The Singing River Page 3

  An officer stepped clear of one of the vehicles, his hand resting on his gun. “There was a disturbance here?” he asked.

  Poppy pulled on the door, using her foot to hold it open as she continued to type. “A fight,” she answered. “The owner’s inside.”

  I gazed at the road, the stare River had given his brother replaying in my head, his voice tight as he said, “He’s not normally like this.” I rubbed my arms despite the heat and hoped Frieda wouldn’t file a report. It was the stare that swayed me. The look he’d given his brother was the same one I often gave my mother. Love mixed with fear and determination, maybe even a little desperation.

  “Hey, Haven! You comin’?” Poppy called out, her voice breaking through my reverie. I turned away from the road. Poppy’s eyes took in my face before going back to her phone. “Those were the Braydens, you know.”

  Stepping into the diner, I paused. “You know ‘em?”

  Poppy peered out of the door’s fingerprint-smeared glass to the gravel beyond. “Nah, but you remember last year when that man was murdered? The blue blood?” She held up her phone, and I squinted at the news story she’d pulled up on the screen. Poppy’s throat gurgled. “Those were his sons.”

  My gaze went to the parking lot, to the road that forked off in the distance, the right branch moving up a hill into the historical housing district.

  “Wow,” I murmured. It had been such a devastating crime, hateful.

  Frieda called to us from the counter, and we rushed back to work. The door jingled, the number of customers suddenly doubling. We were a small town; police presence ushered in the curious. The rest of my shift flew by.

  I was hanging up my apron and clocking out for the day when I saw him standing outside, his head down, his hands jammed into the pockets of his khaki slacks.

  My eyes flew to the counter. Frieda was jiggling something on the ice cream machine, cursing, and Poppy lounged next to it, her eyes on her phone. Grabbing my messenger bag, I snuck out, opening the diner door just enough it wouldn’t catch the bell above.

  My thin, black flip flops slapped against grey gravel.

  “You forget something?” I asked.

  River Brayden’s head snapped up, his startling chocolate eyes meeting mine. A faint bruise along his cheek bone was the only sign of the punch he’d received earlier.

  “No,” he answered. His gaze moved to the dairy bar. “Are you off?”

  I nodded.

  He touched the passenger side of his black Mustang. “Do you need a ride?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. It wouldn’t be long before Poppy or Frieda noticed the car out in the lot. Three other vehicles were parked in the gravel, but none as fancy as his, and Frieda was still annoyed over the incident a few hours before.

  “I think I’d rather walk. Thank you.” Brushing past him, I started down the road.

  A car door slammed behind me. The Mustang edged onto the street, the passenger side window rolling down as he pulled up next to me.

  “I’m sorry. I know you don’t know me,” he said.

  I didn’t justify that with an answer, and for a moment, his car just crept along, throwing up wavering heat in the already hot day. My shirt clung to my back.

  “I just wanted to thank you for earlier,” River finally said.

  We’d reached the fork in the road, and I paused. His car rolled to a stop. Sighing, I placed a hand against the open window frame.

  “Your brother okay?”

  River nodded. “Look, I’m not sure why I came back, but thank you.”

  I knew why he’d come back. It seemed foolish to punish someone for having too much or too little money, but it was the way of things. It was more amusing to watch a blue blood crash and burn than it was to help him. There was a middle ground, but unless you were middle class, you were either looked down upon or judged with green-eyed jealousy. Even I wasn’t beyond envy. I kept imagining River’s vehicle next to our lime green Cadillac, and it made my cheeks burn.

  I tapped his car. “I would have done it for anyone.”

  His eyes studied my face, and I fought not to fidget.

  “You sure you won’t let me take you home?” he asked.

  I shook my head and pushed away from the car. “I’m not far.”

  He didn’t argue. I waited for him to pull into the right fork before I started walking again.

  “Hey!” River’s voice stopped me, and I looked back to find him idling a few feet away. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  Gripping the strap of my messenger bag, I replied, “Haven.”

  My last name didn’t seem necessary, and he didn’t ask for it. He repeated the name, throwing me a quick smile before driving off.

  I stared after him a moment before resuming my walk, my gaze going over my shoulder to that damnable fork in the road.

  There was something still about the day, like it was holding its breath. The crickets had already started singing, and white dandelion seeds floated on the air. The heady, heavy scent of azaleas was strong where large bushes crowded freshly mowed lawns. A few children screeched in late afternoon sprinklers, but mostly it was as quiet as a summer day ever got.

  A voice broke the silence as I turned onto my road.

  “Got some tomatoes for you, Haven!”

  An elderly black man waved at me from his wooden porch, his peeling, white washed house dull in the longer afternoon shadows.

  I shaded my eyes. “Mom’ll be excited about that, Mr. Nelson!”

  Edging into his overgrown yard, I climbed the first few steps of his porch.

  Thomas Nelson was a kind, old man in his late seventies who grew a small garden behind his modest home. He’d lost his wife a few years back, and he tended to get lonely, rocking for hours on his front porch, his eyes watching the road. I’d admired the Nelsons’ marriage, their devotion. In the end, his wife had been unable to leave the house much, and Thomas had never strayed far from her side. I’d often seen him walking with her in their yard, his hand on her arm as she used her walker to exercise.

  Thomas held out a large, ripe tomato.

  I clasped my hand over my heart. “Wow, they are big this year!”

  Thomas grinned proudly. “It’s all about the fertilizer.” He snapped open a brown paper bag he kept next to his chair before filling it with a few tomatoes from a bucket at his feet.

  I took it gratefully and grinned. “BLT’s for us tonight.”

  “A fine meal,” Thomas agreed.

  He sat on his rocking chair, his old, trembling hand resting on the arm.

  My gaze moved to his yard. “Why don’t I come mow for you tomorrow, Mr. Nelson? I’m off of work, and I’ve got to cut ours anyway.”

  Thomas shook his head. “You ain’ gotta do that, child.”

  He received the best surly look I had to offer. “Well, I know I ain’t gotta, but you know how I hate taking free stuff without paying, and I’m thinking about those vegetables in that garden of yours.”

  Thomas rocked, the chair creaking. “How about some butter beans?” he asked.

  I grinned. “Perfect.”

  Thomas rocked some more before he said, “Your mom stopped by earlier and gave me my mail.”

  I froze. “Did she?”

  Mr. Nelson’s teeth flashed white against his brown skin, his eyes crinkling.

  It was taking everything I had not to shake him. “Well?”

  Mr. Nelson nodded. “She got the job.”

  Whooping, I gave Thomas a quick hug before jumping off his porch.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow!” I yelled over my shoulder.

  “Your tomatoes!” he called.

  I leapt back up and grabbed the bag before running, barely noticing when Mangy Beast joined me, his black furry legs pounding the dirt, his tongue hanging. He pushed at my side, and I fought not to stumble as I reached our trailer. The green Cadillac was parked outside, the rust even redder in the afternoon sun.

  The trailer’s door flew open
before I even touched the knob. The smile I gave Mom was dazzling.

  Her hands went to her hips. “The old coot told you, didn’t he?” she asked.

  My smile grew.

  She shook her head. “How many tomatoes did you get out of it? I got three for telling him.”

  Laughing, I held up the brown paper bag. “I got four to hear the news.”

  “Damned old man.” She scowled, but the twinkle in her eyes belied any annoyance.

  I pushed past her, groaning in pleasure when cool air hit my face.

  “Landlord sent someone to fix it.” Mom waved at the thermostat on the wall. “It was froze up again. We’re going to need a new AC eventually.”

  Dropping the paper bag on the small table in the kitchen, I turned to face her. “When do you start?” I asked.

  Mom’s face lit up. “Monday.” She came to me, taking my hands in hers. “It’s a good job, Haven. Good hours, decent pay.” A wicked gleam lit her eyes. “And I got you something to do with your summer other than work.”

  As I pulled my black tank over my head, cool air hit my bare stomach just below my crop top.

  My eyes narrowed. “What kind of something?”

  My blue jean shorts hit the floor.

  “Do you always have to do that?” Mom asked.

  Glancing down at my crop top and white underwear, I shrugged. “God, Mom, it’s just us.”

  She shook her head as I moved to the washer and dryer in the hall between the kitchen and her bedroom. A large, clean New Orleans Saints T-shirt and underwear lay on the dryer, and I snatched them up before moving into her bathroom. We had another bathroom at the other end of the trailer, but it was so tiny, there was barely room to stand.

  I turned on the shower, my fingers testing the water before glancing into the bedroom. “What have you got planned for me?”

  Mom grabbed a pack of Marlboro Lights off her dresser and lit a cigarette. I scowled. She had been smoking since she was a teen and stopping didn’t seem to be on her priority list.

  “An old school friend of my boss’s stopped by the office during my interview today,” she began.

  I threw her a look before closing the bathroom door, leaving it cracked as I shed the rest of my clothes and climbed into the shower.

  “No,” Mom quickly amended, “I know what you’re thinking and it’s not like that. He’s too old for you, and I’m an awful matchmaker. He studies history, and he’s particularly interested in Southern folklore.”

  Grabbing the bottle of shampoo, I scrubbed my hair. “And that has something to do with me?”

  “He’s studying the Singing River legend.”

  I paused, letting the soapy water sluice down my body, my eyes on the stained shower wall. I’d been five years old, sitting on my grandfather’s knee, when I’d first heard the story of the Pascagoula River. My papaw had loved telling stories. He’d sit on his couch, a glass of milk and cornbread in one hand, the other patting his knee. He’d smelled like Old Spice and hair grease, and I’d been fascinated by his stories. The Singing River had affected me more than most.

  Mom was encouraged by my silence, and she tapped the door. “I told him you’d love to ride down there with him, maybe do a little investigating.”

  I shut the water off and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around my chest before pulling open the bathroom door. It put me face to face with Mom.

  “Really?” I asked. “So he’s a historian?”

  Mom grinned. “An amateur one. He’s a journalist for a living.”

  Excitement thrummed through my veins.

  “You leave Sunday for a few days on the river,” Mom added.

  My spirits fell.

  “But work ...”

  Mom exhaled, a stream of smoke rising from her lips. “Call Frieda and adjust your schedule. It’s only for a couple of days. He’ll be making several trips this summer.”

  I pulled the Saints T-shirt over my head and let the towel fall to the floor.

  Mom glared at it. “You won’t make a tidy housekeeper one day.”

  “I’m testing a new theory,” I replied.

  Mom’s brows rose. “You tryin’ to see if clothes will grow legs and walk to the laundry?”

  I donned the underwear and draped an arm over Mom’s shoulder, avoiding the smoke from the cigarette in her fingers. “I’m waiting to see how long it’ll take you to pick them up for me.”

  Mom bent and grabbed my towel, using it to pop me on my rear.

  “Insolent child!” Her lips twitched. “I didn’t send you to school to learn sass.”

  I winked at her. “Didn’t you know? I’m majoring in smartassery in the fall.”

  Mom groaned. “Get!” she ordered.

  I grinned all the way to the kitchen where Mr. Nelson’s tomatoes and a pack of bacon waited.

  Chapter 6

  River

  Roman slept curled in the fetal position, his arms hugging a pillow, his teeth grinding, and his fists clenched.

  I stood in the open doorway of his bedroom and watched him, my car keys dangling from my fingertips.

  “Haven,” I whispered.

  There had been no reason to return to the dairy bar after I’d dumped Roman on his bed, no reason whatsoever to seek out the sandy-haired waitress who worked there. Nevertheless, the compulsion to return had been strong, her green eyes having chased me home. The girl hadn’t been overly remarkable. Wavy hair, a heart-shaped face, and a spattering of freckles. She’d been lanky and tan, the muscles in her arms and legs the kind that came from hard work rather than idleness. She’d not had an easy life. Despite that, there’d been compassion in her eyes when she looked at Roman, and it was a dying emotion. People pitied, but they didn’t feel compassion.

  Leaning against the wall, I whispered, “Haven.”

  The desire to thank the girl had far outweighed common sense.

  “You can go away. I’m fine.”

  Roman’s weary voice broke through my reverie, bringing my attention back to the bed. He sat up, releasing the pillow, the palm of his hand going to his eyes.

  I glared at him. “What the hell did you take?”

  Roman groaned. “Don’t! I had a low moment. Don’t tell me you haven’t had them.”

  Pushing away from the wall, I approached him carefully, my teeth clenched. “Low moments, Roman. Not stupid ones.”

  My brother dropped his hands. “So I’m stupid?” he asked.

  Anger swept over me, effectively replacing the fear I’d felt earlier. I grabbed Roman’s polo shirt, surprising him. His eyes widened as I lifted him toward me.

  “Do you want to kill yourself? Is that it?” I growled. “Do you care so little about yourself? So little about your family?”

  Roman pulled at my hands. “Don’t make this about the family. Don’t you dare make this about the family. This is about me.”

  I dropped him, taking some satisfaction in the way he fell—all knees, elbows, and cursing—onto the floor.

  “How bad off are you really, Roman? What have you gotten yourself into while I was gone?”

  He pulled his shirt over his head and threw it at me. “Go worry about someone else, River.”

  I froze.

  “That’s just it, brother,” I said, my words slow and deliberate. “Who else am I supposed to worry about? You’re it. You’re all the true family I have left.”

  Roman’s eyes met mine, and I saw anguish there. My brother had fought depression for years, even before our father died, but I’d never seen him this low. This low terrified me.

  I nodded, not once stopping to think as I threw him a hard look, storming past him to tear at his dresser.

  Roman jumped out of bed. “What the hell are you doing?”

  I pulled the top drawer out, jerking it completely free of the frame before dumping it. Roman tugged on my shirt, but I shoved him away and rifled through his clothes, leaning to look into the empty space in the dresser before pulling out another drawer.

 
“What are you hiding, Roman?” I asked.

  The second drawer proved clean, and I pulled out a third.

  Roman hit the wall with his fist. It left a small dent in the wood but didn’t leave a hole. Old houses were so much sturdier than the newer sheet rock.

  “What the fuck!” Roman cried. “Just get out of my room!”

  I kept rummaging, pulling at every drawer until all of them were empty, and then I moved to his bed, shoving the mattress aside.

  Roman’s arm went around my neck, and he pulled me backward before slamming me against his bedroom wall. I didn’t flinch.

  My gaze met his, his face only an inch below mine. “What are you hiding, Roman?”

  My brother stared at me, his lips pressed together, his breathing hard. Roman was hard to read, his face always blank unless he was trying to be charming or witty.

  He leaned into me, his arm pressing against my collar bone. “My room, my life.”

  I hooked my foot around the back of his leg, putting enough pressure to make him stumble. He was too close to me for it to be very effective, but it caught him off guard. I shoved him, sending him sprawling before kicking his mattress completely off of the bed. Nothing.

  Roman stood, his face a mask of rage. Whatever he’d taken earlier was still effecting him; not as much, but it was there. He came at me, and I punched him.

  I saw the blood before I saw his face, the shock in his wide eyes.

  He grabbed his nose. “You bastard!”

  I backed him into the wall, my eyes on his. “We are not our lives, Roman.”

  Roman laughed, the sound harsh. “Spoken by a blue blood. Wow, you’re a liar.”

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  Roman looked away from me. “I don’t know. Something.”

  I pushed him into the wall before letting go and backing away from him. “This isn’t the way to get something. Despite all of my blue-blooded talk about heritage, tradition, and responsibility, you are still more important than all of that. Who we are isn’t the way we live.”

  I left him standing there, staring after me as I walked from his room. I was on the stairs, my hand on the bannister before I stopped, my eyes closing. I didn’t cry. Braydens never cried.