The Rain Sparrow

  “About a million times,” Carrie said, glad they’d moved away from the rumor mill topic.

  She didn’t want Nikki rehashing the incident, which always brought on a painful slew of sympathetic hugs and the false assurance that nobody remembered anymore. She remembered.

  “Some things are worth repeating.” Her sister hitched a purse Carrie recognized as a Coach only because it said so right on the front. “So are you in for some more fun?”

  Carrie’s hand stilled on the two books she was now checking in. “Shoot! I let Maggie get out without paying her fine again.”

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “What? Oh, sure. Reese Witherspoon.”

  Nikki exhaled in a long, beleaguered sigh. “Fun, Carrie. You know, something besides this musty library.”

  Insulted, Carrie drew back. “My library is not musty.”

  But that was the way things went with her sisters. Carrie’s choice in clothes, occupation and lifestyle was stodgy and musty. Theirs was perfection.

  Most of the time she even agreed with them but not when they criticized her library.

  “Bailey and I think we need a break, all three of us,” Nikki was saying. “Chad’s on board and Ricky doesn’t count.”

  Ricky was her longtime on-again, off-again boyfriend who pretty much let her do anything she wanted and was always waiting when she returned. That she took advantage of the easygoing man never crossed Nikki’s mind.

  Carrie beeped a book and added a worn copy of Laura Ingalls Wilder to the cart. “What are you talking about?”

  “Let’s plan a winter getaway to somewhere warm and wet. A Christmas gift to ourselves. What do you think of Hawaii?”

  “Christmas is still months from now.” She beeped another book.

  “Plans, darling. Plans.” Which in Nikki’s world meant planning her wardrobe.

  “Hawaii sounds beautiful,” Carrie said hesitantly. “But it’s a long way from here with water in between.”

  “That’s the whole point. Water, beaches, shirtless men, getting a tan in the dead of winter.” Nikki circled a finger in the air. “Water’s not a problem. You can swim.”

  “Not hundreds of miles across the ocean.”

  “Don’t start with that. Flying is safer than riding in a car.”

  “Crashing isn’t.”

  “We won’t crash. I promise. So what do you say?”

  “You know how I hate flying.” Carrie’s pulse got all rickety at the mere mention of stepping on a plane. She’d flown once. Once. And thrown up twice, an experience she never wanted to repeat. “Besides, I don’t think I can take the time off.”

  Nikki snorted so loudly, Carrie had to shush her.

  “You probably have a hundred years of vacation time coming.”

  Tawny whisked past, pausing long enough to say, “Go, Carrie. I’ll cover.”

  “Eavesdropper,” Carrie groused.

  Tawny tilted a shoulder and grinned.

  Nikki’s lips curved in triumph. “There you go. No excuses. The three of us will have such fun. You might even meet a hunky Hawaiian who’ll teach you to surf.”

  “Sharks eat people who surf.”

  Nikki pursed her lips and got serious. “What’s the deal, Carrie? You don’t want to hang out with your big sisters for a week of fun in the sun?”

  Carrie dropped her head back.

  “I love the idea of the three of us doing more things together.” She touched her sister’s hand. “Really, Nik. I just...” Hated the idea of hanging over an ocean for hours in a plane held up only by invisible air. Hated the unknown and unexpected, where men lied and people assumed things that weren’t true and left you with a hole in your heart.

  She preferred her predictable world of Dewey decimals and alphabetical order.

  “I’m saving for a house. A trip to Hawaii is not in my budget.”

  “Oh.” Nikki looked deflated. For once, the whirlwind sister had no argument. “I didn’t know you were planning to buy a house.”

  That’s because she’d only this moment decided to start saving. Maybe it was time to move forward and stop looking back and dreaming of something that was never going to happen. She was a career woman now. She had a stable, steady income. She certainly wasn’t going anywhere else. Not even Hawaii.

  To ease the disappointment on her sister’s face, she said gently, “You and Bailey go. I’ll help Chad with their kids while you’re gone.”

  Nikki pouted pink lips. “The whole sister bond thing. Come on, Carrie. Nearly four years have passed since—”

  Carrie pointed a finger, expression stern. “Do not go there, Nikki.”

  “Then get over it. No one even remembers anymore.”

  “You do.”

  Nikki huffed. “I wouldn’t if you’d move on and get a life.”

  “I am over it. I have moved on. That’s why I’m saving for a house.”

  Hers wasn’t Nikki’s or Bailey’s idea of a life, but Carrie had learned to be content. She’d accepted the fact, thanks in large part to “the incident,” that she was as ordinary and uninteresting as a slice of plain white bread. And she was okay with that. Most of the time.

  “Go to Hawaii,” she said. “Get a great tan, see a real volcano and a rain forest.” All the reasons Carrie would love to visit Hawaii. “You can Skype me from Waikiki Beach with a hunky Hawaiian on your arm and say, ‘I told you so.’”

  Nikki’s eyes squinted in suspicion. “You’re a coward, Carrie Leanne. You’re scared to death to get out of this town and do something. You’re terrified of making the same mistake—”

  Carrie quickly interrupted. “Remember when we went to Graceland? That was fun.”

  “Out of Tennessee, Carrie.” Nikki rolled her well-mascaraed eyes. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life stuck in this library if you don’t branch out a little. Really, Carrie, don’t you want to meet people?”

  “I meet people every day.”

  “I meant people as in the single male variety, not the shut-ins and bookworms and computer geeks you meet through the library.”

  “Hey!”

  “Sorry. But did you see those shoes Maggie had on?”

  “No, I didn’t. And you shouldn’t be so shallow as to judge a woman by her shoes.” Carrie fought the urge to glance at her own discount store flats. “Don’t you have a boutique to run?”

  Nikki flipped a nonchalant hand. “Bailey’s in the shop today. She can handle the customers.”

  Carrie’s two older sisters co-owned the Sassy Sisters Boutique. Nikki coordinated the fashion end while Bailey managed the business details and kept spendthrift Nikki firmly in check. Theirs was the perfect partnership and one they’d tried to interest Carrie in, another case of the oddball sister who couldn’t quite fit.

  The week had barely begun and already she’d had too many reminders of how drab and pathetic she was. Like a sharp knife in the throat, she’d never forget the moment she’d accepted the truth. No one needed to remind her ever again.

  Yet she knew they would.

  “Then you’ll excuse me,” Carrie said. “I have work, even if you don’t.”

  “You’re overwhelmed with customers.” Nikki’s index finger bobbed up and down as she counted. “Seven.”

  Though she loved them, her sisters had the power to drain her.

  “Patrons. And computer three needs to move on so the next patron can take over.” Happy for an excuse to escape, Carrie went to the computer section and quietly reminded the bearded man that his time was up.

  He scowled, thick eyebrows coming together. “I’m not done.”

  “You’re playing a game, sir.” “Zombie Zap,” for pity’s sake. “Other patrons are waiting for the computer. So please, log out.”
br />   With a growl, the man logged out, shoved back his chair and stalked out of the library. If he’d been a real zombie, she’d be toast right now.

  Carrie tooled through the library, shelving a book here and there, stopping to point out the biography section to a woman in shorts and flip-flops before returning to the front.

  She was sliding a weathered copy of Wuthering Heights into its exact spot—823.8—when her sister rounded the end of the stack.

  “I thought you left,” Carrie said.

  “Isn’t it cool having a famous novelist staying in Honey Ridge? At Julia’s inn, no less.”

  A little jitter danced in Carrie’s stomach. “He’s researching a book.”

  “Really? Then I guess that explains why he just walked in the door.”

  “Here? In the library?” From her spot behind several rows of books she couldn’t see the front, but she craned her head in that direction anyway.

  “He’s not a rock star, Carrie. I didn’t even recognize him.”

  He was a star in the literary world, though Nikki wouldn’t know that.

  “Most people wouldn’t recognize John Grisham or Nicholas Sparks if they met them on the street, either. Authors’ names and books, yes, but their faces? Not so much.”

  “I guess that’s true.”

  “Have you ever read one of his novels?”

  Nikki looked shocked at the very idea. “All that violence? Not on your life. Valery had to tell me who he was. She thinks he’s hot.”

  “Valery thinks anyone with testosterone is hot.” So what if Carrie had thought the same thing the other night in Julia’s kitchen. She had an excuse. The storm had rattled her nerves and he’d been kind, not only to her but to Brody. He’d given up his bed and his rest for the pitiful little boy. In Carrie’s book, a man who showed kindness was hot with a capital H.

  Nikki, still standing at the end of the stack, gaped toward the entrance. “Oh, my goodness.”

  “What?”

  “Ferragamo!”

  “Who?”

  Nikki tossed her head and made a disgusted noise. “I swear, sometimes I wonder if we share any DNA at all. The man is wearing Ferragamo loafers.”

  “What man?”

  “Hayden Winters! The man we’re discussing.” Nikki let out a long sigh. “Ferragamo. Such fabulous taste. His hotness rating has officially sailed off the meter.”

  “He’s more than a pair of shoes, Nikki. He’s a nice, ordinary guy who likes strong coffee and Oreo cookies and isn’t afraid of storms.”

  Nikki eyed her sister with speculation. A perfectly groomed pair of black eyebrows rose in a higher arch.

  Carrie could never get her eyebrows to look that good.

  “I thought you were busy rescuing the drenched boy.”

  “Before that. The storm scared me. Don’t roll your eyes. I can’t help it. I came downstairs to watch the weather on TV.”

  “And your hottie writer pal was already there?”

  “He was trying to find the coffeepot. I showed him. We made coffee.”

  “You must have nearly fainted when you learned who he is. I mean, you being a bookworm and all. Valery’s right. He’s not hard to look at, even if he’s older by a few years.”

  Late thirties. Maybe even forty. When a guy looked that good, age didn’t matter.

  “It was storming, Nikki,” Carrie said in exasperation. “You know how I feel about storms. I would have hung out with anyone wearing skin. I didn’t care if the guy was a writer or a skid-row bum.”

  She might be stretching the truth a little, but she had been deeply relieved at finding a living, breathing, unterrified human in the kitchen. The fact that he was Hayden Winters was icing on the cake.

  “Are you ever going to stop being a ninny about a little thunder and lightning?”

  “One can only hope.” But how could she, when she lived with memories of that one particular stormy day, of the helpless dread and shattering humiliation that came with every thunderclap? All her life, she’d known something terrible would eventually happen during a storm. She’d been right.

  Her sister glanced at her cell phone. “Aren’t you going up there? See what he wants?”

  “Tawny’s got the front desk. She can assist him.”

  Nikki made a hissing noise and shook her head in dismay. “You are the most hopeless female in Honey Ridge.”

  Carrie laughed. “Bye, Nikki. See you.”

  Her sister rolled her eyes for the tenth time, tossed her sleek hair and departed, eggplant stilettos tip-tapping on the indoor-outdoor carpet.

  As Nikki disappeared from sight, Tawny whipped around the end of the stacks. “Someone wants to see you at the desk.”

  Carrie suffered a little swell of energy, quickly tamped down.

  He might be Hayden Winters, the most celebrated name in killer thrillers, but to Carrie, he was the guy who liked bold coffee and books and kept the tornadoes away. A pleasant and passing acquaintance.

  Keep telling yourself that, and maybe you’ll believe it.

  “Be right there.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Libraries raised me.

  —Ray Bradbury

  HAYDEN SCANNED THE LIBRARY, taking in the small computer bay, the cozy sections of brown vinyl couches and chairs, the study tables, and the rows and rows of books tidily divided into sections. Along the east wall, a rack of current magazines overlooked round tables littered with various newspapers.

  With each breath, he drew in the redemptive smell of books. Places like this had saved his life.

  At the circulation desk Hayden asked for Carrie. A tiny blonde librarian, after giving him a puzzled stare as if she couldn’t quite place him but knew she should, took off toward the rows of books. Apparently, Carrie hadn’t mentioned his presence at Peach Orchard Inn, and he couldn’t decide if he was grateful or wounded.

  He liked his midnight barista. Had been intrigued by her. Had found an excuse to see her again.

  While he waited, Hayden perused the new releases shelf, flipping through Mary Higgins Clark’s latest as he kept half an eye out for Carrie.

  When she came into view, a quick kick deep in his gut caught him off guard. His glance drifted to her ankle, noting the bracelet she’d worn a few nights ago was there again above simple black flats. Even in his sleeplessness, he hadn’t imagined Carrie Riley’s fresh appeal. Dressed in black skinny slacks and a white button-down, she’d tucked her short dark hair behind pearl-studded ears.

  She was like the library, neat and orderly.

  “You looking for a cup of coffee?” Her mouth curved.

  “Might be. You have a few minutes?”

  “Not for coffee. Sorry.”

  So was he.

  “Another time, then.” He slid a hand into the pocket of his chinos. “I wondered about Brody. Did you get him home all right?”

  A crease appeared between Carrie’s eyes. She motioned toward a round table nearby, and they sat down across from each other.

  Hayden had an uncomfortable feeling about the kid, and he was seldom wrong in his character analyses. Whether fictional or real, he discerned people. Right now, he discerned trouble for Brody Thomson and concern in Carrie Riley.

  Posture erect, the tidy librarian clasped her hands together on top of the table. Her fingernails were unpolished, unlike the pearl-pink toes from Friday night. She wore no jewelry on her slim fingers, either. Another point of interest he filed away.

  “Brody acted very uncomfortable about me driving him home,” she said in her soft-as-rainwater voice. “He wanted me to drop him off in town. He said he’d rather walk.”

  “You let him?”

  “No. I insisted on driving him all the way to his house.” She shrugged, dark eyes w
idening. “I had a funny feeling.”

  “As did I. Any sign of his father?”

  “He came to the door. Brody was anxious for me to leave.”

  An oily feeling curled in his belly. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “This may seem silly—” she glanced up at him and then back down, absently picking at the curled corner of the Knoxville News Sentinel “—but as I drove away, I tried to keep watch in my mirrors without being too obvious.”

  “Not silly at all. See anything?”

  “When I turned the corner, I thought I saw his father slap the side of his head.” She exhaled a little breath of frustration. “I’m not sure, though, and it might have been a friendly thing like dads do sometimes.”

  “You mean like a welcome home, a love pat?”

  “Exactly. My dad used to put my brother, Trey, in a headlock and they’d wrestle around. Guy stuff. That’s probably what I saw.” She nibbled her bottom lip.

  “But you don’t think so?”

  “Something’s not right, or Brody would have let us call his father that night. His dad was not out of town.”

  “The kid lied.” He wasn’t surprised. No drowned rat of a boy refused to go home to dry clothes and a warm bed without good reason.

  “I think so. I asked him directly and he sidestepped the question with a vague reply that was all but an admission.”

  Hayden inhaled deeply and sat back in the chair.

  Home was hell for some kids. A few were lucky enough to escape. He’d lied about a lot of things, too, usually to his mother but often to others. Lies he passed off as excuses. His mama was out of town. She was sick. He’d forgotten to ask her.

  He swallowed back the intruding thoughts. They were discussing Brody, not him.

  “I talked to Trey,” Carrie said. “He couldn’t recall any problems from that address, not since he’s been on the force.”

  “Did he know anything about the kid’s father?”

  “Basically common knowledge stuff and what Brody told me. Clint Thomson is employed at the Big Wave boat factory. He hangs out at Brannon’s bar on Second Street. No record of arrest except for a DUI a few years ago.”