Dead Silence (Stillwater Trilogy #1)(3)
Author: Brenda Novak

“She mailed me all her recipes, you know,” Grace said. The package that had arrived from an attorney’s office about a week after the funeral was what had finally convinced Grace to come back. That, and George’s insistence that she deal with whatever it was that was causing her reservations about their marriage. Although she and George were speaking again, he’d given her a three-month ultimatum. He said he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life waiting for something he was beginning to think would never happen.

Clay shifted the gun to his other arm as though he felt awkward still holding it. “Folks around here think those recipes went with her to the grave.”

“No.” They’d been a parting gift—the only package Grace had ever received from Evonne.

“She probably chose you because you helped her so much when you were a teenager,” he said.

Grace thought it was because Evonne had an inkling of what had gone on at the farm, knew without ever being told.

Grief mingled with the guilt, regret and confusion Grace already felt, and the lump that swelled in her throat made it difficult to speak. “Nothing’s easy, is it, Clay?”

“Nothing’s easy,” he agreed.

She took a step down the drive. “It’s late. I’d better go.”

“Wait.” His warm hand curled around her wrist for a moment. Then he let go as if he feared she might take exception to his touch. “I’m sorry, Grace. You know that, don’t you?”

She couldn’t stand the tortured expression on his face. She preferred to imagine him as indifferent, didn’t want to know he was suffering as much as she was. She couldn’t bear that, too.

“I know,” she said softly and slipped away.

You have to make your own choice….

Clay’s words ran through Grace’s mind like a litany—all night and all morning. Her brother had implied that he wouldn’t blame her if she came forward. He hadn’t pointed out the very serious consequences, nor did he mention the people who’d be hurt. He’d simply shoved the decision right back in her lap.

Somehow she both loved and hated him for that.

God, what she wouldn’t give for one clearly defined emotion….

The doorbell rang. Shoving the box she was unpacking to the right, she climbed to her feet and crossed the hardwood floor. Evonne’s sisters and cousins had claimed most of the furniture in the house; they planned to have a yard sale with what remained. But Grace had contacted Rex Peters, the town’s only real estate broker, and rented the house just in time to save the last of the dishes, kitchen utensils, cleaning supplies, an odd table here and there, gardening rakes and hoe and a few pictures. Now she was expecting George to deliver her bed, dressers, sofa, chairs and dinette set from Jackson. She was staying in Stillwater for three months—she had only that long to “make peace with her family,” as George put it—but she needed furniture all the same. It made no sense to rent when it would have to come from Jackson, anyway.

For one second, she hoped George would be in a hurry to get back home. Since their sort of reconciliation, relations between them were awkward at best, and although she should’ve been eager to see a friendly face, she felt far less anticipation than she should have. She couldn’t deal with the pressure of knowing he wanted something from her she couldn’t yet give. And she was afraid he might want to make love. She struggled in that area more than any other.

The doorbell sounded again.

Apparently, he was pressed for time….

“Coming.” She swung the door wide, but it wasn’t George who stood on her step. It was a darling little boy with gray eyes, a patch of freckles across his nose, and tufts of blond hair sticking out from beneath a baseball cap.

“Hello,” she said in surprise.

He wrinkled his nose as he gazed up at her. “Hi.”

She waited, but he didn’t say anything else.

“Can I help you?”

“Want me to mow your lawn? For five dollars?” he asked.

Grace raised her eyebrows. “Are you old enough to handle a lawn mower all on your own?”

His expression told her he didn’t appreciate her doubting his ability. “I used to do it for Evonne,” he said indignantly.

For years, whenever Grace came by on her bicycle, Evonne would offer her some small job. Grace doubted Evonne ever really needed the help. She’d managed on her own for a long time. She only provided the opportunity as an excuse to send home some of the peaches or pickles Grace loved, and maybe a few dollars.

Lord knew Grace’s family had needed the money, especially after Irene insisted Clay go away to college.

“I’m saving up,” he added.

Grace couldn’t resist a smile. “For what?”

He hesitated. “It’s a secret.”

“Oh.” She eyed his muddy sneakers, his blue jeans, which were worn through at the knees and his oversize T-shirt. He definitely wasn’t clean, but he looked as though he might have started out that way this morning. She couldn’t decide whether he was well-cared-for or not. “How old are you?” she asked.

“Eight.”

Even younger than she’d thought. From his build, she would’ve guessed nine. Poking her head outside, she glanced up and down the street, but she didn’t see anyone who might be with him. “Are you a neighbor?”

He nodded.

“I see. Well, since a lawn mower wasn’t one of the items left behind by Evonne’s family, I think you’ve got yourself a job.”

Instead of beaming at her, as she’d assumed he would, he turned and scrutinized the yard, thoughtfully scratching under his cap as though he was at least twenty years old. “You want me to do it today?”

“Probably not. Seems pretty short to me.”

He scowled, obviously less than pleased with the loss of an immediate opportunity. “I could pull weeds,” he suggested.

“For five dollars?”

“Not if you want me to do the garden in back.”

She didn’t blame him. The garden sprawled over a quarter of an acre and was entirely overrun. “Okay, how ’bout you do the front and back planter areas?”

“Will you throw in a cookie with that five bucks?”

She wanted to laugh but squelched the impulse. She suspected he’d be offended if he knew she wasn’t taking him as seriously as he expected. “You drive a hard bargain, my friend.”

“It’s only a cookie.”