the guy to come back. Your grandfather, I mean. But he never did and I never heard anything.”

“I’m not angry,” I said, “and you’re not in trouble. I’m just trying to find his truck on the off chance there was something inside that would tell me where he was going.”

He studied me.

“My uncle told me to have it towed,” he finally said. “I gave the tow truck driver the keys.”

“Do you happen to remember who you called?”

“AJ’s,” he said. “AJ’s Towing.”

It was probably too late to pay a visit to AJ’s, so I drove back to the Greenville Marriott. I showered and watched an action movie on pay-per-view before crawling in bed. Reaching for my phone, I texted Natalie.

Too tired to text a second time if she responded, I put the phone on silent and turned out the lamp. I fell asleep within minutes and my last conscious thought was to wonder again where my grandfather had been going.

In the morning, there was no response from Natalie.

After breakfast, I debated whether to call AJ’s or swing by, finally deciding on the latter. The GPS guided me to an industrial area of Easley and though I found the address, I saw no sign indicating the name of the business, nor could I find an entrance to any office. Instead, I saw a large, rectangular prefabricated building with three large roll-up doors squatting in the center of a crumbling asphalt yard, all behind tall chain-link fencing. Though there was a gate that led to the property, it was chained and locked. On the opposite side of the yard, I saw three dusty cars parked in a row. No one seemed to be out and about.

It was regular business hours, but once I thought about it, the locked premises seemed logical. Unless someone had their car or truck impounded on the property, there was probably no reason to keep an office staff, or even someone around to answer the phone. Most likely, the phone number for the business went straight to a cell phone.

I dialed it, listened to it ring, and after hearing the gruff recorded voice of AJ, I left a brief message about the information I needed and asked him to call me.

With little to do other than wait, I toured Easley, finding it prettier than I’d expected. I also found the hospital again and though I didn’t get out of my vehicle, I sent a silent thanks to the good people who worked there. My grandfather had been well cared for in his final days by conscientious doctors and nurses, people who were thoughtful enough to try to track me down.

At noon, I drove back to Greenville and had lunch downtown, at a place that served an exceptional crab melt and appeared to be frequented by women who worked in nearby office buildings. Because I’d checked out of the hotel, I lingered in the restaurant until I finally felt self-conscious, then went for a walk.

Three hours passed without hearing from AJ. Then four and five hours. I debated leaving for New Bern, but felt compelled to speak with AJ face-to-face. Anyway, even if I left then, I wouldn’t get home until nearly midnight.

I went back to the Marriott and checked in again. While charging my phone, I kept the ringer on high. I texted Natalie again.

I opted for Mexican food for dinner, within walking distance of the hotel. As I walked back, I dialed AJ’s cell number a second time. This time I got an answer. I identified myself, mentioned that I’d called earlier about my grandfather’s truck, and was abruptly cut off. Either AJ had hung up on me or my service had dropped. I dialed again and—as it had earlier that morning—the call went straight to voicemail and I disconnected the call.

In the hotel, I lay in bed thinking about that. It seemed that AJ didn’t want to speak with me, though I wasn’t sure why. Nor was I sure what to do. Since I couldn’t find him at his place of business and didn’t know his last name, I was at a loss as to how to reach him. I supposed I could possibly find a business license with a name, or maybe I could call the county offices in the hopes they would provide me with a home address, but would he speak to me then? If I showed up at his front door? Or would he simply shut the door in my face? Based on the way he’d hung up on me, I suspected the latter. I briefly considered calling for a tow, but figured that as soon as he learned why I’d really called, he’d be angry and even less likely to help.

Which left me three options. I could keep leaving messages, I could get an attorney involved, or perhaps I could hire a private investigator. All of those could be done from home, however, and I wanted to evaluate those options in the morning.

I also wanted to think about Natalie because, strangely, I still hadn’t heard from her.

Chapter 12

Leaving Greenville early, I was able to make it home by early afternoon. Because I still hadn’t decided what to do about AJ, I went for a longer-than-usual run and followed up with about an hour of stretching. Spending so much time in the car over the last few days had done my back no favors.

In the shower, I wondered whether to text Natalie again. I’d texted twice and had heard nothing, but wasn’t sure what to make of that. It was possible she was someone who didn’t like to text, or maybe hadn’t wanted to bother me when she thought I was busy. It was also possible that her job had kept her on the go—and then, too tired to even peek at her phone. I was certainly guilty of such behavior in the past; I could remember Sandra and I had argued about it. She’d told me how much being ignored bothered her, when even a short response would do. At the time, I thought Sandra was making too big of a deal about it; now, it was easier to understand her frustration.

I made a sandwich at home and ate in front of the television, watching reruns of some cop show set in New York. I was tired from my travels and expected to turn in early. It was already dark, moonlight streaming through the windows. I’d left my phone charging in the kitchen and it was only after I’d washed and dried my plate that I bothered to check it.

It was thoughtful, I suppose, for Natalie to check in. However, I confess I was still a bit miffed about the delay and the impersonal nature of the text. Feeling slightly passive-aggressive, I didn’t respond right away. I was sure Bowen and I would talk about my decision in our next session, and whether that actually constituted me striving to be the best version of myself.

On the back porch, I read for another half hour, but my concentration kept lapsing and I finally put the book aside. Reaching for the phone, I decided to keep my reply brief and to the point.

I wondered if she could read the lingering irritation in my terse response. Weren’t early-stage relationships supposed to be filled with eagerness and desire? If so, where was hers?

Maybe, I heard the voice inside me whisper, the desire is there, but since you’ve been away, it’s been focused on the Other Guy.

I didn’t even want to go there and a moment later, Natalie texted me again.

A flood of childhood memories surfaced in my mind. Green Springs was known throughout much of Eastern North Carolina as a Water World–type structure, a throwback to the old-fashioned swimming holes common in the South so long ago. Built by a local, it sat on the Neuse River—or more accurately, in the Neuse River—and was constructed of pressure-treated lumber balanced on pilings sunk deep into the mud. Its three sides, each about twenty-five yards long, boasted two levels, except for the tower, which was five stories high, allowing jumpers to test their courage by leaping off the top into the water. There were ropes you could balance on, a zip line, swings, and pilings that kids would hopscotch across like stepping stones. I’d spent many a summer day there swimming, climbing, swinging, and jumping until I was too exhausted to move. My grandfather, who was more than seventy at the time, once joined me on a leap from the second level, triggering a round of spontaneous applause from onlookers.

There was no charge for admission but drinking and drugs were forbidden; nor was anything sexual allowed, even kissing. No Sex Play was the actual rule, but strangely, smoking was permitted and I could remember watching young teenagers lighting up while perched in the upper reaches on hot summer days.

I’d never been there at night, however. I didn’t think the place was even open at night, but maybe Natalie had special privileges as a deputy. Or maybe the owner of Green Springs had no idea she was even there, despite the fact that it stood in the waters directly behind his property. To get to the structure, you had to walk across his back lawn, to a long pier that extended into the deeper waters of the Neuse.

It didn’t take me long to make a decision; despite my prickly pride, I still wanted to see her. In fact, I realized that I’d missed her.

Sure, I texted back. I’ll be there in 15 minutes.

Shrugging into a windbreaker—the temperature was dropping again, that yo-yo temperature effect common to spring—I found my keys and wallet and headed to the car.

While I recalled the general area in which Green Springs was located, finding it took longer than I’d anticipated. Google wasn’t able to help—there was no listing—so I ended up driving along several roads in James City near the Neuse River, until I finally found the place. I pulled into the graveled parking area, immediately spotting Natalie’s car. I wondered if the owner would emerge to check who was pulling in so late, but aside from a small lamp burning in an upstairs window, I saw no evidence that anyone was even awake.

There was enough moonlight to illuminate my path as I eased my way down the gently sloping back lawn toward the water. From the neighbor’s house, I heard a dog barking and was again serenaded by crickets as I breathed in the scent of pine and recently cut grass, which always reminded me of summer.

I reached the low pier, noting how, unlike Brices Creek, the Neuse River never stopped flowing. Starlight dappled its wakes and swells, making it seem as though the water was lit from below. My grandfather had told me once that the Neuse was the widest river in the United States when it finally emptied into the Pamlico Sound—wider even than the Mississippi—but here in James City, it was only a mile across. Suppressing a twinge of foreboding, I wondered why Natalie had come here at night.

Halfway down the pier, the structure began to come into focus, bringing a smile to my face. Green Springs was the same as I remembered, the kind of place where kids actually played at their own risk. There were no safety rails or even steps from one level to the next; instead, a person had to scale a series of planks while avoiding popped nails. The owner replaced rotting planks and performed other repairs during the winter months, an ongoing construction project that made Green Springs seem perpetually unfinished.

I finally reached the main structure and searched for Natalie without luck. Finally, I called her name softly in the darkness.

“I’m up here,” she answered, her voice drifting down from above.

It sounded like she was on the second level. When I climbed up to the upper reaches, I saw her sitting at the edge of the platform, her feet dangling. Like me, she was in jeans and wearing a windbreaker; I also clocked the wine bottle beside her.

She turned, offering a smile. “You came,” she said, her eyes shining in the moonlight. “I was beginning to wonder whether you’d changed your mind.”

“I had trouble finding it. It’s been a while since I’ve been here.”

As I took a seat on the edge beside her, Natalie reached for her cup and took a sip; I could smell the wine on her breath and noticed the bottle was nearly empty.

“How was your trip?” she asked in a singsong voice.

“It was fine,” I answered. “What are you doing out here?”

She ignored my question. “Did you find your grandfather’s truck?”

“Working on it,” I said. “I know who towed it but I haven’t spoken with him yet. How long have you been out here?”

“I don’t know. Two hours, maybe? I don’t really know. What time is it?”

“It’s almost ten.”

“It’s getting late,” she declared. I watched as she gulped from her cup again. While she didn’t appear to be drunk, it was clear the bottle of wine had been full when she’d arrived and I felt the first flutter of nervousness. Something was going on, something I wasn’t sure I was going to like.

“Shouldn’t you be heading home? To get some rest for tomorrow?”

“I’m not working tomorrow,” she answered. “My shifts got moved because another deputy had to testify in court. So I have to work this weekend. Tonight is like my Saturday night.”

“Ah,” I said.

She offered me the cup. “Do you want some wine?”

“Thank you, but I’m fine.”

She nodded. “Okay then,” she said. “I guess I should have brought a Yuengling for you.”

I didn’t respond. Instead, I examined her profile, hoping and failing to uncover clues as to why we were here.

She finished her drink, then emptied the rest of the bottle into her cup.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “Did something happen today?”

“No,” she said. “Nothing happened today. And no, I’m not okay.”

“Is there something I can do?”

She gave a bitter-sounding laugh but didn’t answer. Instead, she focused on her cup. “Did you know that until last weekend with you, I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in over six months? Now, this is the second time in a week. You must think I have a problem.”

“You don’t have a problem, but I do think something’s bothering you.”

“You could say that,” she said. “I used to think that I had things under control, but now I know I was just fooling myself.” Again, she laughed, but the sound was heartbreaking. “I’m probably not making any sense.”

No, I thought, you’re not. But I understood emotional turmoil and from experience I knew that talking about it would help only if she was the one who did most of the talking. My role was simply to listen and to empathize, even if I didn’t fully understand what was going on.

“Do you believe in God?” she finally asked me.

“Most of the time,” I answered. “But not always.”

I noticed a flicker of sadness in her expression.

“I do,” she said. “I always have. Growing up, I went to church every Sunday and Wednesday nights. Good Baptist. I used to enjoy it, and I thought that I understood the way things were supposed to work. But as I grew older, I realized that I didn’t. I know that God created us with free will, but I’ve never understood why there’s so much suffering in the world. Why would God, who’s supposed to be all good and loving, allow innocent people to suffer? I remember searching for the explanation in the Bible, but it’s not in there. It’s the biggest question there is, but there’s no answer. And I see it all the time in my work. I see it everywhere. But…why?”

“I don’t know. And I can’t say that I know much about the Bible, either. My favorite part of church was staring at the girls.”

“Ha,” she snickered, clutching her cup with both hands. Then, in a subdued voice, “Do you know why I came out here?”

“I have no idea.”

“Because this was one of the last places I can remember being truly happy. I’d never heard of this place before I moved here, but I remember coming out here late in the summer. The water was perfect, and I spread out a towel to get some sun. And as I lay there, I thought about how wonderful everything was. My life was everything I wanted it to be, and I was just…absolutely content. I wanted to feel that way again, even for an instant.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did you feel it?”

“No,” she said. “That’s why I brought the wine. Because if I couldn’t feel happy, then I didn’t want to feel anything at all.”

I didn’t like what she was saying, my worry for her growing more pervasive. Perhaps she sensed my concern, because she moved the bottle behind us, then scooted closer to me. Instinctively, I put my arm around her shoulder and neither of us said anything. Instead, we stared toward the river, watching as the celestial light made the water flicker hypnotically.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” she said, sighing. “Being out here at night?”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I didn’t think it was allowed.”

“It’s not. But I didn’t care.”

“Obviously.”

“You know what else I was thinking about while I was out here? Before you came?”

“I have no idea.”

“I was thinking about the bees. And the alligators and the eagles and the dinner on the porch. I was happy then, too. Maybe not perfectly content, but…happy. For the first time in a long time, I kind of felt like myself again and while I was sitting out here, I realized how much I miss that. But…”

She trailed off. When she didn’t finish her thought, I asked the obvious.

“But what?”

“I realized that I’m not supposed to be happy.”

Her comment jolted me. “Why would you say that? Of course you are. Why would you think that?”

Instead of answering, she took another swallow from her cup. “We should probably get going. Or at least, I should go. It’s getting late.”

“Please don’t change the subject. Why wouldn’t you think you’re supposed to be happy?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Maybe I would, if I knew what you were talking about.”

In the silence, I heard the soft sound of her breaths, could feel the subtle movement beneath my arm. “Sometimes, in life, you’re confronted with an impossible decision, with no happy ending, no matter what you choose. Like…imagine you’re married with three kids, and you’re rock climbing with your wife, and something goes wrong. You’re dangling from the cliff, with no rope; one hand is on the rock, and the other hand is holding your wife, and you’re getting weaker and you know that there’s no way you can save both your wife and yourself. So you either have to let go of your wife—and live with her death—or you both have to die and allow your children to be orphaned. In that situation, neither decision will make you happy. That sort of thing.”

I thought about what she was trying hard not to say.

“You’re talking about choosing between me and the other guy.”

She nodded, her mouth a tight line. “But I don’t want to talk about it right now, okay? It’s all I’ve been thinking about since I last saw you, and I’m so tired and I’ve been drinking. It’s not the right time. I’m not ready.”

“Okay,” I said, with difficulty. I loved her. I longed to talk about us, about our future. I wanted to convince her that she could be happy with me, that I’d do everything possible to show her she’d made the right decision by choosing me. “What would you like to talk about?”

“Nothing,” she said. “But can you just sit here and hold me for a while?”

I pulled her closer, and we sat in silence on that cool and dark spring evening. In the distance, I saw cars passing over the bridge; lights were glowing in the houses across the river. The air was growing moist, thickening, and I predicted there would be a heavy layer of fog in the morning, blurring the verdant landscape into a world of shadows.

Natalie dumped the remainder of her wine into the water, barely making a splash; I focused on the heat of her skin and the way her body curved into mine. I thought back on our date, and the softness of her lips the first time we kissed. Closing my eyes, I knew that I loved her, no matter what.

We would get past this, I told myself. It would be hard for her—perhaps even excruciating—but I was willing to give her the time and space that she needed. I knew that she loved me the same way that I loved her. It might take a while, but I felt she would reach the same conclusion, and that we would find a way to be together.

And yet, as hard as I tried to convince myself of those things, I feared that I might be wrong about all of it.

But I said nothing. Nor did she, and we sat together, on a night that should have belonged to us but somehow didn’t feel that way. Finally, I heard her exhale.

“We should probably be going,” she said again. “I’ve got some errands to run first thing in the morning, since I won’t have time this weekend.”

I nodded reluctantly. Rising, I offered my hand to help her up, then grabbed the wine bottle and cup. I walked to the spot where I’d climbed up, and while I was worried that the wine would make her unsteady, she climbed down easily. I followed, discarding the wine bottle and cup into the garbage can on the first level, and we started down the pier. As we walked, Natalie reached for my hand, and a wave of relief washed through me. I knew she’d made her decision and I felt suddenly lighter than I had all night.

We walked across the lawn toward our cars. When we reached hers, I cleared my throat.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to drive.”

“No,” she agreed, “it isn’t. I need to get my bag, but can you bring me home?”

“I’d be happy to,” I said.

She pulled her handbag from the passenger seat while I unlocked my car. Opening the door for her, I waited until she was settled, then rounded the car and slipped behind the wheel. Pulling out into the street, I turned to her.

“Which way?”

“Head back to the highway toward New Bern. I live in the Ghent area. Do you know where that is?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Take the first exit after the bridge and turn right.”

After only a few minutes, Natalie directed me to turn on Spencer Avenue. It was a pretty street, with mature trees and houses dating from the first half of the previous century. Natalie eventually had me pull into the driveway of a charming two-story home.

Turning off the engine, I got out. Natalie did as well and together we made our way toward the front door.

“So this is where you live, huh?”

“For now,” she said. She began digging around in her purse.

“Are you thinking of moving?”

“Maybe,” she said, fishing out her keys. “I haven’t decided. It’s a little too big, and I might want something with a single story.”

“Are you trying to find anything?”

“Not yet,” she said.

“Too many errands?”

“Sure,” she said. “Let’s go with that.”

By then, we were standing on her doorstep. I hesitated, trying to read her expression in the darkened doorway. “I’m glad you texted.”

“Why? I was a hot mess tonight.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Liar.”

I grinned before leaning in to kiss her. She seemed reluctant but finally kissed me back and we separated. “I’m glad you’re in my life, Natalie. I hope you know that.”

“I know.”

Not wanting to sound desperate, I pretended not to notice that she hadn’t reciprocated my feeling. “Would you like me to pick you up in the morning so we could go get your car?”

“No,” she answered. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll have someone from work take care of it. It’s out of your way, and there’s another deputy who lives just down the street. It’s not a big deal.”

Using her key, she unlocked the door, pushing it open a crack.

“I know you’re working this weekend, but maybe we could get dinner tomorrow?”

She seemed to search the quiet, leafy street before coming back to me. “I don’t think I can make it. After tonight, I’ll probably just stay in.”

“All right,” I said, wanting to know the reason, but knowing enough not to ask. “No worries. We’ll try for next week, okay?”

Her hand moved to the chain around her neck, which I knew to be a nervous response. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

“I know you love me, Trevor, but do you care about me, too? I mean, really and truly care about me?”

“Of course I care about you.”

“Then if I asked you to do something, even if it was something that you didn’t want to do, would you do it? If it was the most important thing in the world to me?”

I could see the naked plea in her expression. “Yes.”

“Then, because you love me, and because you care for me, I want you to do something for me. I want you to promise me that you’ll do it.”

“Sure, okay,” I answered, tension rising in me like floodwaters. “Anything,” I said. “I promise.”

She smiled, sorrowful, before leaning toward me. We kissed a second time, her body tight against me. I felt her shoulders shudder and heard her fight to steady her breath before she finally pulled back. Her eyes were moist as she reached up, touching the scar on my face.

“We need to stop,” she said. “I need to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“This. You and me. All of it. We need to stop.”

My stomach did a flip. “What are you saying?”

She swiped at a tear, her eyes never leaving my own. It took a long time for her to get the words out.

“Please never, ever try to contact me again.”

Shock left me unable to speak, but she seemed to have expected it. With a sad smile, she stepped through the opening, closing the door behind her, leaving me wondering how my world had just come crashing down around me.

Chapter 13

Friday was spent in a daze, the weekend much the same. Though I forced myself to work out, I couldn’t manage much more. My stomach was in knots, the idea of food nausea-inducing, and while part of me longed to drink to oblivion, I was careful not to touch so much as a single beer. I didn’t study or clean the house or do laundry; instead, I took long walks in the afternoons, rehashing every moment that Natalie and I had spent together, trying to figure out where things had gone wrong. Where I’d gone wrong.

All signs pointed to the Other Guy, but I still couldn’t fully accept that. Less than a week had passed since we’d spent that unforgettable day and night together; even if she’d decided to rekindle that other relationship instead of making a go of it with me, why hadn’t she said anything? Why the flat request never to contact her again? Was this some kind of game to her? While I granted that she played things close to the vest, she didn’t strike me as inherently manipulative. Part of me was certain that Natalie would come around. She’d call and blame her words on the fact that she’d been drinking; she’d admit that she hadn’t been thinking clearly. She’d apologize and we’d talk about what was really going on. We’d work things out, and sooner rather than later, everything would go back to normal.

I carried my phone with me wherever I went, but my phone remained silent. Nor did I attempt to contact her. She’d asked me not to and I honored my promise, even as it simultaneously angered and confused me, even as my heart was breaking.

Gradually, my appetite returned, but I didn’t sleep well. In my waking hours, I felt more on edge than I had in a long time, and I was thankful that I’d be speaking with Bowen on Monday. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I really needed his help.

“It’s clear that you’re upset,” Bowen said. “Anyone in your situation would feel the same.”

I was in the kitchen, staring at Bowen on the computer screen. I had told him briefly about my trip to Easley before plunging into the events involving Natalie and me. I spoke in circles, repeated myself more than once, continually posing the same questions without really expecting an answer. On his end, Bowen waited for me to finally talk myself out before offering any response.

“I’m more hurt and confused than anything,” I said, running my hand through my hair. “I just don’t understand what happened, Doc. She told me she loves me. What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know that I can answer that question,” he said. “All I know for certain is that—according to you—she made her wishes known.”

“Do you think it’s because of the other man?”

“Don’t you?”

Of course I do. Why else would you end a relationship with someone you loved?

When I didn’t respond, Bowen cleared his throat. “How are you sleeping?”

“Not well, the last few days. Maybe three or four hours, with a lot of tossing and turning.”

“Bad dreams?”

“I doubt I’m sleeping enough to dream.”

“And during the day?”

“On edge. Tense. But I’m not drinking and I’m working out. Even though I’m not hungry, I’m still making sure that I eat.”

“How about your hands? Any trembling?”

“Why? Did you expect me to become a total wreck?” I snapped.

“I just asked the question,” he said. “I take it the answer is no.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Of course it’s a no. Believe me, I know my situation and understand the things I have to do to stay healthy. I’m under stress at the present time, but I’m doing my best, okay? I just want to know what to do about Natalie.”

I could feel him staring at me through the screen before he finally said in a neutral voice, “If it’s so important to you to understand, I suppose you could always go to her house and try to speak with her.”

“Are you suggesting that I do that?”

“No,” he said. “If you were asking my opinion, I wouldn’t recommend it. Not right now, anyway. Based on the way you described the situation, she seemed unequivocal in her decision. To try to revisit it against her wishes would likely backfire and make things even worse.”

“I don’t think they can get any worse.”

“Oddly, things can almost always get worse.”

I rolled my shoulders a couple of times before forcing myself to take a deep breath. “I just want…”

When I trailed off, Bowen’s eyes were empathetic. “I know what you want,” he said. “You want Natalie to feel the same way about you as you do about her. You want your love reciprocated, and you want a future with her.”

“Exactly.”

“And yet you also suspected that she was seeing someone else and was perhaps even in a serious relationship, prior to her actually admitting it. In other words, you were never sure what to expect. Now, couples’ counseling is not necessarily my area of expertise except in the context of PTSD, but one thing I’ve learned in the course of my own life is that you can’t force a romantic interest with someone who doesn’t want one with you.”

“But that’s the thing. I have the sense that she actually does want one with me.”

“Despite making it clear she wanted to end it?”

He had me there. Bowen went on. “Then the best you can do is wait until she changes her mind. In the meantime, it’s critical to take care of yourself and continue to move forward in your own life. It’s important not to dwell, since it’s likely to make you feel even worse.”

“How am I supposed to not think about it?”

“One thing you can do is stay busy. Stay focused on the things you need to do. Remember the lessons of CBT and DBT—that positive behaviors can help lessen the emotional turmoil you’re feeling. For instance, have you found a place in Baltimore to live yet? Tomorrow is the first of May.”

“Not yet,” I said. “I still have to figure that out.”

“It might help you feel better to get out of town. New environments, especially when combined with a specific, important purpose for the visit, can help distract from the emotions you’re experiencing.”

I knew that was true, but I nonetheless wondered if my trip to South Carolina had made Natalie’s decision to end it that much easier. Had I spent time with her earlier in the week, perhaps none of this would have happened. But who really knew for sure?

“You’re right, Doc. I’ll get on that.”

“You still have friends there, right?”

“A couple of guys from my residency are still in the area.”

“Maybe go to a ball game, or set up a lunch. Reconnecting with old friends is always good for the soul.”

Bowen, I knew, was a believer in any form of healthy distraction.

“I’ll think about it.”

“You also said that you wanted to speak with the owner of the towing company?”

Speaking with AJ had become a low, if not nonexistent, priority over the last few days. It had been all I could do to hold myself together.

“I’ll do that, too,” I mumbled.

“Good,” he said. “Keep in mind that as hard as things are, it is possible to find things to enjoy and to be grateful for the opportunities that life presents.”

Bowen used that expression frequently and while I recognized how important enjoyment and gratitude were when it came to good mental health, there were times it annoyed me. Like right now.

“Any other advice you can offer?”

“Concerning what?”

“What I should do about Natalie.”

“I think,” he said slowly, “you’re handling everything as well as can be expected at the present time. But I’m wondering if it might be a good idea for me to prescribe something that will help you sleep better. Extended periods without quality sleep can greatly affect how PTSD can manifest. Do you have any thoughts on it?”

I’d used sleep aids before, along with antidepressants. I understood well the benefits they could offer, but I preferred to avoid them.

“I think I’m okay, Doc. Let’s see how it goes.”

“Let me know if you change your mind. Remember that I’m around if you feel like you need to talk before our next session.”

“Will do.”

Despite my conversation with Bowen, I wasn’t inclined to find things to enjoy or to look for ways to be grateful.

Instead, I continued to dwell on the situation while pacing from one end of the property to the other. I tried to reflect on what Bowen had recommended; I did my best to accept the idea that Natalie had to make the decision that was right for her. Through it all, my emotions remained leaden and I could feel the tightness in my jaw coil into an ache.

To my chagrin, Bowen had been proven right again. He was like your parents when they told you to eat your vegetables as a kid: You might not like it, but it was indisputably good for you.

I knew enough not to risk going out in public in case someone cut in front of me in line or otherwise challenged my shaky equilibrium. I was self-aware enough to understand that it was sometimes better to hunker down and avoid human contact altogether.

Which is exactly what I did.

In the morning, I woke feeling more irritated at myself than Natalie. Though I hadn’t slept well, I knew it was time for the four-day pity party to end. That didn’t mean I was grateful—far from it. But I’d learned over time that CBT and DBT work. In other words, I had to stay busy and knock items off my to-do list.

After my workout and breakfast, I dived into the internet, reviewing descriptions and photographs of furnished rentals in the vicinity of Johns Hopkins. Because I’d lived there before, I knew the neighborhoods well and was able to find eight different units that piqued my interest.

Thinking Bowen was also right about leaving town, I called various brokers to set up times for viewings through the end of the week. Next, I booked a hotel, then finally emailed with an orthopedic surgeon who still lived in Baltimore and agreed to meet me for dinner Saturday night. I looked into catching an Orioles game as well, but they were playing away. Instead, I reserved tickets to the National Aquarium. I could practically feel Bowen patting me on the back for a job well done.

Toward the end of the day, I called AJ’s Towing again and left a slightly different message. I told him that after my grandfather’s passing, I had inherited the truck and asked point-blank for its return. If he didn’t comply, I would assume that it was stolen and alert the appropriate law enforcement authorities. I left my phone number and address, and gave him until the following Monday to get back to me, suggesting that he contact me sooner rather than later.

Leaving such an aggressive message might not have been the wisest thing to do. People generally don’t respond well to threats, though in my current mood it nonetheless felt good to lash out at something.

On Wednesday, I packed a bag, tossed it in the back of the SUV, and was out the door by seven. The drive, which has a tendency to put one in a reflective mood, naturally brought Natalie to mind, making the inevitable traffic in DC a challenge in my hair-trigger state. I became convinced that certain drivers were purposely trying to annoy me.

Fortunately, and despite myself, I reached Baltimore without incident and drove to my first appointment, where the broker was waiting for me. Functional place, halfway decent building, and while it would have sufficed, that was all the excitement it generated. The decor was dated and the furnishings worn, not to mention the view from the tiny porch was of a garbage-strewn alley. It was basically the same situation with the second unit, though the view was better if one was fond of staring into the neighbor’s place and wanted to lean out the window to borrow a cup of sugar. I struck both apartments off my list.

Stiff and out of sorts, I paced the hallways of the hotel for an hour before finally ordering room service. Though I fell asleep early, I woke in the middle of the night and finished an extra-long workout in the gym before anyone else even arrived. I splurged on breakfast, saw three more units for rent on Thursday, of which the second appealed to me. After indicating a strong interest in it, I promised to let the broker know by the end of the day on Friday.

On Friday, two of the three units were also promising, but I was still sold on the one I’d seen on Thursday. I called the broker again, set up a late-afternoon appointment, then signed the lease. Glad that I’d made a decision and taken care of it, I decided to celebrate by eating at the bar instead of ordering room service. I struck up a conversation with a woman who sold veterinary products. Attractive, an engaging conversationalist, and definitely flirty, she made it clear she’d be interested in whatever I happened to propose for later that night. But I wasn’t in the mood, and after I finished my second drink, I said my goodbyes. In my room, I lay on the bed with my hands clasped behind my head, wondering if Natalie was experiencing any regrets.

The aquarium was well worth my time despite the crowd; dinner with my friend and his wife was even more fun. Joe and Laurie had been married three years and had a young daughter at home. Laurie spent part of the evening trying to convince me that she had a friend that I really should meet. “You two would hit it off,” she said. “She’s just your type.” I demurred—I was leaving the following morning, I reminded them—but to Laurie, that made no difference. “You’ll be living here soon,” she said. “We’ll all get together then.”

Who knew? Maybe by then, I might be in a frame of mind to take them up on that.

Right now, I couldn’t conceive of it.

I made the drive home on Sunday. After tossing my dirty clothes in the laundry, I collected the mail that had built up in my absence. Generally, there wasn’t much—assorted bills and junk mail—but I was surprised to find a letter from an attorney named Marvin Kerman in South Carolina, addressed to me.

After tearing open the envelope, I read the letter while I walked, finishing it on the front porch. The attorney, who represented AJ’s Towing, had written to inform me that my grandfather’s truck had been auctioned off for nonpayment of the tow and automobile storage, in accordance with South Carolina law. I was further informed that a letter had been sent to my grandfather’s home the previous December, explaining that unless remittance was made, the truck would be considered abandoned and the towing company would take appropriate action. Toward the end, the attorney stated that unless I stopped harassing the owner, criminal or civil charges would be pursued against me.

More than likely, the original notice had been in the mail that I’d carelessly thrown away when I’d first moved in, and as my instincts had predicted, it had been a stupid idea to threaten AJ whatever-his-last-name-was. Which left me largely at a dead end.

But not entirely.

With the letter, there was one more angle I could pursue, even if I wasn’t sure it would lead anywhere. I had the name and number of the attorney, after all.

With my apartment secured, the move to Baltimore felt imminent, even though I still had a month or more before I had to go. Feeling nostalgic, I decided to spend some time with the bees before my session with Bowen.

I suited up, collected everything I needed, and picked four of the hives at random. Pulling out the frames, I noted that honey collection was well underway; the bees had been busy in recent weeks. Though my residency would be in full swing, I made the decision to return to New Bern in early August to harvest the honey. I could do it over the weekend and figured that it was something my grandfather would have wanted me to do. Claude, I assumed, would be thrilled.

In making that decision, I realized that I had no intention of either selling or renting the property. There were too many memories for me to reconcile and while I wasn’t sure what that meant for me in the future, I simply couldn’t imagine someone else living here. I wondered whether my decision was some sort of subconscious desire to be near Natalie but dismissed the idea.

I was keeping the house because of my grandfather, not her. Which also meant that I needed to hire a contractor because the house was in serious need of repairs. It was one thing to stay for a few months; it was entirely another to make the house permanently livable. It still needed a new roof and kitchen floor, I assumed there was termite and water damage affecting the foundation, and if I ever wanted to spend any time here in the future, the house was in dire need of a larger master bathroom while the kitchen needed work, too. For all I knew, there might be plumbing or electrical issues as well, all of which would keep the contractor busy for months. I’d need a property manager, someone to watch over the place and keep the contractor on task while sending me photos of the progress.

I wondered then whether Callie would help watch over the hives, adding the queen excluders and shallow supers in early spring. Since she passed the property on her way to work, it wouldn’t be out of the way, and I’d offer to pay her more than the work was probably worth. I was sure she could use the extra money, but I wanted to speak with Claude about her work habits first. Even if she had helped my grandfather once, I still wanted someone dependable.

My to-do list—which I thought had been completed—was suddenly up and running again. Contractor, property manager, Callie and Claude…people to speak with, responsibilities to arrange. Today was as good a day as any to get things started; aside from my session with Bowen, I had only one other item on my agenda.

I made the call to Marvin Kerman, the attorney for AJ’s Towing, immediately after finishing with the hives. His receptionist said that he was in court but would likely return my call later that afternoon.

I set up an appointment with the same general contractor I’d used months earlier, and he told me he’d be able to come by the following week. He also recommended that I get a home inspection beforehand, offering me the name of someone he trusted. The inspector, fortunately, was less busy, and said that he could inspect the home on Thursday. I was also able to find three potential property managers, and I set up times to have them come by, so I could interview them. My session with Bowen went well. He was a bit concerned that I still wasn’t sleeping well, but was pleased to hear I’d secured a new place to live in Baltimore. We discussed my continued agitation over Natalie, and he urged me to give myself time to heal, reminding me that it wasn’t possible to rush through what he described as a period of grief. I tried to deny my angst, but speaking about her made my emotions rise to the surface again in a way that they hadn’t in days. I was shaky by the time I hung up.

And for the first time since she’d ended things, I broke down and wept.

Marvin Kerman returned my call later that afternoon. It was half past five and I suspected I was the last call of his day. When he identified himself, he nearly barked his name into the receiver.

“Thank you for returning my call, Mr. Kerman,” I responded. “I was hoping that you might be able to help me.”

“Unfortunately the truck has already been auctioned,” he said. “As my letter indicated, the process was an entirely legal form of recompense for services rendered.”

“I understand,” I said in a conciliatory tone. “I’m not upset about the truck, nor do I have an issue with the fact that it’s been sold. I’m calling to ask if you might be able to contact your client about something else.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Again, I recounted the story of what had happened to my grandfather and my nagging questions about it. “I wonder if AJ or someone else may have cleaned the truck and put the personal items in a box or in storage somewhere,” I added. “I was hoping I could get those things back.”

“You’re interested in his personal effects, but not the truck or the money?”

“I’m just trying to figure out what happened to him.”

“I don’t know if any personal effects were saved.”

“Would you be willing to ask your client?”

“I suppose. And if there aren’t any personal effects?”

“Then that will be the end of it. I can’t chase clues if there aren’t any.”

Kerman sighed. “I suppose that I can ask him, but again, I can’t guarantee anything.”

“I would appreciate it. Thank you.”

Drained by my tears on Monday and wanting to avoid a recurrence, I spent the rest of the week on autopilot while trying to stay as busy as possible. With the principles of CBT and DBT ringing through my head, I exercised longer and harder than usual, avoided alcohol, and ate as healthy as possible. I pressed forward with the things I needed to do. The inspector came and promised me that he’d have the report ready by Monday, so that the contractor would be able to use the information to put together an estimate. I interviewed property managers and settled on a woman who also worked as a realtor and whose husband was a contractor. She assured me that she had the ability to oversee a construction crew and promised to walk the property at least once a week while I was in Baltimore. I still hadn’t spoken to Claude or Callie, but I figured I could do that any time.

On Friday night, while sitting on the porch, I realized that it had been fifteen days since I’d last spoken with Natalie. Again, I had trouble sleeping, and when I woke in the middle of the night, I decided I was tired of staring at the darkened ceiling for hours. Crawling out of bed, I dressed and noted that it was a little past two in the morning. After a quick trip to the honey shed, I hopped in my SUV and drove to Spencer Avenue. Parking down the block, I walked to Natalie’s property. As I approached, I wondered if she was with the Other Guy right now; I wondered if they were in bed, or if they were out on the town. I wondered whether she was staring at him in the same way she’d stared at me. All of it made it difficult to swallow as I set two jars of honey on her doorstep.

There was no doubt she’d know who had left them, and I wondered what would happen if the Other Guy found them. What story would she tell him? Had she mentioned me at all? Had she even thought about me in the last couple of weeks, or had I already become a half-remembered memory, colored with regret?

Trudging back to the SUV, I heard only the echo of my unanswered questions.

Chapter 14

Another weekend passed, another session with Bowen. I received the inspection report, met with the contractor on Tuesday, and he promised to get me a bid as soon as possible.

Because I hadn’t paid attention to the outside world in days, I had no idea a storm was imminent until heavy clouds and wind began rolling in, shortly after the contractor had departed. My first thought was that it would be a typical late-spring downpour, but after tuning in to the local news, I wondered how concerned I should actually be. Heavy rain and gusting winds were expected, with local schools canceling classes for the next two days. Live reports from Raleigh showed flooded roads, with numerous rescues already underway.

The first drops of rain fell within the hour; by the time I went to bed, it was coming down so hard that it sounded as though I were sleeping in a train station. When I woke the following morning, the storm had intensified to almost hurricane levels. The sky boiled with dark clouds and wind rattled the windows, the far side of the creek reduced to a mere shadow, obscured by the downpour.

For a while, I watched from the back porch, the splashing rain wetting my face. Finally retreating to the kitchen, I used a hand towel to dry off. I was just starting some coffee when I heard steady plinking sounds echoing throughout the house. Sure enough, I found a leak in the living room, two more in the guest room, and still another in one of the bathrooms. There were large circular stains in the ceilings and pieces of drywall were hanging in strips, indicating that the leaks had probably started overnight. How I’d missed them earlier was beyond me, but I backtracked to the pantry and kitchen to grab the mop bucket and three pots. I used the mop to dry the floor after putting the rain catchers in place, but the drips seemed to be increasing in speed.

I sighed. The roof needed a tarp, which meant I was going to end up outside in the deluge, probably for hours. I’d need bricks, too, to hold the tarp in place.

The day was just getting better and better.

Not.

I decided not to do a thing until after coffee. I tossed on an old T-shirt and sweatshirt, returned to the kitchen, and poured myself a cup of coffee. As I took a sip, I saw that my hands were trembling. Putting the cup down, I stared at my hands in fascination. Was it the thought of having to work outside in the rain? The journey upon which I was about to embark at Johns Hopkins? Or was it Natalie?

The answer seemed obvious, but as I stared, I was thankful that the trembling wasn’t as severe as it once had been. Still, it surprised me. Yes, I hadn’t been sleeping well and I’d recently cried for the first time in years. I admitted that I’d also been feeling edgy, but it was hard to remember the last time my hands went bonkers. They hadn’t trembled after my grandfather passed away, nor when I’d moved to New Bern. So why now? Natalie had ended things almost three weeks ago. How could the passage of time make things even worse?

Upon reflection, I knew the answer. My hands hadn’t trembled in the immediate aftermath of my wounds, either—it wasn’t until after all my surgeries that I began to notice various symptoms and that realization brought with it a ray of clarity. The explosion in Afghanistan blew up my future, and on some subconscious level, Natalie’s rejection—which blew up a different sort of future—was manifesting in the same sort of delayed reaction. I had no doubt that Bowen would assure me that I was right on the money. Hadn’t he asked me about it? Almost as if he’d expected them to begin trembling? Of course he had. He knew me so well. As hurt as I was, I still loved and missed Natalie.

I took a few deep breaths, made a series of fists, and little by little, the trembling subsided. Caffeine probably wasn’t a good idea, but so what? I liked coffee and drank two cups anyway. Then I grabbed a rain jacket on the way out the door. If anything, the storm had grown even stronger. The wind had picked up and opaque sheets of rain were blowing diagonally. In the SUV, I wiped water from my face and noted the puddle on the seat I made after getting in.

Water was already six inches deep in parts of the driveway, and the road was only slightly better. Even with my wipers on high, I had to lean over the steering wheel and I kept my speed well below the limit. When a truck passed heading in the opposite direction, it sent a wave over the windshield and I had to hit the brakes so I wouldn’t veer off the road. It was like driving through a blustery car wash, and with gusts shaking the car, I knew that even bricks wouldn’t be enough to keep the tarp from flying to Oz. I’d need cinder blocks, making each trip up the ladder that much more exciting.

Lucky me.

I didn’t spot her until the very last second, a lone figure walking at the edge of the road. I jerked the wheel slightly while my brain processed what I’d seen; I simply couldn’t imagine anyone voluntarily venturing outside in weather like this. To my amazement, I recognized her. Bringing the SUV to a stop, I rolled down the passenger window.

“Hey, Callie. It’s me, Trevor!” I shouted above the din of the storm. “Do you need a ride to work?”

Though she had the hood up, her jacket didn’t appear to be waterproof. Over her shoulder, she had slung a plastic garbage bag, no doubt loaded with dry clothes.

“I’m fine,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t need a ride.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I’m heading in that direction anyway, and it’s dangerous on the road. Drivers can barely see you. Come on. Hop in.”

She seemed to debate for a moment before reluctantly reaching for the handle and pulling open the door. She crawled up to the seat, drenched and bedraggled, her skin the bluish tint of porcelain. She clutched the plastic bag in her lap as I slowly pulled back onto the road.

“Aside from the weather, are you doing okay?”

“I’m fine.” Then in an almost begrudging tone, she added, “Thanks for stopping.”

“You’re welcome. You can put the bag on the back seat if you’d like.”

“I’m already wet. It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m glad I saw you. It’s terrible out here.”

“It’s just water.”

“I take it you have dry clothes in the bag?”

She eyed me with suspicion. “How did you know that?”

“Common sense.”

“Oh.”

I debated asking her whether she’d be interested in watching over the hives, but I still wanted to speak with Claude first. I decided to keep things light.

“How are things going at the Trading Post?”

“Fine.”

“That’s good to hear. Do you enjoy it?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

She didn’t seem to have an answer for that. Glancing over at her, I again thought she looked too young to be working full-time instead of going to school, but I had the sense that she’d shut down if I asked her about it. In that moment, a gust of wind buffeted the car, making it shimmy. I slowed the car to a crawl, navigating the flooded road.

“Have you ever seen a storm with rain and wind like this? It’s like a mini hurricane out here.”

“I’ve never been in a hurricane.”

“I thought you grew up here.”

“No,” she said.

“Your parents don’t live here?”

“No.”

“Then what brought you to New Bern?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Because she wasn’t in school and a job at the Trading Post wasn’t exactly a profession, I wondered if—like Natalie—she’d come here because she was in a relationship with a local. But she seemed too young for that, or any of those things, for that matter. Which, to me, suggested family problems.

“Obviously it’s none of my business,” I offered. “I’m sorry for asking. But I hope things get better for you with your parents.”

Her head swiveled in my direction. “Why would you say that?” she demanded. “You don’t know anything about me or my parents,” she snapped. “Just stop the car. I want to get out. I can walk the rest of the way.”

“Are you sure? We’re almost there,” I protested. The Trading Post was less than a hundred yards away.

“Stop the car!”

Clearly I’d hit a nerve. Not wanting to make things worse, I pulled over, bringing the SUV to a stop. Without a backward glance, she swung open the car door and got out, slamming it shut.

I watched her for a moment, trudging through the puddles. When there was enough space between her and the SUV, I inched back onto the road, feeling bad that I’d upset her. It hadn’t been any of my business, but I thought again about her overreaction. It reminded me of my attempted conversation during her lunch. She struck me as secretive and wary, and I wondered how my grandfather had been able to overcome her defenses. From what I’d seen of her, I couldn’t imagine her volunteering to help with the hives; I felt sure my grandfather’s request would have been rejected immediately unless they’d somehow known each other. She must have trusted him even before he’d asked.

But how had that come about?

I wasn’t sure, but I still intended to speak with her, if only to apologize. Depending on how that went—and what Claude had to say about her—I was still hoping to offer her the job.

Who knew? Maybe she’d eventually decide that she could trust me, too.

The hardware store was already running low on tarps, but because the house was small and rectangular, I got lucky and found one that would suffice. From there, I found a metal trolley and loaded it up with cinder blocks. There was a line at the cashier, but no one cut in front of me, which was good news for all those involved.

I loaded the car, drove home, and backed the SUV as close to the house as possible. Inside, I emptied the buckets and the pots, then retrieved a ladder from the barn. After that, I began the long process of climbing up and down the ladder, carrying the tarp and cinder blocks to the roof, and then putting it all in place while being lashed by driving rain and wind. There were better ways to spend a morning.

By the end, I was starved and freezing and after a long hot shower, I decided to eat lunch at the Trading Post. The parking lot was fuller than I anticipated, but I figured if I wasn’t in the mood to make a sandwich, it was no surprise that others weren’t, either.

Inside, Claude nodded from the register and I spotted Callie on a stepladder in the back of the store, hanging fishing waders on pegs mounted high on the wall. Frank was in his usual spot behind the grill and there were several men eating at the tables. The seats at the counter were full, so I squeezed between customers while I waited to order a cheeseburger and fries. Rain continued to sheet against the windows and I overheard people discussing the storm. Supposedly, the downtown area and other neighborhoods were already flooding.

After Frank took my order, I pulled a Snapple from the refrigerator and went to the register. Claude nodded toward the windows.

“Can you believe this? It’s spitting serious water out there.”

“Crazy weather,” I agreed.

“What did you order?”

I told him and he rang me up; after receiving my change, I went on. “Do you have a minute? I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about Callie.”

“She’s right over there if you want to speak with her yourself.”

“I was hoping for a reference,” I began, and after I explained what I was thinking, he nodded.

“She’s a great worker,” he said. “She doesn’t complain, doesn’t mind staying late, and she’s never missed a shift, even when she was going through some hard times. She’s really good at cleaning, too—almost OCD about it. I think she’d do a great job for you, but keep in mind she’s a strange one.”

“In what way?”

“She’s worked here for…I don’t know. Ten or eleven months? She came on at the end of last summer, but aside from the fact that she still lives in the trailer park up the road, I swear I don’t know the first thing about her. No one knows much about her.”

No surprise there, I thought. “She told me she wasn’t from New Bern.”

“I don’t doubt it. Until Carl recommended her, I’d never seen her before. It’s like she dropped in out of the sky one day.”

I tilted my head, wondering if I’d heard him correctly. “My grandfather recommended her?”

“That he did,” Claude said. “He drove her here, in fact, and walked her in the door. Asked me to take a chance on her and said he’d vouch for her personally. It was the end of summer and a couple of the college kids that had worked for me over the summer were heading back to school, so I had an opening. I took a chance and I’m glad I did. But it’s a shame you’ll be leaving.”

“I’m sure I’ll be back,” I said. “Thanks for the info.”

“She should be going on break in a little while if you want to talk to her about the hives. Because of the weather, she’ll probably eat in the back instead of by the creek.”

“I imagine so. It’s miserable out there.”

“She was soaking wet when she arrived. Felt bad for her. If her lunch got wet, I’ll probably try to get her something from the grill. If she’ll take it, which she might not. She isn’t real good at accepting favors. But I can’t imagine eating a soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

I felt the clicking of a memory, like a bubble slowly rising to the surface, when Claude mentioned the sandwich. Strangely, I felt certain it had something to do with my grandfather, but I couldn’t yet put my finger on it.

“That’s what she was eating when I talked to her before.”

“It’s what she eats every day.”

I raised my gaze. Finished with the waders, Callie was still high on the stepladder, now hanging fluorescent hunting vests. I was wondering again how she’d come to know my grandfather when I heard Frank call out my order.

“You should grab your burger before it gets cold,” Claude said. “A quick question, though. I’ve heard rumors that you’re going to sell the place, so why worry about the hives?”

“I’ve decided I’m going to keep it.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s what my grandfather would have wanted.”

Claude smiled. “No doubt about it.”

The burger was cooked and seasoned perfectly, and I devoured my lunch in minutes. While tossing the remains in the wastebasket, I heard a sudden crash from the back of the store and saw Claude rush out from behind the register. Other diners jumped up as well, everyone moving in the same direction, and I followed. When I spotted the toppled ladder and Callie’s crumpled form on the floor, instincts kicked in, and I began pushing past people.

“Let me through!” I shouted. “I’m a doctor.”

Claude was already squatting beside her body, his face strained with worry, and by the time I reached her side I was already taking in the scene, the information coming quickly.

Patient on her side…not moving…pallor almost a grayish white…possible internal bleeding?…blood in her hair and beginning to pool on the floor beneath her head…arm bent at an unnatural angle beneath her body, indicating likely fractures of the radius and ulna…

I gently reached for her carotid while others crowded around; I vaguely heard Claude telling people that he saw her fall from the ladder. Her pulse was thready and weak.

“Everyone step back!” I shouted. “Claude…I need you to call 911!”

It took a second for him to register that I was shouting at him.

Claude dug into his back pocket for his phone and I returned my attention to Callie. Though it had been years since I did a rotation in emergency medicine, I’d seen numerous head wounds, and the blood from her ear was a dangerous sign. While I suspected a possible subdural hematoma, she’d need a CT scan before anything was definitive. I gently repositioned Callie’s body onto her back, while keeping her neck as steady as possible. Her breathing was shallow, the compound fractures visible. Her arm was already swelling and beginning to turn black and purple. She remained unconscious. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I turned on the flashlight and checked her pupils. Thankfully, they dilated with the light, but head wounds always needed to be treated with caution…

I heard Claude on the phone, panic in his voice as he explained the situation before growing silent.

“They’re saying that an ambulance might be a while. There was flooding at one of the nursing homes and emergency services are swamped. They’re also uncertain whether an ambulance can make it here because the roads are so bad.”

Chapter 15

I met with Susan Hudson the following morning. She was a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in her fifties who seemed to navigate an incredibly difficult job with relatively good cheer. Spending most of the day on the phone arguing with insurance companies, speaking to patients about various past-due accounts, or letting people know that one procedure or another wasn’t covered by their health plans would have made me absolutely miserable. She was nonetheless friendly and apparently relieved that I’d come in, which I hadn’t anticipated. Motioning for me to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of her desk, she made a quick call, telling someone that I’d arrived. Less than a minute later, a physician entered the office.

“Dr. Adrian Manville,” he said to me, offering his hand. “I’m the chief medical officer here,” he said.

“Dr. Trevor Benson,” I replied, wondering why he had decided to join us.

“You’re a physician?” he asked.

“Orthopedic surgeon,” I said. “Retired. I hope I didn’t do anything wrong by transporting Callie to the hospital myself.”

“Not at all,” Manville responded, taking a seat. “We appreciate you coming in today.”

“I’m still a little confused as to why you needed me.” I met Manville’s gaze. “Or why you’re here. I thought this was just about my late grandmother’s social security number.”

Susan reached for a file beside her computer. “We weren’t sure what else to do. I understand you’re not family, but we were hoping you’d be able to shed some light on the situation.”

“We?”

“The billing department,” she said. “The hospital. No one here is exactly clear on how we should proceed.”

“I doubt I can be helpful. I don’t know anything. I’ve only met Callie a couple of times and I don’t even know her last name.”

“Well, we don’t, either.”

“Excuse me?”

“She doesn’t have any identification, and we’re having trouble verifying anything about her.”

My eyes flashed toward Manville, then back to her. “Maybe you should start from the beginning? Tell me what you do know.”

“Of course,” Susan said. “As I mentioned on the phone, Callie is using your grandmother’s social security number. Frankly, we were fortunate to catch it. Your grandmother was last here as a patient a long time ago, before all the records were computerized. We’ve been catching up, but it takes time and we got lucky. Do you have any idea how the patient could have gotten it?”

“I’d be guessing, but I’m assuming that either she found it, or my grandfather gave it to her.”

Susan’s pen hovered in place over the file. “Why would your grandfather have given it to her?”

“Because he always had a fondness for strays. I think she does, too, by the way.”

“Excuse me?”

“He would feed stray animals if they happened to enter his property,” I explained. “Maybe Callie showed up and he thought she needed his help, too.”

“It’s illegal to knowingly let someone use another person’s social security number.”

“It’ll be hard to press charges,” I said. “As I mentioned on the phone, my grandfather passed away last fall.”

She scrutinized the file and made some notes before setting her pen aside. “It’s complicated, but because Callie’s treatment falls under a charity program we have at the hospital, we’re going to need her to be truthful on her admittance forms. There are reporting requirements and paperwork, and the documents need to be accurate.”

“Have you tried asking her?”

“I have,” she said. “So has Dr. Manville and some other administrators. That’s in addition to her regular physicians. At first, we thought the head trauma might have left her confused, but when we spoke to her employer, he verified that was the same social security number she’d given him when she’d been hired. Further, the previous address she listed on the form doesn’t exist. After we pointed those things out to her, she stopped answering our questions about it.”

Dr. Manville cleared his throat. “She’s also begun asking when she can be discharged, and that’s concerning, too, but for entirely different reasons. Are you sure there’s nothing you can tell us about her?”

I shook my head, realizing that everything I’d heard seemed consistent with what I knew of Callie. “Her name is Callie. She told me she wasn’t from New Bern, but I don’t have any idea where she lived before. Currently she lives in a trailer park near my house and she works at Slow Jim’s Trading Post.” I paused, looking over at Dr. Manville. “But this is less about a billing issue than something else, right? I’m guessing you think there’s a possibility that there might be something seriously wrong with her beyond her head injury. Maybe because she fainted before falling off the ladder, or because of her pallor, or maybe because of something the tests have shown. Maybe even all three. That’s why you’re worried about her insisting that she be discharged.”

I offered it as a statement, not a question, and Manville straightened slightly in his seat.

“As you know, there are issues regarding medical privacy,” Manville hedged. “We can’t divulge a patient’s medical information without their consent.”

That was true, but I could tell by his expression as he spoke that my assumption was correct.

Susan cleared her throat. “We were hoping you would speak with her, so that at the very least, she’ll stay in the hospital long enough to receive the care she needs. And so that we can have accurate information on file and there are no remaining financial obligations for which she might be responsible.”

“Wouldn’t either of you be more appropriate for that?”

“We’ve been trying our best, but she still insists on being discharged,” Susan said. “She says that she feels fine.”

“You should speak with Claude,” I said. “Callie works for him, and he knows her a lot better than I do.”

“He came in yesterday,” Susan said. “He was the one who’d initially filled out the forms and he left his contact information, so we reached out to him. He didn’t have any luck with her—she wouldn’t answer his questions, either—so he suggested that we ask you. He says that because she knew and liked your grandfather, you might be able to get through to her.”

He obviously didn’t know that she’d practically screamed at me the day she collapsed. “I highly doubt she’ll be willing to open up to me.”

“Could you at least try?” Manville said. “It’s important medically. For Callie’s sake. We understand you’re under no obligation to help, but…”

After he trailed off, it was a few seconds before I finally nodded. My grandfather would have wanted me to help her, whatever that meant. Because she’d been important to him, he would have wanted me to treat her that way, too.

“I can’t make any promises that she’ll cooperate, but I’d be happy to speak with her.”

“Thank you.”

“I do have one condition, though.”

“Yes?”

“Can you get me a HIPAA form? So I can review her case and speak with her physicians?”

“Yes, but you’d still have to convince her to sign it.”

“Let me worry about that.”

Susan pulled out a HIPAA form and after borrowing a pen, I was on my way to Callie’s room on the third floor.

The hospital, like every hospital, flooded me with a sense of déjà vu. As soon as I stepped out of the elevator, I saw the same fluorescent lights, the same speckled tile flooring, the same off-white paint on the walls that I remembered from my residency, in Pensacola, and even Kandahar. I followed a sign indicating room numbers, turning down a hallway as I debated which approach to take when I came face-to-face with Callie. I had no doubt that both Susan and Claude had tried the friendly, we’re here to help you approach, while Manville and her other physicians had probably leaned toward the we’re the professionals here and you should listen to us style of communication. And yet, Callie still insisted on being discharged, despite her illness. But why?

Because she was angry they were taking away her independence?

Possible, I thought. More likely was the notion that Callie was afraid and possibly on the run. Maybe from her family, from a boyfriend, or from the law, but it was definitely something. I guessed that as soon as she exited, she’d vanish within hours. She’d hit the road and start over somewhere else. It was also possible she’d use my grandmother’s social security number again. I didn’t personally care whether she did or not, though I had little doubt it would eventually land her in trouble again. I was more concerned that she’d end up in another hospital, maybe when it was too late to help her, if her condition was as dire as Dr. Manville’s presence suggested. At the same time, she was old enough to make her own decisions…

Or was she?

Was she truly old enough to be on her own? Or was she a minor who’d run away from home?

I walked past the nurses’ station, making for Callie’s room. Outside, I hesitated only briefly before pushing my way inside with a brisk step. The television was tuned to a daytime talk show, the volume low. Callie was lying in bed, her arm in a cast and her head wrapped in gauze; I surmised she’d had a craniotomy to drain a subdural hematoma. She was hooked up to monitors and her vitals seemed fine. Seeing me, she pointedly turned away, focusing on the television again. I waited for her to speak, but she said nothing.

I walked toward the window and stared out at the view, noting the cars in the lot and the heavily clouded sky. Though the rain had finally stopped yesterday, it had remained gloomy, with more rain in the forecast. After a moment I turned from the window and took a seat in the chair nearest the bed. Callie continued to ignore me, so I figured I’d treat her like any other patient and go straight into it.

“Hi, Callie,” I said. “I’ve been told you’re not answering important questions and that you want to leave the hospital. Is that right?”

Her lips compressed but otherwise she gave no sign of having heard me.

“People here are on your side and it’s not a good idea to ignore what they’re telling you. I assume that in addition to your broken arm, you had some buildup of fluid around your brain, which meant you had to have it drained. How are you feeling now?”

She blinked but said nothing.

“It was a very nasty fall. I don’t know if you’re aware, but I was the one who brought you to the hospital. Is there anything you can remember about it? I was told that you might have fainted or passed out beforehand.”

She finally turned to face me but ignored my question. “When can I get out of here?”

“It takes time to heal,” I said. “And head wounds should never be taken lightly.”

“The doctor said that I would only have to stay for a couple of days. I’ve been here longer than that.”

That was before he knew how sick you are.

“Have you considered answering their questions?”

“I did.” Her voice was truculent.

“Not all of them. And you’re not telling the truth.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Go away. I don’t want to talk to you.”

I continued to hold her gaze. Following a hunch, I asked, “Have they done a bone marrow biopsy yet?”

One of her hands moved reflexively toward her hip. It was the most common spot for a bone marrow biopsy, so I took that as a yes, even though she hadn’t answered. Whether she’d received the results was a different question, but not one that I needed answered right now. On her bedside table was a magazine and I reached for it. I laid the form on top of it along with the pen and leaned forward, setting it next to her on the bed.

“I’m going to need you to sign this form,” I said. “It’s a HIPAA form, and it gives me the right to speak with your doctors, review your charts, and discuss your case. You can consider me your advocate if you’d like. Believe it or not, I’m here to help you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You don’t know that. I can answer questions, explain your diagnosis, discuss treatment options with your doctors. You need to be truthful and answer their questions. And for now, you need to stay here.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I think I can.” I leaned back, keeping my tone conversational. “If you leave the hospital, one of two things is going to happen. Either you’re going to end up in another hospital, or you’re going to end up in jail.”

“I fell!” she snapped. “And I didn’t ask to come here—you dragged me here. I would have told them that I can’t pay.”

“It’s not about your bill,” I said. “You’re using my late grandmother’s social security number,” I said. “That’s a federal crime. You also broke my back door, so you could stay at my house after your trailer burned down. That’s breaking and entering, as well as trespassing. I might even tell them that you’re both a minor and a runaway.” I paused. “Unless, of course, we can make a deal.”

Frankly, I had no idea whether the police would even be interested in any of it, except for her being a possible runaway, and I wasn’t even sure about that. But if nice or professional concern hadn’t worked to get her to be more cooperative, then maybe threatening her would. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, making sure she saw it. “I’ll call the police from here,” I said. “You can listen in, if you’d like.”

When she focused on the television again, I went on. “It wasn’t that hard to figure out. The only thing I’m not sure about is how you met my grandfather in the first place. Were you walking by the house late one night? Maybe it was raining or you were just worn out and you spotted the barn? You snuck in there, saw the cot—the same one I saw—and crashed for the night. Maybe you stayed a few nights, but I’m guessing my grandfather eventually found you. And instead of running you out once he found you, he probably gave you something to eat. Maybe even let you stay a night or two in the guest room. That’s the kind of guy he was. After that, you began to trust him. But you found the social security card in a box beneath the bed. After you helped him with the honey, he suggested to Claude that he hire you, and you used my grandmother’s social security number. After that, he passed away. When your place burned down, you broke into the house through the back door and stayed until you were able to rent another trailer. You ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and apples while you were there, kept the place clean, and used candles since the power was out. Have I about summed it up?”

Though she didn’t answer, her wide-eyed stare confirmed that I was more right than wrong about all of it.

“I also know what you’re thinking right now—that you’ll bolt from the hospital as soon as I walk out of here. In your condition, I’m guessing you won’t get far. Especially since I’ll let the nurses know what you’re thinking, and I’ll be waiting downstairs for the police to arrive.” I paused, letting all of that sink in before leaning forward and tapping the form. “Your other option is to sign this form, be more cooperative with the people here, and agree to stay in the hospital until you’re better. If you do those things, I won’t contact the police.” When she made no move toward the form, I held up my cell phone. “I’m losing patience,” I said, fixing her with a look that let her know I was serious.

Finally, reluctantly, she reached for the form and scribbled her name at the bottom.

“I didn’t steal your grandmother’s social security number,” she said, putting the pen down. “He gave it to me.”

Maybe, I thought. Maybe not. “Where are you from, Callie?”

“Florida,” she answered, almost too quickly. Wherever she was from, it wasn’t Florida.

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

Not a chance, I thought. I remembered the way she’d reacted when I’d asked about her parents. “Do you have any family you need me to contact?”

She turned away.

“No,” she said, “there’s no one.”

Again, I didn’t believe her.

I brought the signed HIPAA form to the nurses’ station, where they promised to enter it into Callie’s medical records. I learned the names of her other doctors—one was an oncologist, which further raised my concerns—and when they would be making rounds. I let them know I’d be returning to the hospital later to speak with the oncologist, if she was available. After that, I went back to Callie’s room and sat with her awhile. I asked her about favorite books and movies, trying to make small talk, but I could tell she wanted nothing to do with me and I eventually left her room.

By then, the clouds had opened up again and I splashed my way to my SUV. Back at home, I made a late lunch, read about bone marrow biopsies and transplants, and then—killing time—called the contractor I’d hired. I told him that I wanted work started on the roof as soon as I moved to Baltimore, which would hopefully give him enough time to make the arrangements. The tarp, after all, would only last so long.

I thought about the lies Callie had told me, especially the last one. There had to be someone in her life. I suspected either one or both parents were still alive, but even if she didn’t want to speak to them, wasn’t there someone else? Brothers or sisters, aunts or uncles, grandparents? Even a favorite teacher or friend? Anyone? When people were in the hospital, they almost always wanted support from those they cared about; when faced with something possibly life-threatening, that desire became almost universal. It seemed almost hardwired into human nature, which made me think something awful had happened to her to make her disavow them.

It was possible, of course, that they had a terrible relationship, even abusive. In that case, I supposed I could understand her reluctance to see or speak to them, but depending on what I learned from the oncologist, she might be risking her life by not bringing them here no matter what.

The hours moved slowly throughout the rest of the day, but eventually it was time to go back to the hospital. I swung by the Trading Post for a coffee and talked with Claude a bit. Like me, he hadn’t a clue what was going on with Callie or why she wouldn’t answer questions. He mentioned nothing about the false social security number that Callie had been using and I wondered if he’d been told about that, guessing that he probably hadn’t.

Later, as I pushed through the hospital doors, I realized something else: Since Callie had fallen from the ladder, my hands hadn’t trembled, nor had I felt on edge. I’d had no difficulty sleeping and was even feeling more like my old self again. It seemed that in trying to save Callie, I’d somehow ended up saving myself.

I was early for rounds and settled in to wait. Most of the physicians had offices in town and wouldn’t leave for the hospital until after their last patient had departed. The nurses on duty described Dr. Mollie Nobles, Callie’s oncologist, as having short blond hair cut in a bob and blue eyes, making her nearly impossible to miss. The neurologist, I was told, may or may not be coming, since he’d already been by earlier in the morning.

I took a seat in the lobby near the elevator on Callie’s floor, watching people stride past me in both directions, while also noting the quiet efficiency of the nurses as they darted in and out of rooms. I’d always believed nurses were underappreciated. Half an hour passed, then an hour, but after a couple of years of doing not much of anything, I’d become good at waiting. One by one, physicians began exiting the elevator, but the first four were not the ones I needed. Excellent detective that I am, I noticed that all of them had been males.

The blue-eyed blonde with a bob cut arrived a few minutes after that, looking harried as she exited the elevator, files in hand.

“Dr. Nobles?” I asked, rising from my seat.

She turned. “Yes?”

“I was hoping I could speak with you about Callie.” I introduced myself, indicating that there was a HIPAA form on file. “I know you’re busy and probably have a lot of patients to visit, but I’d really love a few minutes of your time.”

“You’re with Callie?”

“Kind of,” I hedged. “For now, anyway.”

“How well do you know her?”

“Not well. I spent some time with her this afternoon, but I’m not family. I’m not sure she’d even consider me a friend. But it’s important that I speak with you about her situation.”

“Who are you?”

I explained my relationship, adding that I was also a physician, and we went through the same song and dance that I had with Dr. Manville.

When I finished, she looked down the hall toward Callie’s room, then back to me again. “Yeah,” she finally said. “Okay. You said the form is on file?”

When I nodded, she went on. “I’ll need to check on that, but do you want to meet in her room in a few minutes?”

“Is there any way we could speak someplace more private?”

She glanced at her watch and did a quick mental calculation. “All right. But it can’t be long. I’ve got a full house tonight,” she said. “Let’s go to the lounge.”

After she checked the computer in the nurses’ station, we took the elevator down to the lounge and found a seat at a small table.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“I was wondering if you had the results of the bone marrow biopsy yet.”

“If you don’t know her that well, how do you know she had a bone marrow biopsy? And why did she give you permission to speak with me in the first place?”

“I blackmailed her.”

“Excuse me?”

Chapter 16

If I was stunned to see her, she seemed equally taken aback. When she finally stepped out from behind the open car door, I was reminded of how she looked the first time I’d ever met her. As I stood before her, it seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Trevor?” she ventured, closing the door.

“Natalie,” I said, finding my voice.

“What are you doing here? I got a call about a possible burglary in progress.”

The old man. “You mean this?” I waved at Callie’s trailer. “I didn’t take anything.”

“Did you just break into someone’s house? I saw you walking out.”

“The door was unlocked.”

“And you went inside?”

“It’s good to see you, by the way.”

“This is not a social call.”

“I know.” I sighed. “I guess I should explain what I was doing.”

Over her shoulder, I spotted the older man stepping out onto the porch. Part of me wanted to thank him for being so conscientious.

“Well?” she asked.

“The girl who lives here is named Callie. She’s in the hospital right now. So I came by to check on some things.”

“Does she know you’re here?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?” She frowned. “What kind of things were you checking?”

“I’m trying to help her and it was the only thing I could think to do.”

“Are you being purposely evasive?”

Behind her, the old man had climbed down from his porch and was inching closer, no doubt as curious as Natalie was.

“Is there someplace we can speak in private?”

For the first time, her gaze faltered.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. First, I need to understand what’s going on here.”

Clearly she anticipated that in addition to explaining about Callie, I’d try to speak with her about the way we’d said goodbye. Which was exactly what I intended, if given the chance.

“I’ve told you what I’m doing. There’s a girl in the hospital and she needs my help. I came here to do just that.”

“How can you help her if she doesn’t know you’re here?”

“Please,” I said. “I don’t want to speak in front of an audience.” I nodded at the neighbor, who now stood only several feet away.

“Did you remove anything from the premises?”

“No.”

“Damage anything?”

“No,” I insisted. “Feel free to go inside and check. The door’s unlocked.”

“It’s still trespassing,” she pointed out.

“I highly doubt that she’ll press charges.”

“Is that so?”

I moved closer, keeping my voice low. “She was the one who broke into my grandfather’s house. She also stole my grandmother’s social security number. And she’s very sick. Having to deal with a sheriff is probably the last thing she wants.”

“You know I’m going to have to speak with her about this, don’t you?”

“Good luck,” I said. “She may not speak to you at all.”

“And why is that?”

By then, the older man was nearly within hearing distance. Another neighbor, too, had appeared and was heading our way. When I saw a third door open and yet another woman emerge, I leaned in.

“Please,” I pleaded. “It’s no one else’s business. I’m saying this for Callie’s sake, not mine.”

“I can’t just let you walk away. People saw you trespassing.”

“Then put me in your car. You can bring me to mine.”

“Where’s yours?”

“Up the road. You can’t miss it. I think the folks around here would be happier if I got in. Like I was in trouble.”

“You are in trouble.”

“I don’t think so.” When she didn’t respond, I turned toward her car, noting that all three neighbors had congregated a short distance away and were casting wary glances at me. “If you’d like, we can speak at the station.”

I walked past her and slid into the back seat of the cruiser before Natalie could stop me. For a few seconds, she continued to stand outside the car before finally approaching the gathered neighbors. I watched as the old man began motioning toward me, clearly exercised. Natalie nodded, saying little as the man went on, and after a few minutes, she returned to the car and got in.

As Natalie started the engine and pulled onto the main road, her eyes flashed to the rearview mirror. I could see her irritation at being put in a situation she clearly wished she could have avoided. “Which way to your vehicle?”

“To the left,” I said. “A couple hundred yards.”

“I should just bring you to the station.”

“Then how would I get my SUV?”

I heard her sigh. It took less than a minute for her to reach the spot where I’d parked. When I tried to get out, I realized that the door was locked. Natalie graciously stepped out and opened the door for me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“What’s going on?” she asked, crossing her arms. “I want the full story.”

“I’m thirsty,” I said. “Let’s go to my house.”

“Not a chance.”

“It’s getting warm out here and it’s going to take a while.”

“What’s the girl’s name again?”

“Callie.”

“I know that much,” she said. “What’s her last name?”

“That’s what I was trying to find out.”

Natalie followed me back to the house and turned up the drive, eventually coming to a stop beside me. I got out of the car first but waited for her and we approached the house together. I remembered doing the same thing after we’d visited the beehives and I felt a sudden stab of loss. We had been drawn to each other and fallen in love, only to have her end it. What had I done wrong? Why hadn’t she given us a chance?

I led the way inside to the kitchen, taking down two glasses from the cupboard and turning to her. “Tea or water?”

Her eyes flickered to the porch, which looked different than it had the night of our dinner. “Homemade sweet tea?”

“What else?”

“Yes, please.”

I filled our glasses, then added ice. Handing her a glass, I motioned at the porch.

“Can’t you just tell me what’s going on without making an event out of it?” she demanded, clearly exasperated.

“I just want to sit down,” I said. “Don’t make it into something that it isn’t.”

On the back porch and thankful for the shade, I waited for her to join me. After a few beats, she reluctantly took her place in the other rocker. “Well?” she asked. “This better be good.”

I related everything from the very beginning, finishing with the hospital and an attempt to locate Callie’s family by looking for clues in the trailer. Through it all, Natalie remained quiet but attentive.

“You really think she might die?”

“She will die,” I said. “Medicine and transfusions can help in the short run, but in her case, it will eventually be fatal. It’s actually the same disease that killed Eleanor Roosevelt.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

“I didn’t want to get her in any trouble and for now, she has to remain in the hospital no matter what. Besides, if she won’t speak to the doctors, she probably won’t speak to the police, either.”

She considered that. “Did you find any clues in the house?”

“Not much,” I said. “Probably because of the fire, there wasn’t a lot there. I did find a Georgia Bulldogs sweatshirt and a calendar with scenes of Georgia, though.”

“Do you think that’s where she’s from?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“That’s not much.”

“No,” I admitted. “It isn’t. And Georgia’s a big state. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

She squinted at me. “Why do you care so much?”

“I’m not just handsome and rich. I’m also a good guy.”

For the first time, Natalie cracked a wry smile. I remembered that smile and was struck by how much I’d missed it, how much I still wanted it to be part of my life. I think she knew what I was thinking because she turned away. Finally, she went on.

“Do you want me to try to talk to her?”

“I think it would make her clam up even more.”

“I could try for fingerprints.”

“Do you think that would help? If she’s never been arrested?”

“Probably not.”

“What should I do, then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she’ll start talking when she starts feeling worse.”

“Maybe.” I hesitated before going on. “Can I ask you a question?”

She seemed to sense what was coming. “Trevor…please don’t.”

“I just want to know what happened between us. What did I do wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then what was it?”

“It had nothing to do with you and everything to do with me.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I was scared,” she said in a low voice.

“Of me?”

“You. Me. Us.”

“What was so frightening?”

“All of it,” she said. Her gaze took in the creek, anguish etched in the lines of her face. “I loved every moment with you,” she admitted. “At the park, tending the beehives, our dinner in Beaufort. The boat ride and dinner here. Everything was…just the way I hoped it would be. It was perfect. But…”

She trailed off.

“But what?”

“You’re leaving,” she said. “Soon, right?”

“I told you that I didn’t have to move to Baltimore. I would have stayed. I can make other arrangements. It’s not a big deal.”

“But it is a big deal. It’s your next career. It’s Johns Hopkins and you can’t put that on hold for me.”

“You do realize I’m old enough to make my own decisions, right?”

Wearily, she stood from her chair and walked to the railing. After a moment, I rose and joined her. Across the river, cypress trees stretched their whitewashed trunks from the ancient waters. Her profile was as lovely as ever. I waited for her to say something, anything, but she continued to avoid my gaze.

“I know this is hard for you,” I said, “but if you put yourself in my situation, can you understand how baffling this feels to me?”

“I do understand. And I know I’m not really answering your questions, but please know how heartbreaking that is to me.”

As she spoke, I had the feeling that not only were we speaking entirely different languages, but that translation was impossible.

“Did you even love me, Natalie?”

“Yes,” she said, turning to look at me for the first time. Her voice was ragged. “I did. And I still do. Saying goodbye to you was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.”

“If I meant so much to you, then why did it have to end?”

“Because sometimes, that’s just the way things have to be.”

I was about to respond when I heard the sound of a vehicle pulling onto the property and crackling over the gravel driveway. I heard a door slam, followed by a rapping at the door. I had no idea who it could be; other than Natalie, visitors to the house were practically nonexistent. I desperately wanted to continue the conversation with Natalie—or begin a conversation that I understood—but Natalie nodded toward the house.

“Someone’s at the door,” she said.

“I know. But…”

“You should probably answer it. And I need to get back to work.”

Though I could have asked if we could continue the conversation, I already knew what her answer would be and retreated into the house.

At the door, I recognized the brown uniform of a UPS delivery driver. He was about my age, thin and wiry, and he handed me a medium-sized box. For a moment, I tried to recall if I’d ordered something, but came up empty. He held out an electronic clipboard, along with the attached pen.

“Could you please sign for this?”

I set the box down, scribbled my name, then closed the door behind me. On the return label, I saw the address of a law firm in South Carolina, and it all came rushing back.

My grandfather’s things.

I brought the box to the kitchen. Natalie came in from the porch as I placed it on the table. I hesitated, torn. I wanted to open the box immediately; I also longed to keep Natalie here, to continue to try to reach her and persuade her that she was making a mistake for both of us.

“New pots and pans?”

“No,” I said. Pulling out a penknife, I began to cut through the tape. “It’s from the lawyer for the tow truck guy. He had my grandfather’s things.”

“After all this time?”

“Lucky break,” I said.

“I’ll let you get to it.”

“If you wouldn’t mind, could you wait? There might be something in here that I need help figuring out.”

I flipped open the lids and removed some crumpled newspaper. On top was a baseball cap, one I recognized from many long-ago summers. It was worn and stained, but I greeted the sight of it like an old and beloved friend. I wondered whether he’d been wearing it when he’d had his stroke and it had fallen off, or whether it had been in the passenger seat beside him. I didn’t know; all I knew was that it was coming with me, wherever I ended up in life.

I found his wallet next, bent and molded, the leather creased. Whatever cash had been in it had been taken, but I was far more interested in the photographs. There were a couple of Rose, a photo of me when I was a child, and a family portrait that my mother must have sent him when I was in high school. There was a photo of my mom and dad as well. In a ziplock baggie, I found his car registration, along with some pens and a pencil with bite marks in it, all of which were probably taken from the glove compartment. Beneath that was a small duffel bag, and I pulled it out. Inside were socks and underwear, pants and two shirts, along with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant. Wherever he was going, he didn’t intend to stay long, but nothing I’d found got me any closer to knowing where that might be.

The answer came at the bottom of the box, in the form of two highway maps that had been paper-clipped together. They were at least thirty years old, yellowed and thin, and when I unfolded them, I noticed routes highlighted in yellow. One route led north toward Alexandria, where he’d gone for my parents’ funeral, but the route he’d traced avoided the interstate, following smaller, more rural highways.

I could feel Natalie at my shoulder and watched as she traced the other highlighted route, leading west on other rural highways toward Charlotte, then across the border into South Carolina. Easley? Though it was impossible to know for sure, the highlighter ink looked fresh, more vivid than the other highlighted route on the map.

The second map showed the states of South Carolina and Georgia. For an instant, I was afraid that my grandfather hadn’t marked it. But I quickly realized that he had. It picked up where the other map had left off. He’d circumvented Greenville—the detour kept him north of the city—but then caught the highway that led directly to Easley.

And then kept going.

Through South Carolina and into Georgia, where the route ended in a small town northeast of Atlanta, right on the edge of the Chattahoochee National Forest. From Easley, it wasn’t that far—I’d guess less than two hours, even at speeds my grandfather drove—and as I saw the name of the town, I felt crucial pieces of the puzzle begin to lock together.

The name of the town was Helen.

Chapter 17

Even as I stared in shock, I felt my mind flashing back to the conversation with the old men on the porch at the Trading Post, and I thought about the ride I’d taken in the boat, when I knew in my heart that my grandfather wouldn’t have gone to visit a woman named Helen. It hadn’t made sense to me, because my grandfather had still been in love with the same woman he’d always loved, even though she had long since passed away.

Natalie, too, was staring at the name. She was standing close to me, close enough to touch, and I remembered the night I’d taken her in my arms. She’d felt so perfect and I thought we were perfect together, but she wasn’t willing to tell me the truth of what was really going on with her. Now, as I caught the faint sounds of her exhales, I noticed she was studying the map in the same way I was. I sensed that pieces were beginning to fall into place for her as well, even if I was no closer to understanding how she felt about me.

Instead of speaking, I scanned the maps again, making sure there were no other clues, no other possible destinations. I ran the timeline in my head—just as I’d done before—and felt again that my grandfather must have known the trip might be risky for him because of the distance, as well as his age. Whatever the reason, it had been important, and I could think of only a single possible reason.

When I glanced at Natalie, I suspected I was further along in my suspicion than she was. Which made sense, because it was my mystery, not hers. As she continued to ponder, her brow was furrowed slightly, and as always, I thought she was beautiful.

“Helen, Georgia?” Natalie finally asked.

“So it seems.”

“Did he know anyone there?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? I tried to remember whether I’d ever heard him mention the town, or even whether he’d mentioned a friend from anywhere in Georgia. Someone from the war, or a work buddy who’d moved away, perhaps, or maybe even a fellow beekeeper. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that my grandfather’s life had always been about New Bern, while Callie had both a sweatshirt and a calendar from Georgia.

“I doubt it,” I finally said. “But I think he knew someone from there.”

It took her a few moments to intuit what I was thinking. “You mean Callie?”

I nodded. “I think he went to find her family.”

“Why? She didn’t get sick until last week.”

“I don’t know. But if we assume Callie was from Georgia and he was traveling to Helen, Georgia, it makes sense.”

“That’s a little thin, don’t you think? And if she’s so secretive, how would he have even known she was from Helen?”

“I don’t have all the answers yet. But they did know each other. He cared about her enough to help her get a job. He was going to Helen for a reason. Like me, maybe he thought she was a runaway and wanted to help her.”

“Are you going to ask Callie about it?”

I didn’t answer right away, another recovered memory suddenly leaping to mind. When I’d approached Callie during her lunch, she hadn’t become upset until I’d asked specifically whether my grandfather had ever mentioned Helen. At which point, she’d panicked.

I said as much to Natalie, though she still looked doubtful.

“I know I’m right,” I added. “Can’t you see how it all fits?”

Natalie exhaled. “Gimme a few minutes, okay? I need to make a phone call. I’ll be right back.”

Without further explanation, Natalie walked out the front door. I watched through the window as she tapped some numbers into her phone, then a couple more. It was more than a few minutes—closer to ten—before she finally came back inside.

“I called the police department in Helen.”

“And?”

“I asked them to check on any runaways named Callie. No one with that name is missing.”

“Are they sure?”

“It’s a small town,” she explained. “Super small. Like six hundred people. He would know. There are only a few runaways in the books at all in the last five years.”

Despite her findings, I still knew I was right. I could feel it and knew I had to check it out. Though I could drive, flying would be easier. I took a seat at the kitchen table and booted up my computer.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m checking on flights to Atlanta.”

“You’re going to Helen after what I just told you? To do what? Knock on doors? Ask people on street corners?”

“If I have to,” I said.

“What if she lived in the country somewhere? Or in the next town over?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.

“You’re doing all this for a girl you barely know?”

“I told her that I wasn’t going to let her die.”

“And you mean that?” Her tone verged on disbelief.

“Yes.”

She was quiet for a moment and when she spoke again, her voice was softer.

“Assuming you’re right and she ran away from home…why would she rather die than contact them?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out, and it’s the reason I’m going. I’d like to ask a favor, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Call the police department again. Maybe the sheriff, too, while you’re at it, to let them know I’m coming. I’m sure I’ll need to speak with them. Maybe you can help make that part a little easier.”

“When do you think you’ll be there?”

“Tomorrow,” I said. “There’s a flight leaving around eleven. If I rent a car, I should be in Helen by early afternoon.”

“How long are you planning to stay there?”

“A day or two. If I can’t find any answers there, I’ll have to try to convince Callie to speak to me again.”

She considered my request. “I can make the calls, but I don’t know if it will do any good. You’re not in law enforcement and you’re not her family.”

“Any recommendations?”

“How about if I come with you?” she said.

For a moment, I wasn’t sure if I’d heard her correctly. “You’d like to come?”

“If she’s technically a missing person, law enforcement does have a bit of responsibility.”

I tried not to smile. “I’ll need your date of birth so I can book the tickets.”

“I can take care of it.”

“It’ll be easier to do both reservations at once.”

She gave me the information and as I began to type, she suddenly interrupted me.

“Wait.” Her expression was serious. “Before I go, I have one condition.”

I already knew that she was going to tell me to book separate hotel rooms, and that she was only accompanying me in a law enforcement capacity. In other words, I wasn’t to attempt to rekindle things between us.

“I want you to do something tonight. I can pick you up after work.”

“Yes?”

Her exhale was one of surrender.

“I want you to meet my husband.”

Chapter 18

I was too stunned to respond. Suddenly, everything fell into place: why she’d been so uncomfortable at the farmers’ market when the dentist had seen us together, why she preferred to meet at out-of-the-way locations. Why she’d suddenly ended our relationship…

But not everything added up…

Before I could summon anything to say, she hurriedly moved to the front door and opened it, pausing on the threshold.

“I know you have questions,” she said without turning to face me, “but you’ll understand everything later. I’ll pick you up at six.”

I finished booking the tickets, made hotel reservations, read the reviews for some restaurants in Helen, then spent the rest of the day trying to figure out the nature of Natalie’s marriage. Were they separated but now trying to work things out? Did they have an open marriage? I even flirted with the idea that the husband had passed away and we’d be making a trip to the cemetery, but none of those answers seemed to fit with the woman I’d come to know. And why did she want me to meet him?

Was that what married people did these days when another person was interested in their spouse? Hey, let’s all meet so we can talk this through?

What was I supposed to say to him? Should I avow my ignorance at the fact that she’d been married? Admit that I’d begged her to start a new life with me but that she’d nonetheless chosen him?

I spent the rest of the afternoon spinning through questions and possible answers. In the meantime, I packed a duffel bag for my trip to Helen and went through my grandfather’s box again, searching for more clues without luck.

When Natalie pulled into my drive, I stepped out of the house before she’d even had a chance to turn off the engine. As I got in, she offered a mysterious, unreadable look at me before directing the car back onto the road. Because she remained quiet, I did too.

My first surprise was that instead of driving to her house, we took the highway heading east, toward the coast. No longer in uniform, she was wearing jeans and a cream-colored blouse, more casual than dressy. Around her neck hung the gold chain she was never without. “Do you and your husband live together?” I finally asked.

She adjusted her hands on the wheel. “Not anymore,” she responded without elaborating further.

My mind flashed to the idea that he’d passed away and again, we settled into silence. After ten or fifteen minutes, Natalie slowed the car and left the highway, turning onto a commercial road I’d passed countless times but had never really seen. There was a shopping center to the right; on the left, fronted by a cheerful, tree-shaded parking lot, was a single-story brick building that looked as though it had been constructed sometime in the last five years. As soon as I saw the name of the place, I felt my heart sink.

It wasn’t the cemetery.

It was worse.

We parked out front near the entrance, in the near-empty visitors’ lot. After exiting the car, Natalie pulled a small bag from the back seat, and we headed toward the double glass doors of the entrance. At the sign-in desk, a woman in a uniform smiled as we approached.

“Hi, Mrs. Masterson. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Sophia,” Natalie said. She signed her name into the visitors’ log, chatting with the woman like an old friend. “How are you? How’s Brian?”

“The usual. He’s driving me crazy. The way he reacts, you’d think that cleaning your room is worse than scrubbing septic tanks.”

“He’s still a teenager. How’s he doing in school?”

“No complaints there, thank goodness. It’s just me he seems to hate.”

“He doesn’t hate you, I’m sure,” Natalie said with a sympathetic smile.

“Easy for you to say.”

Natalie turned to me. “This is Trevor Benson. He’s a friend of mine and he’ll be visiting, too.”

Sophia directed her attention to me. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Benson. Would you mind signing in, too?”

“Of course.”

As I signed in, Sophia asked, “Do you want me to walk with you?”

“No,” Natalie answered. “I know the way.”

We left the desk and proceeded down the corridor. It was well-lit and clean, with wood-laminate flooring and wrought iron benches between the doors. Here and there were artificial ficus trees in large pots, no doubt intended to provide a soothing environment for visitors.

Eventually we reached our destination, and Natalie paused before pushing open the door. My heart contracted as I watched her steel herself before walking into the room.

“Hi, Mark,” she said. “It’s me again. Surprise.”

Mark lay in the bed with his eyes closed, hooked up to what I knew to be feeding tubes. He was thin, his face partially sunken, but it was still possible to glimpse the handsome man he once had been. I guessed that he was a few years younger than I was, which made everything even worse. Natalie went on, her tone almost conversational. “Trevor, this is Mark, my husband. Mark, I’d like you to meet Trevor.”

When she gestured at me, I cleared my throat. “Hi, Mark,” I said.

Mark could not answer. As I stared at him, Natalie’s voice seemed to float toward me from afar. “He’s been in a persistent vegetative state for almost fourteen months now,” she offered. “He had a resistant strain of bacterial meningitis.”

I nodded, my stomach in knots as Natalie approached the bed. After setting her bag beside him, she used her fingers to part his hair, and spoke to him as though I wasn’t in the room. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “I know it’s been a few days since I’ve visited, but I’ve been super busy at work. I saw on the sign-in sheet that your mom came by earlier. I’m sure she was happy to see you. You know how much she worries about you.”

I stood in place, feeling like an intruder. When she realized I hadn’t moved, she motioned toward the chair. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said to me before turning her attention back to Mark.

“The research isn’t clear on how much patients really experience when in a vegetative state.” Even though she remained focused on Mark, I knew the words were meant for me. “Some patients wake up and remember certain things, others wake up and don’t remember anything at all, so I try to visit a few times a week just in case.”

I nearly collapsed in the seat and leaned forward, propping my forearms on my thighs, watching.

“Trevor’s an orthopedist,” she said to Mark, “so he might not know exactly what a persistent vegetative state is or how it differs from a coma.” She continued in a gentle yet matter-of-fact tone. “I know we’ve talked about all this before, but humor me, okay, sweetheart? You know your lower brain stem is still working so you can breathe on your own, and sometimes, you even open your eyes and blink. Your reflexes still work, too. Of course, you still can’t eat on your own yet, but you have the hospital for that, right, honey? You also get physical therapy so your muscles don’t atrophy. That way, when you wake up, you’ll be able to walk or use a fork or go fishing like you used to.”

There was none of the excruciating sadness in her demeanor that I felt in witnessing the scene play out before me. Maybe she was used to the experience, as numb to it all as I was heartsick about it. Natalie went on.

“I know they shave you here at the hospital, but you know how much I still like to do that for you when I visit. And it looks like your hair needs a bit of a trim, too. Do you remember when I used to cut your hair in the kitchen? I don’t know how you ever talked me into that. It’s not like I was any good, but you always insisted. I think you just liked me standing so close to you.”

She pulled out a washcloth and can of shaving cream, as well as a razor. To me, she asked, “Would you mind putting some warm water on the washcloth? The sink is in the bathroom.”

I did as she asked, making sure it was the right temperature before bringing it back to her. She smiled with an expression of gratitude, then gently dabbed the washcloth to his cheeks.

“Trevor is moving to Baltimore soon,” she said, beginning to lather his face. “He’s going to become a psychiatrist. I’m not sure if I mentioned that to you before. He told me that he struggled with PTSD after he was injured and he’s hoping to help veterans who have the same issue. He’s the one with the beehives, remember? And the one who brought me to see the alligators? I told you about that. Like I mentioned, he’s been a good friend to me. I’m sure the two of you would get along well.”

When ready, she began to shave him, the movements graceful. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I saw your father last week at the dealership. He seems to be doing okay. He stopped losing weight, at least. I know he doesn’t visit as much as your mom does, but it’s hard for him since the two of you worked together, too. I hope you always knew how much he loved you. I know he wasn’t great at saying it when you were little, but he does. Did I tell you that your parents invited me on their boat for the Fourth of July? The problem is, my family’s going to be at the beach, and they want me there. I hate when that happens…I guess I could split the time, but I haven’t decided yet. And all of that’s even assuming I’ll get the day off, which I probably won’t. It’s no fun being the low man on the totem pole.”

When she was finished with the shave, she wiped his face with the washcloth again, then ran her finger over his cheeks.

“Feels better, I’ll bet. You never were the scruffy type. But let me trim some of your hair, too, while I’m here.”

She took out a pair of scissors and went to work; because Mark was prone, she was careful to put the trimmings in the bag. “I used to make such a mess when I did this, so be patient with me, okay? I don’t want you to get itchy. Oh, I heard from your sister Isabelle this week. She’s expecting her first child in August. Can you believe that? She used to swear that she never wanted kids, and now she’s singing an entirely different song. I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it up there for the birth, but I’m sure I’ll get there before the end of the year. I want to give her a chance to settle in first.”

Her patter continued while she finished cutting his hair. Afterward, she gently lifted his head and slid out the pillow. She removed the pillowcase, shook it a couple of times, and examined it to make sure it was clean before reversing the process, putting the pillow back in place. She adjusted the sheet and kissed his lips with a tenderness that nearly brought a tear to my eye.

“I miss you, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Please try to get better soon, okay? I love you.”

She reached for her bag, then stood from the bed and motioned toward the door. I led the way out into the corridor, and we retraced our footsteps to the car. When we arrived, she pulled out the keys. “I could use a glass of wine,” she said. “Are you up for that?”

“Without a doubt.”

We went to a bar in Havelock called Everly’s. It wasn’t too far from the hospital and I had the sense when we walked in that it wasn’t Natalie’s first visit to the place. After ordering our drinks, we found a quiet booth, partially sheltered from the noise.

“Now you know,” she said.

“I’m very sorry for what you’re going through. It must be awful.”

“It is,” she admitted. “It’s like nothing I ever imagined.”

“What do the physicians say?”

“After three months, the chances for recovery are very slight.”

“What happened? If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll understand.”

“It’s all right. You’re not the first to ask. A year ago last April, for our third anniversary, we spent a long weekend in Charleston. As crazy as it sounds, neither of us had ever been there before and we’d heard so much about it. We left Thursday night. He told me that he felt tired and he had a headache, but who doesn’t toward the end of a workweek? Anyway, we had a nice day on Friday despite his headache, and then on Saturday, he got a fever. It got worse as the day went on, so we went to the emergency room and he was diagnosed with the flu. We were supposed to be heading home on Sunday anyway, so neither of us was too worried about it. But in the car the next day, his fever kept getting higher and higher. I wanted to stop in Wilmington, but he told me to just keep going. By the time we got back to New Bern, his temperature was a hundred and four. We went straight to the hospital, but they didn’t figure out what was wrong with him until the next day. By then, his fever was over a hundred and six, and even with all the antibiotics, the fever just didn’t break. It was a nasty virulent strain. After the seventh day of sky-high fevers, he went into a coma. After that, once the fever finally broke, he was able to open his eyes. I thought that meant we were past the worst, but he didn’t seem to know who I was and…”

She took a sip of wine before going on. “He stayed in the hospital for another month, but after that, it was pretty clear he was in a vegetative state. We eventually found a really good place for him—where we just were—and he’s been there ever since.”

“That’s terrible,” I said, grasping for words. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been—must still be.”

“It was worse last year,” she said. “Because I still had hope. But these days, I don’t have a lot of hope.”

With my stomach in knots, I couldn’t fathom taking a drink. “Was he the one you met in college?”

She nodded. “Just such a sweet guy. He was shy and handsome, but wasn’t arrogant in the slightest, which surprised me, especially considering how wealthy his family is. They own one of the car dealerships here in town, and two or three others in other parts of the state. Anyway, he was on the lacrosse team, and I used to watch him play. He wasn’t quite good enough for a scholarship, but he was a recruited walk-on and played in almost every game his last two years. He could run like a gazelle and score from almost anywhere.”

“Was it love at first sight?”

“Not quite. We actually met at a formal. I was there with another guy, he had a date, and after his date ditched him and my date had wandered off, we started talking. I must have given him my number because he started texting me. Nothing weird, nothing stalker-like…after a month or so, we met for pizza. We dated the last two and a half years of college, got engaged a year after we graduated, and we married a year after that.”

“And you were happy together?”

“We were both happy,” she said. “You would have liked him. He was such a genuine person, so loving and energetic.” She caught herself. “I’m sorry. Is a genuine person.” She took another sip of wine before looking at my glass. “You’re not having any?”

“In a minute,” I said. “I’m still processing.”

“I guess I owe you an apology. For not telling you straightaway.”

“Even if you had, I’m not sure it would have stopped me from going to the farmers’ market or inviting you over to see the bees.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess. But…you should be aware that it’s not a secret. A lot of people in town know the situation. Mark grew up in New Bern; his family is well-known here. Had you asked around, it wouldn’t have taken you long to find out.”

“It never occurred to me to ask anyone about you. Honestly, I don’t know enough people in town well enough to ask. But I am curious as to why you don’t wear a wedding ring.”

“I do,” she said. “I wear it around my neck.”

When she pulled out her chain, I saw a lovely rose gold wedding band that looked like something from Cartier.

“Why not on your finger?”

“I never wore rings growing up and when I was in college, I began working out at the gym. Nothing too strenuous, but I do try to do sets on a few of the machines. After I got engaged, the ring would pinch and I was afraid to scratch it. I just got into the habit of wearing it around my neck. Once I became a sheriff’s deputy, I didn’t want people knowing anything about me.”

“Didn’t that bother Mark?”

“Not at all. He wasn’t the jealous type. I used to tell him that the ring was closer to my heart. I meant that and he knew it.”

I took a small sip of water, moistening my tight throat. Humoring her, I chased that with a swallow of wine, which tasted way too sour. “What do your mom and dad think?”

“They adored Mark. But they’re my parents. I told you they worry about me.”

Because of her job in law enforcement, I remembered thinking at the time. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“It seems like they take good care of him here.”

“It’s a top-notch facility for those who can afford it. Insurance only covers so much, but his parents make up the difference. It’s important to them. It’s important to me, too.”

“What happens…”

When I didn’t finish, she nodded. “What happens if we decide to pull the plug? I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Ever?”

“It’s not my decision. It’s up to his parents.”

“But you’re his wife.”

“They have medical power of attorney. They make those decisions, not me. When he turned eighteen, Mark got access to a trust. He had to sign all sorts of documents, including the ones that gave them the right to make end-of-life decisions for him. I doubt he even thought about it afterward and after we were married, it never came up. Before the marriage, he was way more upset that his parents insisted on a prenup. He didn’t have a choice and I really didn’t care. I thought we’d be married forever and have kids and grow old together.”

“Have you spoken to his parents about Mark’s future?”

“Once or twice, but it didn’t go well. His mom is very religious and to her, ending the feeding tube is the same thing as murder. The last time I tried to talk to her about it, she told me that the week before, Mark had opened his eyes and stared at her, and she read that as a sign he’s getting better. She’s convinced that if she prays enough, Mark will just suddenly blink and be back to normal one day. As for his dad, I think he just wants to keep peace in his own house.”

“So you’re left in a kind of limbo.”

“For now,” she agreed.

“You could get a divorce.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because even if there’s less than a one percent chance that Mark will get better, it’s a chance I’m willing to take. I made a vow to stay married in sickness and in health. Health is the easy part; it’s remaining faithful in sickness where love really shines.”

Perhaps she was right, but I wondered if it smacked a little of martyrdom. Then again, who was I to judge?

“I understand,” I said.

“I also want to apologize about the night at your house. After the boat ride and dinner—”

I held up my hand to stop her.

“Natalie…”

“Please,” she said. “I need to explain. While we were at dinner, I sensed that we were going to sleep together, and then when we kissed, I knew it for certain. And I wanted to. Because I really had fallen in love with you, and at that moment, it felt like it was just the two of us in the world. It was easy for me to pretend that I wasn’t married, or that my husband wasn’t being taken care of around the clock by nurses, or even that I could have the best of both worlds. I could stay married and still have you. I could move to Baltimore and get a job there while you did your residency and we’d start a new life together. I was fantasizing about all those things, even as we moved to the bedroom…”

When she paused, memories flooded my senses. I remembered pulling her close and the tautness of her body against my own. The wildflower scent of her perfume, light and exotic, as I buried my face in her neck. I could feel her breasts pressed against my chest and her fingers clutching my back. When our lips came together, the flicker of her tongue triggered a wave of pleasure.

I helped her untuck my shirt and watched her unbutton it; within a moment, we both had our shirts off and our heated skin came together. And yet, when I began to kiss the tops of her breasts, I heard what sounded like a muffled sob. Pulling back, she seemed frozen except for a tear drifting down her cheek. Alarmed, I pulled back.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t. Please forgive me.”

Now, as I sat across from her in the bar, I watched as she swallowed, her gaze fixed on the tabletop.

“That night…you kissed me right below my collarbone. That was a thing Mark always used to do, and I suddenly saw him in my mind—lying in bed, surrounded by tubes in that sterile room. And I couldn’t get his image out of my head and I hated myself for that. For doing that to you. I wanted you and I wanted to make love to you, but I couldn’t. It felt…wrong, somehow. Like I was about to do something I would regret, even though I wanted it more than anything in the world.” She drew a long breath. “I just wanted to tell you again that I was sorry.”

“I told you that night that you didn’t have to apologize.”

“I know you did, and somehow, that made me feel even worse. Because you were so kind about the whole thing.”

Gently, I laid my hand over hers. “For what it’s worth, I’d do it all over again.”

“You fell in love with a dishonest woman.”

“You weren’t dishonest,” I offered. “You just…omitted some things. We all do that. For instance, I didn’t tell you that in addition to being rich and handsome, I’m very skilled when it comes to putting tarps on roofs as well.”

For the first time since we’d arrived, she cracked a smile. She gave my hand a quick squeeze before withdrawing her own.

Lifting her glass of wine, she held it up in toast. “You’re a good man, Trevor Benson.”

I knew it was yet another ending for us, but I reached for my glass of wine anyway. Tapping it against hers, I forced myself to smile.

“I think,” I answered, “you’re pretty great, too.”

Chapter 19

Natalie dropped me off and though I didn’t sleep well, I felt all right in the morning. No trembling in my hands and my mood was steady enough for me to feel confident with a third cup of coffee after my run. Though I’d offered to pick her up on the way to the airport, she thought it better to meet me there.

No doubt because she didn’t want people to see us arrive together or be seen jetting off as a couple.

I arrived at the airport before she did and checked in. Natalie arrived ten minutes after that while I was in line for security. Once I reached the gate, I took a seat and though there was a spot next to me, she chose a seat three rows away. It wasn’t until we were on the plane that we finally had the chance to speak.

“Hi,” I said as she squeezed past me to the window seat, “I’m Trevor Benson.”

“Oh, shut up.”

I thought we’d visit a bit, but she closed her eyes while tucking up her legs and promptly went to sleep. I wondered how many people she recognized on the plane.

The flight was slightly more than an hour, and after exiting the plane, we made our way to the rental counter. I’d requested my usual SUV and it was ready when we arrived. Not long after that, we were on our way to Helen.

“Seems like you had a good nap on the plane,” I observed.

“I was tired,” she said. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I did, however, have a chance yesterday to speak with the police again, as well as the sheriff. Before I picked you up, I mean.”

“And?”

“Like the police, the sheriff didn’t have any information on a runaway named Callie. I don’t know how much help they’ll be.”

“I still have confidence that we’ll get to the bottom of this,” I said.

“I also wanted to explain about earlier,” she said. “At the airport.”

“Don’t worry about it. I was able to figure out your reasons for avoiding me.”

“No hard feelings?”

“Not at all,” I said. “You still have to live in New Bern.”

“And you’re leaving soon.”

“My new life awaits.”

I could feel her eyes on me as I said it, and wondered whether she would tell me that she was going to miss me. But she didn’t. Nor did I tell her that I would miss her. We both already knew that. Instead, we didn’t speak much the rest of the way, both of us content to ride in silence, alone with our thoughts, wherever they would lead us.

Natalie was right; Helen was a very small town but remarkably scenic and beautiful in a way I hadn’t expected. It looked as though it had taken its inspiration from alpine villages in Bavaria; the buildings were sandwiched together, with red-tiled roofs and painted a variety of colors, some featuring decorative trim and even the occasional turret. I imagined it was popular with tourists in search of hiking or zip-lining adventures, or tubing on the Chattahoochee River before retiring for the night in a setting that felt exotic for northeastern Georgia.

Since neither of us had eaten, we had lunch at a small sandwich shop downtown. We discussed our game plan, which didn’t consist of much other than stops at the police station and sheriff’s office. I’d been hoping that I’d come up with a better idea than the one Natalie had quizzed me about—knocking on doors or talking to people on street corners—but so far, I had nothing. I wished I had had the foresight to snap a photograph of Callie in the hospital to see if her face would jog anyone’s memory, but I doubted whether she would have consented to it if I’d tried.

Our first stop was the police station, quartered in a building that looked more like a house than a municipal office complex and that blended well into the community. The chief, Harvey Robertson, who’d been expecting us, met us out front. He was tall and thin with white receding hair and spoke with a thick Georgia accent. He led us inside, seating us in his office. After introductions, he handed over a manila envelope.

“As I mentioned on the phone, these are the only three runaways that I know about with any certainty,” he explained. “One from last year, and two of them from two years ago.”

I opened the manila envelope and pulled out three flyers with the word MISSING emblazoned across the top, bearing photos of the girls, descriptions, and information as to their last known whereabouts. They looked handmade—like something the families had put together—not official police bulletins. A quick scan of the pictures confirmed that none of them was Callie.

“How about missing persons in general?”

“Again, there’s no one named Callie. Now, if the family or other acquaintances didn’t report her missing for whatever reason, we’d have no way of knowing. But because it’s a small community, I think I have a pretty good handle on who’s around and who’s not.”

“I know it’s not my business, but do you have any idea what happened to these other girls?”

“Two of them had boyfriends and we can’t find them, either, so my hunch is that they ran off together. As to the third young lady, we have no idea what happened to her. She wasn’t a minor and she was reported missing by her landlord, but for all we know, she could have moved away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You said on the phone that this girl Callie you’re looking for…she’s sick? And that you need to find her family?”

“If we can.”

“Why did you think you might find her here?”

I told him the whole story, watching as he seemed to soak in every word. I had the sense that he was the kind of person who could surprise you with his intuition.

“That’s not much to go on,” he commented when I was finished.

“That’s what Natalie said, too.”

He looked to her then back to me again. “She’s a smart one. You should think about keeping her.”

If only, I thought.

If only I could.

The sheriff’s department was in Cleveland, Georgia, about twenty minutes from Helen. It was a much more imposing building than the police department in Helen, which made sense since it was responsible for a larger geographic area. We were ushered into the office of a deputy sheriff, who had likewise compiled the information we’d requested.

In total, nine people were missing, which included the three from Helen. Of the remaining six, two were males. Of the remaining four, only three were Caucasian, and only one was a girl in her teens, though it wasn’t Callie.

On our way out, Natalie turned to me. “Now what?”

“I’m working on it.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m missing something. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s there.”

“Do you still think she’s from around here?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But the answer is here somehow.”

We climbed into our rental before Natalie spoke again. “I have an idea,” she finally offered.

“What’s that?”

“If Callie is from here, she probably went to school, right? And you think she might be sixteen? Or seventeen?”

“That would be my guess.”

“High schools have yearbooks. Some middle schools do, too. I have no idea how many high schools there are in the county, but there can’t be that many and I’d bet that none of them are very big. Assuming there are yearbooks in the school libraries, maybe we could find a name.”

I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it. “That’s brilliant.”

“We’ll see,” she said. “It’ll be after five before we get back to Helen, so it’s probably too late to start today. So first thing tomorrow?”

“Sounds like a plan. How did you think of that?”

“I don’t know. It just came to me.”

“Impressive.”

“Aren’t you glad I’m here?”

Yes, I thought, absolutely. But perhaps not for the reason you meant.

Back in Helen, we checked into our hotel. As I spoke to the clerk at the front desk, I sensed Natalie’s relief at the fact I’d reserved two rooms, even if they were adjacent. The clerk handed us magnetic key cards and we headed for the elevators.

Though sunset was still more than an hour away, I was tired. As much as I’d enjoyed spending time with Natalie, it was a strain to keep things entirely professional and pretend I wasn’t in love with her. I told myself to simply accept what she was offering, without expectation—but some things are easier in theory than in reality.

In the elevator, I pressed the button for the third floor.

“How do you want to do this?” she asked. “Do you want to look up the schools or should I?”

“I can do that. As you pointed out, there can’t be too many.”

“What time tomorrow?”

“Breakfast at seven here at the hotel, and maybe hit the road by eight?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

By then, we’d reached the third floor and we stepped into the corridor. Our rooms were on the left, not too far down.

“What are you doing for dinner tonight?” she asked as I unlocked my door.

“I was thinking the Bodensee. ‘Authentic German cuisine.’ I saw a review when I was finding hotels. Seems pretty good.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had authentic German cuisine.”

Was that a hint?

“How about I get reservations at eight for the two of us? I’m pretty sure we can walk, so meet downstairs at a quarter till?”

“Perfect.” She smiled. “See you then.”

In my room, after making the reservation, I took a quick nap, showered, and spent some time googling schools in the area on my phone. Through it all, I tried not to think about Natalie.

I couldn’t do it. The heart wants what it wants.

At a quarter till, she was waiting for me in the lobby looking as dazzling as ever in a red blouse, jeans, and pumps. As I approached, I wondered whether she’d been obsessing about me in the same way I had been about her, but as usual I couldn’t tell.

“You ready?” I asked.

“I was waiting on you.”

The Bodensee was only a short walk away and the evening was pleasant, with a gentle breeze that carried the scent of conifers. We were the only ones on the sidewalk and I could hear her shoes tapping against the concrete, my own steps falling in unison with hers.

“I have a question,” she finally asked.

“Go ahead.”

“What are you going to do if we actually find Callie’s family? What do you plan to tell them?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I guess that depends on what we learn.”

“If she is a minor, I have a duty to inform law enforcement.”

“Even if she was abused?”

“Yes, but that’s where it might get complicated,” she said. “It’s also tricky if she ran away at seventeen or whatever, but is now technically an adult. Frankly, I’m not sure what my obligations would be in that situation.”

“How about we cross that bridge when we get to it?”

Chapter 20

I woke as the early-dawn light began to seep under the curtains. Natalie was still asleep, and I slipped from the bed, trying not to wake her.

After pulling a clean shirt from my duffel bag, I put on my shoes and found my wallet, then crept from the room. The light from the hallway brightened the room momentarily as I opened the door, but Natalie didn’t stir. More sleep was exactly what she needed; I, on the other hand, needed coffee.

Breakfast would be served in an alcove just off the lobby. It was still too early for the food to be laid out, but luckily there was plenty of coffee available. I filled a foam cup and took a seat at one of the empty tables, my mind filled with bittersweet thoughts of Natalie.

I sipped my coffee, slowly coming back to life, and on a whim, pulled out my wallet and unfolded the note I’d written, transcribing my grandfather’s final words. Studying it once again, I was unable to escape the gnawing sensation that I was missing something important, something that had to do with Callie.

Rising from the table, I approached the front desk and asked if I could borrow a pen and pad of paper. Taking my seat again, I remembered the long pauses between words, and started with the assumption that he’d been trying to tell me something about Callie.

The instruction to run away, in hindsight, was clearly meant to describe Callie, as in runaway. Find family made sense as well. Since he’d spent time with Callie, sick like Rose and collapsed were also relatively easy to understand, especially if he’d seen something concerning.

But go to hell still made no sense. Neither did the word and before runaway. What if, however, the pauses were out of place? I whispered the phrases, sounding it out. Instead of go to hell…and run away, how about:

Go to Helen? Runaway?

My heart suddenly started to pound as I rewrote the last half of the note.

Though it was impossible to know whether I was correct, it felt right. Despite what the police and sheriff had told me about runaways—or missing persons in general from the area—I knew my grandfather had been talking about Callie.

Why, then, hadn’t he mentioned her by name?

I continued to drink my coffee, turning my focus to the first part of the note, trying different reinterpretations. I finished one cup and poured myself another, running through the words, reordering the pauses, but never once could I come up with Callie, or anything even close. I’d think about it, then let my thoughts drift to Natalie again, then return my concentration to the task at hand.

Halfway through my third cup of coffee, I felt the emergence of a new idea and if I was correct, then everything in the note was startlingly clear.

While admitting that I might be wrong, I suddenly felt confident that I would have the answer before the morning was out.

“Hey,” Natalie said.

Lost in thought, I hadn’t seen her enter the alcove. Unlike me, she’d already showered, the ends of her hair still wet. Her eyes were bright, with none of the weariness I’d expected.

“Good morning.”

“You were up early. I didn’t hear you leave.”

“I’m like a mouse when I sneak away.”

“I’m going to get some yogurt. Do you want anything?”

“I can go with you.”

Good to her word, she selected a container of yogurt and prepared a cup of tea. I opted for eggs and bacon with a side of toast, giving myself a pass on my healthy diet.

Back at the table, we sat across from each other.

“Did you sleep well?” I asked.

“Like a baby,” she said with a sheepish air. “That was nice, last night. Thank you.”

“Please don’t thank me. That might ruin it.”

“Deal,” she said. “Did you find the schools in the area?”

“I did,” I said. “Before dinner.”

“Me too,” she said. “There aren’t too many, but they’re spread through the county. We’ll do a lot of driving today.”

“I want to go to the police station first. What time do you think the chief will be there?”

“Hard to say. Probably around eight. Why?”

“I’d rather not say until I know for sure. But it might make for less driving if I’m right.”

Having eaten, I went back to the room, showered, and packed up my things. After meeting in the lobby, we were in the car before the top of the hour.

At the station, we were again ushered into Robertson’s office. Because I hadn’t shared my thinking with Natalie, she was as curious about the visit as he was.

“I’m sure you’re not here for a social visit,” he began, “so what can I do for you?”

“I’m wondering how missing persons are categorized in Georgia,” I said. “Is there a statewide database?”

“There is and there isn’t. Missing persons reports are generally handled locally, so every police department has its own list. Sometimes, the GBI might be involved as well, and they do operate statewide.”

“GBI?”

“Georgia Bureau of Investigation,” he said. “Small communities can’t necessarily afford to have full-time detectives or investigators on staff, so when crimes are committed or people go missing outside of major cities, the GBI steps in. They have their own missing persons list.”

“So if you had a name, you could check if someone is missing?”

“Of course,” he said. “Missing persons are usually listed alphabetically, but some departments list them chronologically. Depending on the department, some of those lists are public.”

“What if you only have a first name?”

“That’s obviously a slower process, but it’s still possible. You’d have to look over the various lists yourself. Keep in mind that there are missing people in the books that go back more than ten years.”

“Would you be willing to check for us?”

“You want me to look for Callie’s name? Neither of you are even certain that she went missing from Georgia.”

“She’s a kid and she’s dying.”

It took him a second before he finally nodded. “All right. I don’t have any idea how long this might take, though.”

“There’s something else, too.”

“Yes?”

“In addition to Callie, can you look for the name Karen as well?”

“Karen?”

I nodded. “A Caucasian teenage girl, missing since last spring or summer.”

Even as I said it, I could feel Natalie’s questioning gaze on me.

Robertson told us to wait in a coffee shop down the street. Though we’d both eaten, I ordered another cup of coffee and Natalie ordered tea again. I left a 500 percent tip on the table in open view, in case we had to stay at the table for a while.

“Karen?” Natalie asked.

I handed her the original note. Natalie read through it. When she finished, I went through the latter part of it.

“It seems clear that he was talking about her.”

“He doesn’t mention the name Callie.”

“No, he doesn’t. But if you combine the words care and and while changing some of the pauses, you come up with this.” I handed over the reinterpretation I’d scribbled earlier.

She read it before looking at me. “How did you come up with this?”

“I guess I must have been inspired.”

It took less time than either of us anticipated. Forty-five minutes later, Robertson entered the coffee shop holding a manila file. There were extra seats at the table and he took one of them. Without prompting, the waitress returned to the table with a cup of coffee for him. I guessed he was a regular. In the meantime, he slid the file across to me.

“I think I might have found her.”

“Already?”

“Karen Anne-Marie Johnson,” he said. “From Decatur. Age sixteen. Ran off at age fifteen last May, which means she’s been missing a little more than a year. That sounds like your girl, doesn’t it? I wanted you to check it out before I keep going.”

I opened the thin file and my eyes settled on a copied photograph of Callie. For a moment, I didn’t believe it. Though I’d been hopeful, the sense of relief I felt was overwhelming.

“It’s her.”

“Are you sure?”

“No question,” I said. Natalie leaned toward me, her eyes examining the photograph as well. I had to remind myself that—other than the hectic night of the trailer fire, and maybe not even then—Natalie had never seen her.

“I can’t believe how quickly you found her,” I said.

“It wasn’t that difficult. She was on the GBI missing persons list, which was the first one I checked. It took me less than ten minutes. It’s on their website, photos and all, so you really didn’t need my help. You could have stayed in North Carolina and done your own search.”

Except I hadn’t known the GBI had a website. Until that morning, I’d never heard of the GBI at all.

“I appreciate your help.”

“It’s what we do. I’m hoping there will be a happy ending to all this.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us?”

Robertson nodded. “I spoke to the people in Decatur and they pulled the file. You have the copy in the folder there, but it’s a typical story. She’d told her parents she was going to spend the night at a friend’s house. When they hadn’t heard from her by the following evening, the parents contacted the friend and learned that Karen had never gone there in the first place. As far as the parents knew, she didn’t have a boyfriend, so it wasn’t about that. You’ll note in there, too, that she has two younger sisters.”

Which meant possible bone marrow matches.

“If she’s from Decatur, how did Helen come into the equation?” Natalie asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I have a hunch that I’m going to find out.”

“As for me,” Robertson said, “I’m going to have to contact the GBI and let them know Karen’s whereabouts. Decatur police, too. I’m sure the parents will be relieved.”

I thought about that. “Would it be possible to hold off on that until tomorrow?”

“Why would I do that?” Robertson frowned.

“Because I want to talk to her first.”

“That’s not the way we do things in Georgia.”

“I know. But I’d like to know why she ran off in the first place. If it was because she was being abused, I want her to be prepared.”

“My gut is telling me that her running off had nothing to do with abuse.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Take a peek at the last page,” he said. “After talking to the Decatur folks, I printed out a news article that I was able to find. You might want to peruse that.”

Originally printed in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, the news article was short, only a couple of paragraphs long, and as I read it, I found myself agreeing with Robertson’s hunch.

To me, it explained just about everything.

With a bit of pleading from both Natalie and me, Robertson agreed to give me twenty-four hours before he contacted the GBI and the Decatur police. He also swore to hold me personally responsible if any aspect of my plan went sideways.

My first call was to Dr. Nobles. After a long hold, she let me know that Callie was still in the hospital, and that her condition had deteriorated slightly overnight. I told her that I’d found her family and planned to speak with Callie that afternoon. After that, I rebooked our flight so I could be at the hospital by midafternoon. Natalie and I discussed the best way to handle the situation as we made the drive back to Atlanta. We dropped off the rental car, checked in, and eventually made our way to the gate.

Once aboard, Natalie grew quiet, as did I. Both of us knew our time together was almost over, but neither of us wanted to talk about it. I noticed Natalie had been surreptitiously studying the other passengers as they arrived at the gate, no doubt concerned again that someone might recognize her. I understood her rationale, but it still left me feeling empty inside.

In the terminal back in New Bern, as we were walking through we both heard someone call out her name. Another woman, roughly her age, was approaching and clearly wanted to chat. I was torn between waiting for her or simply walking on, but I could see the plea in Natalie’s eyes, begging me to go.

I continued toward the parking area alone, fighting the urge to glance over my shoulder, and wondering if that was the final memory I would have of her.

Fifteen minutes later, I was at the hospital, walking toward Callie’s room.

Her door was open and I entered, noticing that the bandage around her head had been removed, leaving her hair a tangled mess. As usual, the television was on and after Callie noted my presence, she turned her attention back to it. I scooted the chair closer to the bed and took a seat.

“How are you feeling?”

“I want to go home.”

“I spoke with Dr. Nobles earlier.”

“She was here this morning,” Callie said. “She said they’re still trying to find donors.”

I watched her, trying to picture how hard the last year must have been for her. “I was in Georgia this morning,” I finally said.

She turned toward me, wary. “So?”

“I know who you are.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Your name is Karen Johnson, and you’re sixteen years old. You ran away from your home in Decatur, Georgia, last May, when you were fifteen. Your parents are named Curtis and Louise, and you have twin sisters named Heather and Tammy.”

After the shock passed, her eyes narrowed. “I suppose you’ve already called my parents? And they’re on their way?”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t. Not yet, anyway.”

“Why not? Because you plan to have me arrested?”

“No. Because I’d like you to contact your parents before the police do.”

“I don’t want to talk to them,” she said, her voice rising. “I’ve already told you that.”

“You told me a lot of things,” I continued, remaining calm. “But you’re a minor and technically a missing person. The police will contact your parents no later than tomorrow, so all of this is over no matter what you decide. They’ll find out where you are and I’m sure they’ll come to see you. I just think it would be better if they heard everything from you first. I’m sure they’ve been really worried about you and they miss you.”

“You don’t know anything!”

“What don’t I know?”

“They hate me.” Her voice was half sob, half cry of rage.

I stared at her, thinking about the news clipping I’d read. “Because of what happened to Roger?”

Chapter 21

I stayed with Callie as she made the call. Naturally, her parents were both shocked and elated to hear from their daughter. After gasps of disbelief and joyful sobs, they had a barrage of questions, many of which Callie promised to answer more fully when they arrived. But when Callie handed the phone to me, their initial relief was gutted by fear as I explained who I was and walked them through Callie’s diagnosis and prognosis. I promised them that Callie’s doctors would fill them in on all of her treatment options when they reached New Bern, and that it was imperative that they come as soon as possible in order for Callie to explore all of her medical alternatives.

I also updated Chief Robertson by phone, letting him know he could contact the GBI and Decatur police with the news that Callie had been located and had already contacted her parents. At the end of the call, he asked that I keep him apprised of Callie’s condition, and—with Callie’s permission—I promised to do so.

For the rest of the afternoon I continued to sit with her, listening as she spontaneously lapsed into memories of her life before Roger had died, sharing details of an ordinary teenage existence. It was as if the dam imposed by the past year’s isolation and secrecy had suddenly burst, releasing a flood of nostalgia for the life she had been grieving all this time. From her regional volleyball tournaments to the habits of her Labrador retriever, the names of her favorite high school teachers and the boy she’d briefly dated, the particulars of her personal life tumbled out randomly over the next several hours, painting a picture almost startling in its normalcy. I found myself marveling at the courage and independence she’d developed since running away, as nothing in the placid, relatively tame existence she described could have prepared her for the hardships she would face as a runaway.

I was with her when Dr. Nobles came by during rounds and watched silently as Callie finally related the truth about herself. Avoiding the doctor’s gaze and twisting a section of her bedsheet into a tight corkscrew, she apologized for lying. When she finished, Dr. Nobles squeezed Callie’s hand.

“Let’s just try to get you better, okay?” she said.

I knew Callie’s family was planning to drive through the night and would be at the hospital first thing in the morning. Callie made me promise again to be there, and I assured her that I would stay as long as she needed. As darkness fell over the parking lot outside her window, I asked her whether she wanted me to stay on until visiting hours were over. She shook her head.

“I’m tired,” she said, slumping back against her pillows. “I’ll be all right now.” Somehow, I believed her.

By the time I got home, I was utterly spent. I called Natalie but the call went to voicemail. I kept the message short, letting her know that Callie’s family would arrive in the morning in case she wanted to meet them, and that I’d already spoken to Robertson. After that, I collapsed on top of my bed and didn’t wake until the following morning.

On my way to the hospital the next day, I stopped at the drugstore. With the help of one of the employees, I spent a small fortune on beauty products, a hairbrush, and a hand mirror. Handing the bag to Callie, I could see the strain on her face. I watched as she picked ceaselessly at her hair, the skin on her forearms, the bedsheets.

“How did you sleep?” I asked, taking a seat next to her bed.

“I didn’t,” she said. “I felt like I stared at the ceiling all night.”

“It’s a big day. For everyone.”

“What do I do if they’re angry, and start yelling?”

“If I have to, I’ll mediate, okay? If things get out of hand, I mean. But they were happy to hear from you yesterday, right? I don’t think they’ll yell at you.”

“Even if they’re happy I’m alive…” She paused to swallow, her face wooden. “Deep down, they still blame me for killing Roger.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I stayed quiet. In the silence, Callie rifled through the bag with her good hand, inspecting the items I’d purchased.

“Do you need me to hold the hand mirror?”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all,” I said, reaching for the mirror. When Callie saw herself in the reflection, she winced.

“I look horrible.”

“No, you don’t,” I said. “You’re a very pretty girl, Callie.”

She grimaced as she ran the brush through her hair, then started applying the makeup. Though I doubted her grooming would matter to her family, it seemed to make Callie feel better about herself, and that was all that mattered.

She seemed to know what she was doing, and in the end I was surprised by her transformation. When she was satisfied, she put the items back in the bag and set it on the bedside table.

“How do I look?” she asked, skeptical.

“Beautiful. And now, you actually do look nineteen.”

She frowned. “I’m so pale…”

“You’re too critical.”

She gazed toward the window. “I’m not worried about my mom or my sisters,” she said. “But I’m a little afraid of how my dad will react.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t tell you this, but even before Roger died, we weren’t getting along very well. He’s really quiet and usually doesn’t show a lot of emotion, until he gets angry. And he was angry a lot even before Roger died. He didn’t like the people I hung around with, he thought I could be doing better in school, he didn’t like what I wore. Half the time, I was grounded. I hated that.”

“Most teens would.”

“I’m not sure I want to go back,” she confessed, dread coloring her voice. “What if things are just as bad as before?”

“I think,” I said, “your best bet is to just take things one step at a time. You don’t need to make that decision right now.”

“Do you think they’ll be mad at me? For running away and not calling?”

Because I didn’t want to lie to her, I nodded. “Yes. Part of them will be angry. But another part will be excited to see you. Still another part will be worried because you’re sick. I think they’re going to be feeling a lot of different things all at once. My hunch is that they’ll feel kind of overwhelmed, which is something to bear in mind when you talk to them. But the more important question right now is, How are you feeling?”

She weighed her response. “I’m excited to see them, but at the same time, I’m scared.”

“I’d be scared, too,” I said. “That’s normal.”

“I just want…”

She trailed off, but she didn’t need to finish. I could see in her expression what she wanted, for it was the same thing every child wanted. She wanted to be loved by her parents. Accepted. Forgiven.

“There’s something else you might want to consider,” I added after a moment.

“What’s that?”

“If you want your parents to forgive you, then you’re also going to have to forgive yourself.”

“How?” she demanded. “After what I did?”

“Forgiveness doesn’t mean you forget, or you stop wishing that you can change the past. Mainly it means that you accept the idea that you’re not perfect, because no one is perfect. And terrible things can happen to anyone.”

She lowered her gaze, and in the silence I could see her struggling with the idea. It would take time—and probably a lot of counseling—for her to get there, but it was a journey she was going to have to take in order to heal and move on with her life. I didn’t continue to press the issue, though; right now, she had more immediate challenges to face.

To keep her from dwelling on the obvious, I moved the conversation to easier ground. I shared instead my impressions of Helen and pulled up some photos on my phone so she could more easily visualize the town; I suggested that if she got the chance, she should try the Wiener schnitzel at the Bodensee. And for the first time, I told her about Natalie, not everything, but enough for her to know how much she meant to me.

During a pause in the conversation, I heard voices rising from down the corridor; I heard the name Karen Johnson and the sound of footsteps approaching. I stood and moved my chair back to the other side of the room and caught sight of Callie. Her eyes were frantic.

“I’m scared,” she said, panic in her tone. “They’re going to hate me.”

“They never hated you,” I soothed. “I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t even know what to say—”

“It’ll come to you. But a word of advice? Tell them the truth about everything.”

“They don’t want the truth.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “But it’s the best you can do.”

I was standing as one of the nurses led Callie’s family into the room, where they suddenly came to a stop, as if unable to process what they were seeing. Louise was in front, flanked by Tammy and Heather; I felt four sets of eyes skim over me before they focused on the girl who’d run away from home more than a year earlier. As they grappled with their surging emotions, I noticed how much Callie resembled her mother, Louise. They had the same color hair and eyes, the same petite frame and pale skin. I doubted whether she was much older than I. Curtis, too, looked to be in his thirties, but he was taller and wider than I’d expected, with a rough beard and dark hollows under his eyes. He looked at me quizzically, as though wondering whether I was someone official whom he needed to address, but I shook my head.

Callie’s voice was soft. “Hi, Mommy.”

The words were enough to break the spell, and Louise suddenly rushed toward the bed, tears already flooding her eyes. Heather and Tammy were close behind, emitting a collective wail of excitement. They were fraternal twins, not identical, and didn’t resemble each other in the slightest. Like overjoyed puppies, they practically climbed into Callie’s bed as they leaned in to hug and paw at Callie. From where I was standing, I could hear Louise repeating I can’t believe it and We’ve been so worried over and over as she stroked Callie’s hair and gripped her daughter’s hands, tears running unchecked down her face. Curtis, meanwhile, remained unmoving, as though paralyzed.

Finally, I heard Callie’s voice again. “Hi, Daddy,” she said, from beneath a swarm of arms. Curtis finally gave a small nod and approached the bed. The girls moved aside, making room for their father and turning to him expectantly. Hesitating, he leaned forward.

Callie sat up straighter and put her good arm around his neck.

“I’m sorry for running away and not calling,” she said in a broken whisper. “I missed all of you so much. I love you.”

“I missed you, too, sweetheart,” he said, his words choked with emotion. “And I love you, too.”

I stayed with Callie, remaining quiet as she told her story and answered their unending stream of questions. Some were big (Why did you run away?) and some were mundane (What did you eat for lunch every day?). Curtis asked more than once why she’d never tried to contact them, if only to let them know she was still alive. Though Callie was honest, it wasn’t always an easy conversation. Their pain, and Callie’s, was tangible and still fresh, even amid the joy of reunion. I could see that the real work of their healing as a family lay ahead of them, assuming Callie was even able to recover fully from her illness. She wasn’t the girl she was when she ran away a year ago, yet their lives remained bound up in a tragedy that none of them had really come to terms with—least of all, Callie.

As I left the room to allow them to continue their conversation in privacy, I sent up a silent prayer that they would have the courage to navigate the months and years ahead. Walking down the hallway of this now-familiar hospital, I couldn’t help thinking how strange it was that I had become so deeply enmeshed in the life of a girl I had never heard of until two months ago.

And yet, the oddest part of the entire experience was hearing her family use the name Karen over and over, which didn’t seem to fit the girl I’d come to know.

To me, after all, she would always be Callie.

The next day, Dr. Nobles told me that she spent nearly an hour with the family after I left, trying to explain Callie’s condition to them in a way they could easily understand. Both parents, as well as Callie’s sisters, agreed to have their bone marrow tested. Because of the seriousness of Callie’s condition, the lab had already promised to rush the results; they would likely know within a day or two whether any of them had a close enough HLA match, which would set the stage for additional testing. If a match was found, Callie would have to be transported to Greenville for the remainder of her treatment. Nobles also connected them with Dr. Felicia Watkins, the oncologist at Vidant, and assured them that the hospital there would be ready for her arrival. To that end, after speaking with Nobles, I reserved and paid for rooms in New Bern for the family for the week, as well as an additional two weeks for a hotel in Greenville. It was the least I could do in light of their all-consuming worries about Callie, and the challenges of being so far from home.

Having heard my name mentioned often in the course of their talk with Callie, Curtis and Louise were naturally curious to know more about me. When I stopped by Callie’s room after meeting with Dr. Nobles, I was happy to give them a brief rundown of how I’d ended up living in New Bern these past few months, while omitting the more complicated aspects of my military service and ongoing recovery. I was also able to share what I’d learned about Callie’s friendship with my grandfather and the kind of man he was. It made me sad that he was not there to finally meet Callie’s parents, but in some way, I felt that he was watching over this reunion, pleased that I had seen his efforts through to the end.

Natalie had responded to my text the night before, and when she later came by the hospital, I introduced her to Callie and the family. She conferred with them privately for twenty minutes, ensuring that she had all the details right for the report she would eventually have to file. On the way out, she sought me out in the waiting area, asking if I had time for a cup of coffee.

In the cafeteria, she sat across from me at the table, looking official in her uniform and as beautiful as ever. As we nursed our cups of weak coffee, I described the long hours I had spent with Callie, piecing together the shape of her story and witnessing her fraught reunion with her family.

“All in all, I guess it was a happy ending,” she said.

“So far. Now it depends on the testing.”

“It would be tragic for the parents to find her, only to lose her again.”

“Yes,” I said. “But I have faith that it will work out.”

Though I began many letters to Natalie, in the end I never sent them. Nor, during my regular but infrequent visits to New Bern, did I seek out or call her. Occasionally I would overhear things, usually people talking in low whispers about how hard it must be for her, or whether she should somehow find a way to move on. Whenever I heard those comments, I felt a deep ache at the thought that her life remained on permanent hold.

For me, moving on meant five years of residency, long hours, and completing enough clinical practice to finish the program. Though I’d originally thought that my interest would lie almost exclusively in the treatment of PTSD, I quickly came to discover that patients with PTSD often presented with other issues as well. They might be concurrently struggling with drug or alcohol addiction or suffering from depression; still others had bipolar disorder or various personality disorders. I learned that the treatment of every patient was unique, and though I tried, I couldn’t help everyone. While I was in Baltimore, two patients committed suicide, and another was arrested after an argument in a bar led to a charge of second-degree murder. That patient is currently behind bars for a minimum of nine years. Every now and then, he’ll send me a letter complaining that he isn’t receiving the treatment he needs, and I have no doubt that he is correct.

I have found the work deeply interesting, perhaps more than I expected. In its own way, it is more of an intellectual challenge than orthopedic surgery had ever been and I can honestly say that I look forward to my work every day. Unlike some of the other residents, I have little trouble separating myself from my patients at the end of the day; to carry the cumulative psychological burdens of others is too much for anyone to bear. Still, there are times when it isn’t possible to simply walk away; even when some patients can’t afford to pay for treatment, I often make myself available to them.

I have continued my own sessions with Dr. Bowen as well, though over time, the sessions have become more infrequent. Now I speak with him about once a month and only rarely do I experience any physical symptoms associated with PTSD. I sleep well and my hands haven’t trembled since my time in New Bern, but every now and then, I still feel an ache of sadness for Natalie and the life I imagined we would have made together.

As for Callie, there were regular calls in the beginning, but those eventually faded to the occasional text, usually around the holidays. The transplant was successful, her health was as stable as it could be considering her situation, and she had moved back in with her family. She graduated from high school and became a dental hygienist. I have no idea how or when she met Jeff McCorkle—she hinted that it was a story in and of itself—and as I wait in the church for Callie to walk down the aisle, the cynical side of me wonders whether the two of them are too young to be getting married. Both of them are only twenty-one, and the statistics don’t paint an entirely rosy scenario for their marriage in the long run. On the other hand, Callie has always been a person of extraordinary maturity and determination.

Most important, she—like me—fully understands that life’s twists and turns are impossible to predict.

When I drove through Helen on my way to the church, I was overwhelmed with déjà vu. The town looked exactly the same as it had the last time I’d been here. I passed the police station and the Bodensee restaurant, and despite running late, I idled in front of the hotel where Natalie had asked me to hold her on our last night together.

I like to think that I’ve moved forward since then, and in many ways, I know that I have. My residency and training complete, I have multiple offers in three different states. I have a favorite, but whether I choose that position depends to a degree on what happens later today.

From my seat, I can hear murmuring and whispers from people in the pews all around me; despite myself, I can’t help turning around to scrutinize every new arrival. When Natalie finally arrives, I feel my heart skip a beat. She is wearing a lovely peach-colored sundress and although she’s allowed her hair to grow out, she doesn’t appear to have aged in the five years since I last saw her. I watch as she scans the church, trying to locate an open seat, and is eventually escorted to a spot three rows in front of me. As I stare at the back of her head, I offer a silent thank-you to Callie, who had agreed to extend a special invitation to Natalie at my request.

Jeff eventually takes his place at the front of the church near the minister, with three groomsmen and a best man beside him. The music begins, Wagner’s Lohengrin, and Callie appears at the back of the church. Standing beside her is her clean-shaven father, Curtis, dressed in a dark blue suit. Both of them are beaming and we all stand as they proceed down the aisle. Curtis kisses his daughter on the cheek and takes his seat beside Louise, who is already dabbing at her eyes. Tammy and Heather are both bridesmaids, wearing matching pink dresses.

The ceremony is as traditional as I’d expected, and Callie and Jeff are pronounced husband and wife in short order. The guests applaud, and I smile when I hear a few whistles as well.

At the reception under an expansive white tent, I am seated with some of Callie’s cousins and their spouses, and grin every time guests gently tap their wineglasses with spoons, prompting yet another kiss by Callie and Jeff.

Callie dances with her husband and then her father, before others join in. I even manage to snag a dance with Callie, after which she introduces me to her new husband. He comes across as an earnest young man, and they are enviably, obviously in love. As I part from them, I hear Jeff ask Callie in a puzzled whisper, “Why does he call you Callie?”

I wonder how much she’s told him about the time she spent in New Bern, or whether she’s simply glossed over the details. In the long run, I suppose it won’t matter. Jeff, I suspect, will probably learn everything, as secrets are almost always impossible to keep.

Not long after the dancing began, I had seen Natalie step out of the tent. I follow and spot her standing near an ancient magnolia tree. As I approach, the music from the reception dwindles, leaving only the two of us in the still summer afternoon. I marvel again at how ageless and beautiful she is.

I remind myself not to expect much. Five years is a long time, and there is no doubt in my mind that it has changed both of us. Part of me wonders whether she will recognize me right away or whether I will notice a split-second hesitation while she tries to locate me in her memories. Nor am I exactly sure what to say to her, but as I draw near, Natalie turns to face me with a knowing smile.

“Hello, Trevor,” she says. “I was wondering how long it would take you to come find me.”

“You knew I was here?”

“I saw you in the church,” she says. “I thought about sitting beside you, but I didn’t want to make it too easy for you.”

With that, she moves closer, and as though our time apart had collapsed in the blink of an eye, she steps into my arms. I pull her close, absorbing the feel of her body with reverence. I catch her familiar scent, something I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed.

“It’s good to see you,” she whispers in my ear.

“You too. You look beautiful.”

We separate and for the first time, I am able to study her up close. Except for the tiniest of lines at the corners of her eyes and her lusciously long hair, she is the same woman who has visited me in my dreams for the last five years. Though I’d dated a few different women, each of those relationships had ended even before they’d had a chance to begin. At the time, I’d told myself that I simply didn’t have the energy for a new relationship; as I stand with Natalie, I know that I’d really been waiting for her.

“So? Are you a psychiatrist now?”

“I passed my boards last month,” I say. “It’s official. How about you? Are you still working for the sheriff’s department?”

“Not anymore,” she says. “Believe it or not, I own a flower shop now.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. It’s in downtown New Bern.”

“How did that happen?”

“I saw a listing that the shop was for sale. The owner was retiring so he didn’t want much for the business, and by then, I knew that I didn’t want to remain a sheriff’s deputy. So the owner and I worked something out.”

“When was this?”

“About eighteen months ago.”

I smile. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Me too.”

“How’s your family?”

“Other than my parents retiring to the beach, not much has changed.”

“Do you still visit them regularly?”

“I get to the coast every other weekend. They spend all their time there now. They sold their business and the house in La Grange. How about you? Still living in Baltimore?”

“For the time being. Just trying to figure out where I want to settle down.”

“Are you thinking anyplace in particular?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Still working through my options.”

“I’ve heard there’s a shortage of psychiatrists in Eastern North Carolina.”

“Is that so?” I say. “Where would you have heard something like that?”

“I can’t really remember. Oh, by the way, I kept an eye on your grandfather’s house for you. Back when I was a sheriff’s deputy, I mean. But even now, I still look in on the place from time to time.”

“Did you check out the beehives?”

“I didn’t,” she says, with a touch of regret. “You?”

“A couple of times a year. They don’t need much tending.”

“I should have known. They had the honey at the Trading Post the last few years. Only place in town you can get it.”

“I’m glad you remembered.”

Using both hands, she pulls her hair back into a ponytail, then releases it. “Callie sure looked pretty. I loved her dress. And it seems like she’s still getting along with her family, too.”

“It was a lovely ceremony. I’m happy for her. How about you, though? How long are you staying in Helen?”

“Just overnight. I flew and rented a car this morning.”

“And then you’re heading back to New Bern?”

“Of course,” she says. “My mom is standing in for me at the shop, but I’m pretty sure she’d like to get back to the beach.”

For the first time, I notice she isn’t wearing the chain around her neck, the one with the wedding band. Nor is the band on her finger. “Where’s your ring?”

“I don’t wear it any longer.”

“Why not?”

“Mark passed away,” she says, meeting my gaze. “Ten months ago. They think it was a pulmonary embolism.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He was a good man,” she says. “My first love.” She flashes a wistful smile. “And I guess you’ll be heading back to Baltimore after this, huh?”

“In time,” I say. “I’ll need to pack my things eventually. But actually, I’m heading to New Bern, too. It’s time to harvest the honey, and I figure I’ll stick around for a little while. I’m meeting with a couple of practices in the area.”

“In New Bern?”

“One in New Bern, the other in Greenville. I have offers from both, but I want to make sure I’m making the right decision.”

She stares at me before finally beginning to smile.

“You might end up in New Bern?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Hey, by the way, are you dating anyone right now?”

“No,” she says with a coy smile. “I mean, I’ve been on a few dates, but they didn’t stick. How about you?”

“Same,” I say. “I’ve been pretty busy the last few years.”

“I can imagine,” she says, her smile widening.

At that, my heart begins to lift and I thumb toward the tent. “Would you care to dance?”

“I’d love to.” Surprising me just a little, she loops her arm through mine and we start back toward the reception.

“Oh, and one more thing,” I say. “If you’d like to help me harvest the honey once I’m back in New Bern, I’d love to show you the process. Maybe the timing is better this time.”

“How much does it pay?”

I laugh. “How much do you want?”

She pretends to think about it before turning her gaze to me again. “How about dinner on the back porch afterward?”

“Dinner?”

“I’m sure I’ll work up an appetite.”

“That sounds like a fair trade.” I pause, suddenly serious. “I’ve missed you, Natalie.”

At the entrance to the tent, she pulls me to a stop. Then, without hesitation, she leans in to kiss me, the sensation as familiar as coming home.

“I’ve missed you, too,” she whispers, as we enter the tent together.