The Singing River Read online

  “You can tell by the way the air feels,” I told her.

  She looked down, and our eyes met. “You have an interest in the weather?”

  I shrugged. “It’s a hobby.”

  Haven stooped, swinging her long legs over the end of the lowered tailgate, and sat.

  She glanced at me. “Sometimes hobbies become careers.”

  I pulled at my T-shirt, letting the harsher breezes moving in from the south cool my sweat dampened skin.

  “In my family, business comes first, hobbies come second.”

  She stared down the sloping yard at the river. Only a thin line of muddy water could be seen from where she sat, the trees mostly obscuring it. Older leaves from the spring were blown toward the ground, falling like green-colored snow. Newer, greener leaves would replace them. It was June. The summer would get hotter, the leaves fuller and heavier. The over-sweet scent of honeysuckle mixed with the damp, sometimes putrid scent of wet moss and standing water surrounded us.

  “You’re old money, right? The Braydens made their fortune off cotton, I understand,” she said, her tone inquiring.

  My gaze followed hers to the river. “We did, but with the passing of time, the Civil War, and the end of slavery, my family adapted with the times. We began to invest our money in different business ventures, leaning more toward that than cotton. We still own a plantation, but there’s nothing grown on it now. We make all of our money off of investments.”

  I didn’t ask her how she knew about my family. Everyone knew about my family.

  “Ah, the power of business,” she murmured. “A family who made their fortune off the backs of slaves.”

  I didn’t miss the sarcasm in her voice, and I eyed her. “The Civil War has long been over, and aren’t you a little judgmental being fresh out of high school? Shouldn’t you be worried about your nails or shoes or something?”

  She snorted, and even though it shouldn’t have sounded endearing, it did. “Does it look like I ever have my nails done? And I wouldn’t know the difference between a pair of flip flops and a pair of ... of ...”

  “Gucci or Prada?” I supplied.

  She threw me a look. “Yeah, that.”

  I fought a smile. Something told me she wouldn’t be amused by my amusement. “If it makes you feel any better, my family didn’t use slave labor for several years before the Civil War. One of my great grandfathers was an advocate for slavery while his son abhorred it. I had one uncle who fought for the Confederacy and one for the Union. The typical split family back then.”

  Haven sighed, her shoulders shrugging. “It was stupid anyway.” She looked at me. “My bringing it up, that is. At least you have a family tree you can trace.”

  She jumped off the tailgate then, her head at my chest.

  “And you can’t trace yours?” I asked.

  She laughed. “You mean past my grandparents and the amazing number of cousins? Umm, no. I guess I would know more if I had the money to look, but tracing your family lineage requires a search and a willing family.”

  She took a step toward the river.

  I followed her. “It’s just you and your mom then?”

  She didn’t answer me, her eyes on the water, on the falling leaves. The breeze picked up, and I realized she smelled faintly of apples.

  “Your brother is on drugs,” she said abruptly.

  I recognized a change of subject when I heard one. My fists tightened at my sides.

  “What makes you think that?” I asked her.

  She glanced at me. “His mood, and the way his hands tremble.”

  I started. “His hands?”

  The compassion in her gaze was stark. “You haven’t noticed?” she asked. “I saw them in the cabin. His hands tremble when they aren’t fisted.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair. “I was hoping he wasn’t on anything strong.”

  Her hand was suddenly resting on my arm. I looked down at it, and she snatched it away.

  “You did right bringing him here,” she said. “Sometimes it takes stepping away from everything to see the things that are wrong.”

  My eyes narrowed. “It sounds like you speak from experience.”

  Again, she didn’t answer, and when she brushed by me, her feet taking her to the cabin, I didn’t follow.

  I stared at the water below. My mother had named me for a river. When she was alive, she’d told me I often reminded her of the calm, strong waters of a river; sometimes churning angrily and overflowing its banks, but always steady, always flowing and constant. Roman, she’d said, had been like a tiny soldier from the day he was born, the kind of child she was afraid would be mighty but would fall as quickly as he rose in success. It was why she’d named him Roman, like he was a miniature gladiator.

  But I, she’d said, was the river, a river that would catch people in its current, a river that would forge its own way.

  Chapter 11

  Haven

  River Brayden had too much presence. His over six foot frame and broad shoulders took up entirely too much space, making me feel much smaller than I actually was. And his questions ... I wasn’t the type to answer questions. I’d spent my whole life avoiding them.

  “Tired of it all already?” a voice sneered.

  I didn’t look at Roman as I passed by him on the couch, but I saw his hands, my gaze on the way he clenched and unclenched his fists.

  I paused, my back to him. “What are you on?”

  There was silence and a distinct scraping noise as he stood too fast, his legs pushing the couch against the wall. I flinched, but held my ground.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roman growled.

  My eyes went to the floor. “They’re going to get worse, you know. The withdrawal is going to be a beast.”

  Silence again, a long silence filled with questions I knew he was leaving unasked.

  “What did you take?” he finally asked, his voice quiet.

  I turned to look at him, my eyes going to his face. There was desolation in his expression, a depression that had part to do with whatever he was on and part with something I didn’t know about. Roman was a year younger than I. At seventeen, he was closer to my age than River was, but there was something extremely unapproachable about Roman, as if getting close to him would be like walking into the center of a tornado.

  “I was addicted to diet pills once,” I confessed. It wasn’t something I revealed often.

  Roman laughed, disgust filling his gaze. “Diet pills. Are you fucking kidding me?”

  I shrugged. “Laugh at it if you want. Go ahead. I know it seems strange. The pills weren’t supposed to be addictive, but I’m a recovering bulimic and the company who manufactured the drug didn’t realize that it was habit forming. I was taking fourteen pills a day before the drug was recalled and removed from the market. The withdrawals ...” I looked down at his shaking hands. “They were a bitch,” I finished.

  Roman didn’t say anything. He simply stared at me a moment, his gaze searching my face before he brushed past me, moving to one of the bedrooms just off the livingroom. The door slammed, and I jumped.

  There was a shadow on the hardwood floor, and my gaze followed it to the open front door, to the silhouette of River Brayden standing in its entrance. My cheeks burned with shame.

  His gaze met mine, his chiseled jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything. I couldn’t help but wonder what he thought of me, which was ridiculous. I didn’t know him. I shouldn’t care what he thought about my past, about my issues.

  River stepped into the room, his arms cradling the cooler from the back of the pick-up truck.

  “Think you’d mind helping me put this stuff up?” he asked.

  His eyes slid from mine, and I breathed easier.

  He moved into the small kitchen, and I followed him. Lifting the lid of the cooler, he handed me several packs of cold cut meats, and I opened the refrigerator.

  “So you were speaking from experience earlier?” he as
ked.

  The question was nonchalant, as if he didn’t care about an answer, but I detected the curiosity beneath his words.

  My fingers gripped the refrigerator door handle. “I’m not a drug addict, if that’s what you’re asking,” I said.

  He was silent, his gaze moving to the bedroom door hiding his brother.

  “Is it safe to have you two here together?” he finally asked.

  Shame and disgust filled me. I wasn’t going to lead his brother astray. If anything, I’d been trying to help him.

  I closed the refrigerator door and stepped in front of River, my face only a few inches away from his.

  “My family doesn’t have the money yours does. I don’t have the same opportunities, but I am not stupid, and I am not uneducated. However, I am very human. I make mistakes. Everyone deals with life differently. Sometimes, we make stupid choices. I have made stupid choices. My addiction wasn’t drugs, it was my body. I just happened to take a diet pill that shouldn’t have been on the market. Everyone copes differently. I won’t have someone I don’t know judge me for it.”

  River faced off with me, his dark eyes searching mine.

  “What were you trying to cope with?” He whispered the question, his face so close to mine I could smell mint on his breath and the faint scent of sweat mixed with his deodorant. I was just as sweaty, my breath probably smelling faintly of peach soda, but neither one of us moved.

  “It was nothing,” I answered.

  He shook his head, his eyes sliding off mine as he leaned to pull more things out of the cooler. It put him closer to me. His dark, sweat-dampened hair clung to his forehead.

  “It was after my father left.”

  I didn’t know why I said it, why I was telling him this, but the shame ate at me, the shame of having been too weak to deal with the abandonment. I’d only been ten the last time I saw my father and almost thirteen when I’d first attempted to find redemption in a toilet bowl.

  River straightened, his gaze finding mine again. He didn’t say anything. Instead, he handed me a loaf of bread and a twelve pack carton of drinks. He laid two more cartons on top of the marble island.

  “I hope you’re okay with sandwiches,” he said.

  I laughed. “Question is, are y’all?”

  A teasing glint entered his eyes. “You don’t cook by any chance, do you?”

  The way he let the whole addiction topic slide made it easier to breathe, the shame slipping away.

  I threw him a look, turning to place the items in the fridge. The sound of the cooler closing was loud in the quiet room.

  “Just so you know, there’s no reason for you to dislike your body,” he said.

  I froze, my pulse quickening. “Thank you,” I glanced back at him, “but it wasn’t about that.”

  Pushing past him, I returned to the front door. Marley Brayden was at the bottom of the stairs, two open boxes in front of him. He was fiddling with very expensive looking sound and camera equipment.

  River’s hand landed next to my head on the doorframe, his presence heavy behind me.

  “I still don’t understand what he’s looking for,” he said. “The legend says the death chant can only be heard during the late summer.”

  I watched as the old man hooked something onto the camera. Suddenly, he cursed when it fell off. River chuckled.

  I risked a quick glance at him. “So you know the legend?”

  “Some of it. I ran across it doing a project for school a few years back. Why don’t you tell me?”

  By the current of amusement running just beneath his words, I had a feeling he knew the legend, but I humored him anyway.

  “There were two enemy tribes, the Pascagoula and the Biloxi. The Pascagoula were peaceful people, while the Biloxi were not. Anola, a Biloxi princess, fell in love with Altama, the chief of the Pascagoula. Despite being betrothed to a chieftain of her own tribe, she ran away with Altama to live amongst his people. Her flight caused a war between the two tribes.”

  I paused, my gaze moving up to River’s chin. His dark eyes were on the water beyond the trees, but his gaze slid down to mine at my silence.

  I didn’t look away. “The Pascagoula swore that they would either save the couple or die with them. The Biloxi were fierce, and they outnumbered the Pascagoula. The Pascagoula, being afraid they were going to be enslaved by the Biloxi, decided death would be a better fate. Together, they sang a death chant, and with women and children leading the way, walked into the Pasacagoula River, the dark waters welcoming them into its embrace.”

  River’s face was too close again, and I looked away, my gaze moving to Marley.

  “There’s another version that involves a mermaid,” I said.

  River chuckled. “Like Ariel?”

  I grinned. “Something like that.”

  It was past midday now, and the sun was brutal through the trees. Sweat dripped down into my back and between my breasts.

  “You going to set that camera up?” River called down to Marley.

  The older man looked up with a scowl. “If I could figure it out,” he groused. “You could always help.”

  River chuckled again, brushing past me to the stairs, his arm rubbing against mine. I tried not to think about the funny way it made me feel. My palm went to my stomach.

  Leaning against the door, I watched as River helped his uncle, the heat becoming so unbearable both men eventually pulled their shirts over their heads. The older Brayden had a paunch, his chest hair full of grey, but he didn’t seem to mind his physique. Men didn’t much care in this kind of heat. River, on the other hand, looked like he worked out. Alot. If I didn’t know he was a Brayden, I could picture him as a cowboy, his muscles moving as he fixed a fence, jeans slung low on his hips.

  His gaze moved up to mine, and I hastily glanced away.

  “I think that’s it!” Marley said, his voice full of excitement. “Let’s get it set up.”

  I moved down the stairs, following them as they stepped toward the woods, the camera between them. Beyond the trees, the landscape opened up, the river wide and dark. There was a sand bar behind the cabin, and the river was shallow a few feet in. I stepped out of my flip flops and moved into the water, my eyes closing as my toes dug into the soft sand.

  “It’s going to be better to set the camera up near the bend over there, especially for audio,” I called out, my eyes still closed.

  “How do you know?” River asked.

  I didn’t look behind me. “The same way you knew it wasn’t going to rain,” I teased.

  Truth was, I had a thing for the river. I’d grown up spending a lot of time in creeks and river beds. My father had loved to fish, and I still went often with my cousins. I knew everything from baiting a hook and gutting a fish to ways to ease poison ivy. Mostly, I just loved the river; loved the way the water felt against my toes, the way the leaves would fall down onto the water, the swirling eddies carrying them down river.

  I thought about the canoe on top of the truck.

  “Have you ever canoed before?” I asked Marley.

  The older man stood, his face dripping sweat, his glasses slipping to the tip of his nose.

  “I’ve never had much need to, but I figure it can’t be that hard.”

  I shared a look with River.

  “We’ll take care of that,” River said, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  As much as I loved the river, I had no intention of falling in it. It’s not that I believed an entire Indian tribe hid beneath the waves or a mermaid was waiting to drown me, but the muddy waters hid a lot, and I was good staying to the shallows.

  There was a rumble of thunder. Marley glanced up, but River moved past him back up toward the cabin.

  “Trust me, Uncle. There won’t be any rain tonight.”

  River’s confidence had me convinced. I walked behind him, my eyes on his back. Frankly, he baffled me. This wealthy boy who seemed fit enough to be a laborer, who could look at the sky and tell you if it was g
oing to rain, who handcuffed his brother to the inside of a pick-up truck simply because he wanted to help him.

  The thought of River and Roman suddenly made me miss my mother.

  Chapter 12

  River

  I knew when we walked back into the cabin there was going to be a problem. Roman was leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed, his chin pointed at the floor. Trouble was written all over him, his hands fisted and trembling.

  “I need to go home,” Roman insisted.

  I used my black T-shirt to wipe the sweat off my brow before throwing it aside.

  “I’m not taking you, Roman.”

  He held his hand out. “Then give me the keys to the truck. I’ll take myself.”

  Haven had moved up next to me, Uncle Marley just behind us. Neither one of them spoke, intruders now on a private brother to brother moment.

  I shook my head.

  Roman exploded. “I have to go home!”

  Roman’s hair was wild, his eyes wide. I started to step toward him, but Haven placed a hand on my shoulder. She had small hands, chipped fingernail polish covering nails bitten to the quick.

  “It hurts less if you lay down.” Her voice was low and soothing, her eyes on Roman’s face.

  Roman didn’t listen. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” His blazing eyes took in her face. “I just need to go home.”

  My gaze moved between them. “Roman, maybe she’s right.”

  Uncle Marley cleared his throat. “Does he need to see a doctor?” he asked.

  Roman scowled. “Where are the keys?”

  I didn’t answer him, but Marley looked at the door. It was the only provocation Roman needed. He made a run for it.

  “Damn it!” I grumbled, leaping to tackle him.

  We landed against the hardwood, my back slamming against the wall, my arm around his chest. He fought me, but I didn’t release him.

  Haven rushed past us, her feet pounding the stairs, the sound of the truck door opening as she jerked the keys from the ignition.