Chapter Twenty-Five
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THE CLOSER they drew to Gwynn’s childhood home, the heavier her legs became and the faster her heart raced. Here, evil had continued to fester over the years, even though its source had been removed by her parents’ deaths. No one had returned to rout the residue with a thorough cleansing, and she wasn’t about to volunteer.
She’d come here for one reason only.
They crossed the front porch, the floorboards creaking under their feet, and Cash grasped the doorknob. Gwynn gulped. But the knob didn’t turn, nor did the paneled door budge when Cash pushed against it.
Her shoulders sagged, and she released a breath. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.”
“There’s still the back door.”
She shivered. “You go check. I’ll wait here.”
Cash jogged off the porch and disappeared around the corner of the house. Rubbing her arms, Gwynn glanced about then moved over a few feet and peeked through the streaked glass window into the living room. Dust motes drifted across the weak sunbeams filtering into the house at this end of the open floor plan. The sofa, recliner, and coffee table sat in the same arrangement they had during her childhood, but a rolled-up sleeping bag slouched on the threadbare rug near the corner pellet stove. Had that been there ten years ago?
She frowned at the barricaded window on the other side of the door which would have given her a better view into the kitchen. With a crowbar, she might be able to pry off the plywood.
Cash came around the opposite side of the house, shaking his head. “Back door’s locked too, and all the rear windows on the first floor have been boarded up.”
“Dangit.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“This place creeps me out, yet I need to get inside.”She jiggled the doorknob. “Did I promise I wouldn’t break in if we found the doors locked?”
Cash chuckled then kissed her temple, took her hand, and tugged her from the porch. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
“Already?” She resisted his pace but let him lead her to the truck.
“What else can we do?”
“I don’t know.” She kicked at a mound of snow. “I thought I’d have a breakthrough coming here. Leaving without one seems like I’ve failed.”
“We’ll figure this out. Russ used to be a sheriff. Maybe he can pull some strings and get us inside. Legally.”
Once again settled in the passenger seat, Gwynn stared at her side mirror as they drove away until the ranch’s log entrance disappeared behind them. She sighed and pried off her mittens. “How am I supposed to remember what happened if the best place to trigger my memories is off limits? Why would God bring me back to Prospect if He’s going to keep me blocked?”
Cash reached for her hand and laced his fingers between hers. “Maybe He had another reason in bringing you back.”
She stared at their hands, linked together like puzzle pieces. “I have to return to Boston eventually, Cash.”
“Sure, for closure. But you don’t have to stay there.”
“What if I want to stay? I know there are those who can’t stand city life, but it’s not the complete pits. For example, I’ll have other opportunities for my painting.” Once my creativity starts flowing again . “Plenty of things to do.” Distractions from my loneliness. “My job might be nonexistent by the time I get back, but I could find work at another art gallery.” If Irene hasn’t completely tarnished my reputation. Gwynn rubbed at an ache behind her ear. “Do I leave the life I’ve cultivated there to start at ground zero all over again elsewhere?”
Cash cleared his throat. “You’re right. I forget we’ve lived different lives for so long.” He gave her a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “We may find we’re not as compatible as we once were. Our current goals might not align.” His thumb traced circles on her skin. “I suppose it’s a matter of what we’re willing to give up, what we want to keep, and if we can find common ground.”
She shifted toward him, leaning her shoulder against the seat. “What’s your goal for the rest of today?”
“Just today?”
“Just today.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’m heading back to the Plane & Knotty to work on a project. Want to come with me, or should I drop you off at the Davisons’ first?”
Gwynn shook her head. “They’ll either be full of questions about you and me, or wrangle me into another game of Canasta, and I’m too brain-weary for card games. I want to paint. I haven’t held a brush in over a week.” She had no clue what she’d create, but the act of painting would help diffuse her frustration.
“We have supplies at the workshop, though I can’t vouch for their quality.”
“All I need is something with bristles, acrylic paint, and a blank canvas.”
“Will a scrap plank of wood do?”
Gwynn flexed the fingers of her free hand. “Perfect.”
* * *
Cash parked his truck behind the workshop next to a staircase leading to a second-story entrance. He pointed upward. “My apartment.”
“What about your dreams for building a log cabin in the woods?”
“Still my dream, but it’ll mean more once I can enjoy it with a wife and kids.”
She had once shared in his dreams, and the allure was great to reinsert herself … except, no. Regaining her memories had to come first.
He ushered her through the shop’s back door which opened to a room as deep as the front showroom and spanning the width of the barn. Bright florescent light fixtures hung from the ceiling, and the earthy scent of sawdust mingled with the tang of varnish. A table saw, drill press, planer, and other power tools lined the back wall.
Sawyer scampered from a beanbag bed in the corner and frolicked to Cash’s side, his tail thumping in greeting.
“Where have you two been all day?” Gramps asked, sitting with his back to them across the room at a grand, scroll top desk. A doorway to his right led to the showroom. “I can understand not wanting to make an appearance at church, but that was hours ago.” He rotated in his chair, a block of wood in one hand and a whittling knife in the other, and peered over his reading glasses. “I trust you two behaved yourselves.”
“Define ‘behave.’” Cash winked at Gwynn before moving toward a scrap wood pile.
Gramps narrowed his eyes, but Gwynn held up a hand. “Cash was a perfect gentleman.” One who presently evaded giving a straight answer, since “trespassing” didn’t equate to “behaving.” She crossed the room to Gramps. “What are you working on?”
“New snowmen for the shop, to replace the ones I sold on Saturday.”
Cash withdrew a wooden plank about one foot by two feet in size. “Will this do?”
She nodded.
“And what are you up to?” Gramps gestured around the room with his knife. “You gonna create with us like old times?”
“The creating part is questionable these days.”
Cash motioned to the small table beside Sawyer’s bed. “You can work there, if you want, or sketch on the floor with Sawyer, like you used to with Manny.”
Gwynn smiled at the memory of Gramps’s old Golden Retriever. “Sawyer seems to shed more than Manny. I’ll go with the table.”
They fell into companionable silence as Cash measured cuts on unfinished oak beams, Gramps whittled, and Gwynn … drummed her fingers on the table. What to paint, now that she had the opportunity and necessary supplies?
Her thoughts returned to the ranch house, and an involuntary shudder rippled through her. Its decrepit ambiance clashed with the one she’d painted in the landscape Meister K had bought. Time and separation had allowed her to imbue that imagined ranch with the joy and contentment she’d longed to experience as a child.
Now the true image was too raw and recent for her to pretend away.
Gramps whistled the opening notes to an old hymn, drawing her attention. Shavings fell around him—on the desk, on the floor, on his shoes. His hair stood on end, like he’d gelled it and raked his hands through it from root to tip. His plastic-framed readers had slipped to the end of his nose, and he squinted at the rough, wooden form in his gnarled hands.
Gwynn’s lips lifted. Though she struggled with proportions in lifelike portraits, she had a decent hand for caricatures, and Gramps made such a comical picture, how could she not seize this moment?
In a light pencil sketch on the wood surface, she captured his wild hair, the hunch of his back, and his tapping foot as he whistled. When she switched to paints, however, she focused first on the background, blending different colors on her pallet to match the rich mahogany tones in the scroll top desk. With a narrow brush, she brought to life the row of slim drawers along the interior’s back wall and the deep cubbyholes crammed with letters, books, and pens. A little square door centered among the cubbyholes housed a small compartment—
Gwynn’s brushstrokes slowed.
Gramps used to stash candy and other fun trinkets in that compartment, to the delight of little kids who visited the workshop.
Paint pooled beneath her bristles as something slinked at the back of her mind like a murky shape obscured in haze.
A memory.
She grasped for it—but the shape disintegrated, leaving her feeling more bereft than before.
* * *
Shortly after midnight, after lying in bed for an hour and marking the moonlight’s progression across the ceiling, Gwynn sat up with a gasp.
She knew where she’d hidden the money.