The Rain Sparrow

Josie sipped. Like most other households in Honey Ridge, Margaret created her own teas out of whatever was available. “Delicious, Margaret, and wonderfully refreshing on a warm day. Thank you.”

  Margaret set her glass on the table between them, and then went to a small desk in one corner, where she removed a worn envelope and held it against her stomach.

  Josie’s stomach tightened. Tom’s last letter home. “Where was he when he wrote that letter, Margaret?”

  “Somewhere in Georgia.” She took a step closer, brown eyes intent. “He could still come home, Josie.”

  Josie licked lips gone dry even while the taste of blackberry tea lingered. “I pray every night for his return.”

  “Do you?”

  She gasped, stunned that Margaret would ask such a thing. “Yes, of course I do!”

  Margaret’s shoulders drooped. She heaved a sigh that bespoke of heartache and loss and resignation. “There is a nasty rumor afloat, Josie. I must know if there is any truth in it.”

  Hot with guilt, Josie reached out a hand. She’d never wanted to hurt this woman who’d already suffered far too much sorrow. “I love Tom, and I always will, but he’s been gone a long time.”

  Margaret’s fingers tightened on the envelope. Her white bodice bunched at the waist. “So it’s true? You’re courting the Northern miller?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  With a quiet swish of gray cotton skirts, Margaret sat down, her fingers tight on Josie’s arm.

  “You can’t give up, Josie. Tom is coming home. I know he will. Soon. Very soon.”

  The feverish declaration was spoken with bright, unshed tears.

  Josie’s pulse leaped. “Have you heard something?”

  The woman deflated. “No. No. Dear heaven, how I wish.” Her head dipped, and she stared at her fingers in her lap, wringing them lifeless. “Don’t do this, Josie. I beg you. Don’t betray Tom. Don’t betray what he fought for.”

  Josie was frozen, caught between the past and the present and the terrible unknown. “I don’t want to betray anyone.”

  “A Yankee, Josie? After you promised to wait.”

  She had. She’d made that promise, confident her Tom would march triumphantly home waving the banner of a victorious Confederacy. Neither had occurred.

  In a raspy, agonized whisper, she asked, “What if he never returns?”

  Margaret’s tormented face beseeched her. Lines of worry around her eyes and mouth, haunted eyes and a desperate plea ripped the scab from Josie’s own wounds.

  “Another year or two. That’s all I ask.”

  “Margaret,” she started, aware with deep, throbbing regret that she no longer believed in Tom’s return. Her bonny golden-haired beau with the lanky limbs and serious brown eyes was never coming home. He’d never march or ride or even crawl back into their lives. Her beloved fiancé was gone forever.

  She had a terrible choice to make.

  “Margaret, please. You and I both know Tom is never—”

  Hard fingers dug into her arm. “I know you’re lonely, my dear, and you are still very beautiful, but if you cannot keep your promise, if you cannot wait, then do not defame my son’s memory with the Northern miller.”

  Oh, would the woman ever stop jabbing at her conscience?

  “Thaddeus is a fine man.”

  Margaret shot up from the settee, two bright circles on her cheekbones. Shaking with angry, she spat, “He’s a Yankee, Josie! He may be the very man who took Tom away from us. Did you ever think of that when you’re with him? Did you ever wonder if he is the man who killed your fiancé?”

  As if the spew of fury rent her in half, Margaret bent forward, face in her hands, and sobbed. Long, shuddering, harsh sounds emitted from the depths of her soul.

  Sick and shaking and guilty as sin, Josie put her arms around Tom’s mother and held her while they both cried.

  * * *

  THAD SAW HER there on the second-floor balcony long before he reached the house.

  She hadn’t come to the mill today.

  For the best, he’d told himself. She distracted him from the work, but he’d missed her, and Abram had noticed, teasing when he’d been grumpy.

  Worried that she’d taken ill, he’d sent for word of her health. Abram, by way of Lizzy, said she’d gone into town to visit her fiancé’s mother.

  Fiancé.

  Josie was engaged. He’d wrestled with that some, and perhaps the nagging worry that he loved another’s betrothed had added to his cranky mood. Upon sharing his concerns with Will, his wise cousin agreed with the painful truth Josie had yet to accept. Tom Foster, like so many soldiers, was long freed from the bonds of this earth.

  Josie was engaged to a memory and none other.

  Weariness from a long day of labor rode his shoulders, but seeing Josie in the moonlight, a poet’s inspiration, his flagging energy spiked.

  Once inside the house, he bypassed the parlor with little more than a lifted hand when Charlotte called that his supper was on the stove. He didn’t want food.

  On the floor of the parlor, Benjamin knuckled marbles against the wall to the sound of a Scottish air expertly played by Patience, the ethereal blonde beauty. Will and Charlotte sat with heads together in quiet conversation, a sight that begged envy. Thad was helpless not to feel it.

  He wanted that kind of loving contentment again.

  His boots thudded softly on the staircase that rose from the entry to the second-floor hallway. At the top of the stairs, he circled around toward a corridor that split the upper floor into two sides lined with rooms. Directly in front of the staircase landing a double door opened out onto the veranda, which wrapped around the bedrooms on either side.

  He rarely invaded this private sanctuary of the family, but tonight he was bold as he stepped through the opened doorway.

  “I saw you walking across the meadow,” she said without turning around.

  The memory of moonlight kisses quivered on the night air. He longed to go to her, to take her in his arms and kiss her again and again.

  All the way from the meadow, the pocket watch had bounced against his rib cage, as if to remind him of the family he’d lost. Amelia had loved him truly and faithfully. She’d always wanted the best for him. He could not help believing she’d want him to be happy again.

  But was tempestuous Josie Portland the answer to his loneliness?

  “You look beautiful.” He hadn’t meant to blurt the obvious even though he’d thought of little else since spotting her here, a copper-and-gold goddess bathed in starlight.

  Josie turned from the railing, one hand on one of the pillars that supported the upper balcony and the slanting attic roof. Her flowing, curly hair hung loose in a way he’d never seen it before. In a way he’d imagined.

  “‘She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.’”

  The smallest of smiles graced her perfect lips. “You would quote Byron to me?”

  “I haven’t thought of that poem since the schoolroom.”

  She watched him, expression gentle and wistful, a rarity for this spitfire female.

  He fell a little bit more in love.

  “Indeed, the stars you so eloquently address are brighter from here,” she murmured. “I can hear the whip-poor-wills and smell the river.”

  “I missed seeing you today.” The throb in his throat revealed too much.

  “I...was busy.” The tender gaze flickered. She dropped her head to stare at the blue-painted planks of the veranda. In a voice that throbbed with conflict, she said, “You really should go.”

  The demand took him aback. They were sharing poetry. He’d told her she was beautiful.

  “Go?” He
stepped toward her. She shrank back. “Have I done something to offend you?”

  She crossed her arms tight against her body and turned her back to stare out across the black woods and shadowy hills.

  “No,” she whispered. “No.”

  He stepped alongside her, grateful when she didn’t slide away again. Her hand gripped the railing, and he rested his fingers on hers. “What’s wrong?”

  She pulled her hand away. “Us. We’re wrong. I can’t do this, Thaddeus.”

  He shook his head, fear boiling up. “Do what?”

  “Continue to see you.” She tilted her head, and for a fleeting second the sassy spark of Josie returned. “You are courting me, aren’t you?”

  “I’m trying my best. If Byron doesn’t do the trick, I’m in trouble.”

  Her beautiful, succulent mouth curved, and Thad fought the desperate need to remind her of how much she liked his kisses.

  “You can’t court me.”

  “You don’t care for me, then?” he asked, reeling, hurt but not at all convinced.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “What are you saying, Josie?” He raked a hand through his hair in exasperation. “Speak plainly. I’m lost.”

  “I cannot allow myself to care for you. I cannot allow your court.” She pressed a dainty hand to the ruffles on her blouse. “I am a betrothed woman, Thaddeus. I should never have led you on.”

  Cold as an Ohio winter, cold clear to his bones, Thad shook his head in denial. “Tom is dead, Josie.”

  “Perhaps.” Her shoulders twitched without the usual sass and spirit. Resignation. “But one thing will never change.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m a Reb. Tom was a Reb.” She lifted a hand, let it drop to the rail. Emotion flickered across her perfect features. Sorrow, pain, anger. “And you are a bloody Yankee.”

  Thaddeus sucked in a long draft of fragrant air and released it as slowly as he could, gathering his thoughts and emotions. He loved her, but he would not apologize for who he was and what he believed.

  Softly, wistfully, he murmured, “I can’t change that, Josie. I had no power over my birthplace any more than you did. I wouldn’t be me if I’d been born elsewhere.”

  “Would you? If you could?”

  He knew what she wanted him to say, but he was a man of integrity. To lie only to please her would hurt them both in the long run.

  “I cannot change who I am or the values that I hold to be true.”

  She nodded, her bottom lip quivering the slightest bit, enough that he wanted to put his lips there to soothe her.

  “Then, sir,” she said in stiff formality as if they hadn’t splashed in the creek or kissed with wild abandonment, “I shall bid you good-night...and farewell. I do not wish to be courted by anyone of your ilk.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Hope is the thing with feathers

  That perches in the soul

  And sings the tune without the words

  And never stops at all.

  —Emily Dickinson

  Present

  BRODY HAD NEVER seen his father cry. He’d seen him drunk and mad, stumbling and passed out, but he’d never seen him cry.

  Scared and uncertain about what to do, Brody sat in his living room with his shoulders hunched and blood pounding in his ears while, across the room, his father sobbed, face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

  Mama was dead. She’d died a long time ago in a lake too far away for him to even know where it was. The police knew for sure the woman was his mama because they’d had him spit on a big Q-tip and matched his DNA to the woman found in the car.

  “I thought she ran off, Brody,” his daddy sobbed. “I thought she’d left us.”

  Brody had thought the same, probably because the old man had hammered it into his head for as long as he could remember. Penny was no good. Brody was no good. Nothing was good but a bottle of whiskey or a can of beer.

  “I should have looked for her. I should have gone after her. But, no, what did I do? I got drunker. What kind of man does that, Brody? What kind of man doesn’t search for his wife?” He broke into more long sobs that made Brody’s stomach ache. “She was too good for me. You see that, don’t you?”

  Brody didn’t know what to answer, so he remained silent. Like in the cop shows. He had a right to remain silent. Anything he said could be used against him.

  “I asked you a question, boy!”

  Brody jumped. “Yes, sir.”

  He wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to, but the reply satisfied his father.

  “I told her to not go.” Clint laughed harshly. “And then I ordered her to leave, like some cocky drill sergeant who thinks he controls the world. We had an awful fight that night. You know what she said to me?”

  “No, sir.” His father never talked about his mama. Never. That he was talking about her now both scared and thrilled Brody. His hands were shaking along with his guts.

  “She said I loved whiskey more than her. And you know what I said?”

  Brody stared down at his hands. “No, sir.”

  “I told her she was right. No woman was going to tell me what to do. If she thought for one minute I’d give up the only relaxation a man got after a hard day’s work, she could find some mama’s boy to pay her bills. That’s what I told her. And you know what she did?”

  “No, sir.” He could feel the tears welling. His chest hurt so bad with the news about his mother, he could hardly breathe. He wanted to run to the inn and talk to Hayden. He wanted to call Miss Carrie. She’d touch his hair, feed him cookies and tell him everything would be all right.

  First Max and now Mama.

  He wanted to be anywhere except here with his crying, talking father.

  “You were asleep. She started toward your room. I blocked her way, cussing and ranting like a maniac. ‘You’re not leaving,’ I told her. But she said she was only going out for a drive while I calmed down. That’s what she claimed, but I knew she was leaving for good. If she took you, she was gone forever.

  “‘The boy stays,’ I said, thinking she’d come back if you were here. She was crazy for you. Rarely let you out of her sight.

  “She fought me then, like a tiger. She pushed and shoved, trying to get into that room where you slept, but she was a little woman, no match for me. I laughed in her face and dragged her to the front door and shoved her outside.”

  He hung his head, wagging it back and forth. “Stupid. Stupid. I told her to get out. I made her leave. She was crying. Begging. Asking to stay. Because of you.”

  He raised his face, stricken. “Her last words to me were ‘You can’t keep me away from my baby.’”

  A tight place loosened in Brody’s chest. “She wanted to take me?”

  But his father didn’t answer. He kept on talking, talking.

  “Every time I looked at you, I’d think she has to come back. She’ll come for him. After a couple of days, I vowed to quit drinking, to go to church or take her on a cruise, whatever she wanted. If she’d only come home.” He put his head in his hands again. “But she never did. She couldn’t.”

  His mother had loved him. Brody’s mind throbbed with the news. She’d loved him and fought for him.

  His father looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “All this time I hated her for leaving, and I blamed you because she didn’t come back. Doesn’t make a lick of sense now, does it? Not a lick.”

  Brody rose from the chair and started slowly and cautiously toward his father. He pretended the sad-looking man on the couch was a bird with a damaged wing or a dog growling out of fear because he’d been hit by a car. A broken creature.

  When he reached the sofa, he stood inches away. Slowly, stiffly, he lifted his hand and rested it on his father’s shoulde
r.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy.” He didn’t know what he was sorry for except that his mother was dead and his father was sad, but saying the words freed something inside him.

  With a groan, Clint pulled Brody into his arms and hugged him close, rocking, crying and muttering unintelligible promises. And as sad as Brody was, he didn’t feel so lost anymore.

  * * *

  A MEMORIAL FOR Penny Thomson was held on a cloudy, humid Thursday. Taking the afternoon off work, Carrie attended the service along with Hayden and Bailey and her son. As moral support, the group sat directly behind Brody. The little boy looked bewildered. His father looked worse.

  Only a handful of people attended the small service, mostly Brody’s schoolteachers, Clint’s coworkers from Big Wave and a few others. Clint’s brother drove down from Memphis but left right after the service, and if there were other family members anywhere, they hadn’t bothered to come.

  Carrie found the situation immeasurably sad. Her own life was filled with family and extended family, but Brody and his father were basically alone. Hayden, who bore no sympathy whatsoever for Clint Thomson, claimed the man’s behavior had estranged him from anyone who’d tried to care, including his own wife and son.

  Hayden’s reaction was harsh and swift, and she wondered anew if there was more behind his anger than concern for Brody.

  After the short service, Carrie drove to Brody’s home with a plate of her mother’s fried chicken and another of homemade peanut butter cookies, Brody’s favorite. She’d invited Hayden to come along, but he’d declined. He wasn’t Clint Thomson’s favorite visitor, but he sent a written message for Brody that made the boy’s sorrowful face light up.

  He’d also invited Carrie to spend the remainder of the afternoon with him at the inn.

  Bailey, tall and stunning in a black sheath dress belted in red, had overheard the invitation and muttered, “He’s hot for you, baby sis. Unbutton those top two blouse buttons.”

  Her sisters were hopeless romantics. So was Carrie, but mostly she was practical.

  And she practically adored Hayden Winters. Every single minute in his smart, insightful, charming company.

  After dropping off books to three patrons, including the cat lady, she aimed her blue Beetle toward Peach Orchard Inn.