Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER NOVELS BY LESLEY KAGEN
Whistling in the Dark
Land of a Hundred Wonders
DUTTON
Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P
2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.); Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First printing, May 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Lesley Kagen
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kagen, Lesley.
Tomorrow river / Lesley Kagen.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-18713-5
1. Girls—Fiction. 2. Sisters—Fiction. 3. Children of disappeared persons—Fiction.
4. Parent and child—Fiction. 5. Family secrets—Fiction. 6. Shenandoah River Valley
(Va. and W. Va.)—Fiction. 7. Psychological fiction. 8. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3611.A344T66 2010
813′.6—dc22 2010002055
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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http://us.penguingroup.com
For my mother
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks from the bottom of my heart to:
My editor, Ellen Edwards.
Publishers Brian Tart and Kara Welch.
The hard-working advertising, art, publicity, production,
promotion, editorial, and sales teams at Dutton and NAL.
My agent, Kim Witherspoon, for her unrelenting optimism.
The diligent team at Inkwell Management.
Stephanie Lee, Jeanine Swenson, Hope Erwin, Eileen Kaufmann,
and Rochelle Staab for their valuable feedback and friendship.
Legal beagles, the Hon. Darcy McManus, Bruce Rosen, J.D.,
and Casey Fleming, J.D.
Madeira James, for creating and maintaining my Web site.
Mike Lebow, you know why.
Book clubs. What a gift you are!
Booksellers. Especially, Next Chapter Books,
my home away from home.
My husband, Pete, who is a saint for putting up with my nonsense.
Casey and Riley, my adorable, incredibly bright, and
good-looking children.
Lexington, Virginia, for the literary license.
Prologue
If you’d had the occasion to come calling on the Carmody clan of Rockbridge County that long-ago summer, being a stranger and not familiar with our twisting mountain roads and all, you might’ve found yourself pulling into the Triple S for directions. So there you’d be, perspiring from your every pore, waiting on the owner to come rushing out, thrilled to meet your every need. But my oh my, how disappointed you would’ve been. Because proprietor Sam Moody? He would’ve stayed sat on his station porch until he was darn well ready to come sashaying your way. And you? Awfully put off by his barely brown boldness, you’d’ve already formed the impression that the man was some sort of ill bred and wished you’d stopped at the Shell out on the highway instead.
But let’s just say, as I’m attempting to set the scene for you here, that you gathered your wits together long enough to inquire, “The Carmody place? Lilyfield?” And let’s further say that Sam, still not thrilled, but certain you meant us no harm, replied, “Past the woods, make a left on Lee Road.” So off you’d go, pressing pedal to metal, relieved as hell that you came from somewhere else that boasted cooler air and more courteous help.
But I guarantee you, the moment you braked at our wrought-iron gate, thoughts of the unbearable heat we’d been having and the station that hadn’t been very serviceable would’ve fled your head. “Will you look at that,” you’d’ve muttered as your eyes journeyed up our impressive tree-lined drive and came to rest on the magnificent house. “This Carmody place is fine. Real fine.”
But just how you were thinking only moments ago about Sam Moody being nothing more than a gumptious high-yellow Negro, I’m afraid your first impression of Lilyfield would’ve been way off as well. Once you’d come closer, looked deeper, you’d’ve seen that our place wasn’t at all fine and neither were we Carmodys.
The lady of our house had vanished.
During the course of all our lives, there comes a time when something or someone very dear to us will break beyond repair. Growing older teaches us we have no choice but to humbly accept that no matter how hard we try or how many tears we shed we’re powerless to glue those precious pieces back together again. But during the summer I went searching for our missing mother, I was just
a girl. I hadn’t learned that lesson yet. No. It wasn’t until the damage was done that I truly understood the meaning of “Pride goeth before a fall.”
Then again, maybe my hindsight could borrow your eyes for a bit.
I’m sure you’ve heard it said that a person can’t begin to understand another’s troubles until they take a stroll in their shoes. So maybe you’d . . . would you do me the favor of slipping on my little gal sneakers and taking forty giant steps backwards in time? Go stumbling around the summer of ’69 the same way I did? Once you see what I was up against, I’m hoping you’ll come to believe that my heart was tender and my intentions pure, and that’s got to count for something.
Assuming you’re willing, allow me to offer a bit of advice before we get under way. Try to keep in mind what I mentioned to you earlier on. Because even though I’m still torn about the way I dealt with Mama’s disappearance and more than likely will meet my Maker being so, I am dreadfully certain about one thing. Those first impressions? They can be dead wrong.
Chapter One
We got one heck of a view from up here.
Under less heartbreaking circumstances, I might even describe it as astronomical and that’s not just me waxing poetic, which I am prone to do. I got the Monacan Indians to back me up on this. According to one of their legends, the beauty of our Shenandoah Valley so impressed the stars gazing down from above that they held a celestial powwow and agreed to cast the brightest jewels from their twinkling crowns into our abundant waters, which was real nice of them, if somewhat shortsighted. We got a whole lot more than rivers and creeks to merit their stellar attention. The Blue Ridge Mountains cradle us in a glorious blanket of green. If you breathe in deep, the smell of Christmas trees fills your nose no matter what time of year it is. Horses run faster. Flowers grow taller. Even the birds tweet sweeter.
I believe my father, Judge Walter T. Carmody, a gentleman well-known in the Commonwealth of Virginia for rarely making mistakes, pulled a real doozy when he named me after this heavenly valley on earth. Shenandoah means “beautiful daughter of the stars.” That’s what His Honor should’ve called my sister instead of Jane Woodrow, because I don’t think I am. Beautiful, that is. Not like Woody. We’re supposed to be identical twins, but we’re not entirely so. My blond hair kinks in the heat and my green eyes look like they sprouted from a slightly different family tree than hers. From a distance, though, hardly anybody can tell us apart. Unless I smile. Got a gap between my two front teeth and who cares, I get all A’s.
My sister and I are snuggled up in the strongest branches of an old oak that’s eighty-two steps from the back porch of the house, depending on how much of a hurry we’re in. Papa built us this fort. Carved his name in the trunk of the tree like an artist so proud of his work. Back when he still called my sister and me his “little Gemini,” we’d lie with him on the fort’s floor. So happy to breathe in the smell of English Leather that ran along his jaw. Overjoyed to hear his heart beating steady beneath the pocket of his starched white shirt while he pointed out Orion, the Hunter, or Ursa Major, the Great Bear. I could almost always make out those sky pictures, but Woody couldn’t. Instead of saying, “Oh sure, there’s the Little Dipper,” the way I did to please him, my sister would begin humming along with whatever tune our mother was crooning while she washed the supper dishes, her angel voice floating out of the kitchen window below.
But everything changed after Mama disappeared.
Even Lilyfield.
That’s the name of our house and the fifty rolling and wooded acres that it sits on outside of town. Not that long ago, anybody who knew the Carmody place would’ve told you it was pretty enough to win a pageant prize the same way Mrs. Murdoch did. She was a runner-up in the 1937 Miss Virginia contest, but has sort of slowed down to a walk these days. Don’t get me wrong, Lolly Murdoch still turns heads. You just got to look harder to see the beauty that’s lying beneath her weathered skin. Same with Lilyfield.
Even though the fencing out back is missing boards and all three stories of the house need more than a touch-up of white paint, as I look down upon it this morning, no matter what anybody says, I think our home is still tiara-wearing gorgeous. It’s a little alarming, though. How fast something tarnishes if you don’t keep it polished. Mama’s been gone less than a year.
Our fort is well stocked. We got feather pillows, a ruined chiffon scarf, and sleeping blankets. My stargazing binoculars hang from a nail and there’s almost always a tin of pecan fudge that I make for my sister, who mostly eats sweets these days. Always close at hand are our matching flashlights that we got on our last birthday. The Carmody twins will be twelve on the one that’s coming up on August 15th. Off in a corner, there’s a little altar that Woody set up. It’s just a rusty coffee can with a plastic statue of Saint Jude resting on top and a couple of cut-off candles below, but she adores it. My sister still believes in all that holy baloney. Not me. I don’t bother kneeling down to the patron saint of lost causes anymore. It hurts too bad in more ways than one.
We also got a saved-from-the-trash record player, but it’s gathering dust. We don’t have any electricity up here. I tried running extension cords from the house but came up short, so Mama’s soundtrack albums don’t get played. Woody likes staring at the shiny covers, though, especially South Pacific, which I’d say is her all-time favorite.
There’s also some of our missing mother’s precious books held in a neat row by a shank bone that I got for our dog, Mars, who like his planetary namesake had one hell of a chip on his shoulder. He is also missing. I picked the bone up from the butcher to fool my critter-loving sister into thinking that dog might turn back up.
And, of course, we’ve got art adorning the walls. My constellation map is tacked to the fort’s broad boards and hanging right next to it there’s a mostly black-and-white family portrait that was taken in more carefree days. We’re in the wild lily field that our place is named after. We were having a picnic. Mama used to pack up a basket with pimento cheese sandwiches and yellow Jell-O and we’d race out to the field laughing and shouting at one another the way all families do, “Last one there’s a rotten egg.” After our tummies got full, the four of us would go for a dip in the creek, which I remember being a lot warmer than it is now. Papa would flirtatiously splash Mama and she’d giggle and splash him back and he’d take turns giving Woody and me piggyback rides until we all got soaked to the bone and that was the best of times.
When I wasn’t paying attention the way I should’ve been, my sister took her crayons to the picnic picture. Drew wavy yellow lines through our mother’s hair, dotted green on her eyes, and colored her cheeks real rosy. Mama looks like a flower blooming in a patch of weeds in that snapshot now. Woody can stare at it for hours, but I’ve got to chew Rolaids if I look at it too long, so I just don’t.
Like a jarring alarm clock, the screen door of the house squeaks open below.
“I saw ya duck down, don’t think I didn’t, Shenny. Get down outta that tree right this minute.”
That’s our housekeeper, Louise “Lou” Jackson, going off like that on the back porch.
She just got done dragging herself over from the creekside cottage she shares with Mr. Cole Jackson, who is Lilyfield’s caretaker and, through no fault of his own, also her uncle. Every morning about this time Woody and I can count on this kind of rude awakening.
“You two hear me?” she roosters.
I don’t want to call back, but she won’t let up until I do. Lou has become one of those unrelenting-in-their-personality types of people. “Not only can we hear ya, so can the rest of Rockbridge County,” I shout. “Includin’ those born without ears.”
“Get down here ’fore I change my mind about feedin’ your sassy mouth,” she yells, letting go of the screen door with a slam.
I lie back down next to my sister on the fort floor. Press my tummy into the scoop of her back. When she’s curled up like this, it’s about the only time she seems like her old self, so ha
lf of me doesn’t want to shake her by the shoulder that matches mine down to the freckles. The other half of me knows that we’ve got to get a move on. We’ve got important work to do.
“I told Lou yesterday to make bacon and flapjacks. You’ll like that, won’t you?” I ask her, even though I’m fairly certain she won’t answer me. I mean, she could sass me back one of these mornings, “Stop bein’ so silly, Shen. You know I adore bacon and flapjacks.” That’s what she would’ve said before Mama disappeared. But these days, no matter how much I yell or beg or promise to rub almond cream on her hands for two weeks straight, my sister will not say one word. Woody’s gone mute on me.
“You know what today is?” I nuzzle my face into her hair that smells more like a penny than Prell. “It’s the tomorrow I was tellin’ you about last night.” Nudging her onto her back, I lick my pinky finger and smooth down her pale eyebrows. “This morning we’re going to jump right in. Start looking for her in earnest.” My eyes wander down to Woody’s bare legs. One of the Band-Aids I put on her knees after Papa let us out of the root cellar this morning is hanging by a thread.
Last night was particularly awful.
We fell asleep in our room and shouldn’t have. Because I got woke up to our father weaving over my sister’s side of the bed, growling, “I order you to talk to me.”