Chapter 17
Juniper
June spent the entire next day hunched over the kitchen table of the cabin, losing herself in the personal perspectives of
a man she had long admired.
She was humbled and honored at the trust Alison and Beckett had placed in her, giving her unfettered access to the journals
of a man as loved as Carson Wells.
What was it about these people who gave their trust so freely to her? She still couldn’t figure it out.
At first, it felt intrusive, sneaky almost, to poke around into the inner thoughts of a man she had never met. After only
a few pages, though, she became fascinated by his thoughts and observations.
She started at the beginning, the journals he kept while writing his first book. They were filled with an unexpected self-doubt,
a writer who perhaps sensed instinctively he had talent but hadn’t yet gained the confidence to believe in his ability to
tell a compelling story.
I can’t believe the manuscript is finished. It feels like I’ve ripped open my chest and spilled everything onto those pages.
There’s excitement, but also this gnawing fear. What if it’s not good enough? What if I’m not good enough? I’ve poured years
of my life into this story. What if no one cares?
Using the abundant collection of sticky notes she had found in a kitchen drawer, she had marked at least twenty entries in the first journal she read, all of which she thought Carson’s readers would find as touching and meaningful as she did, detailing his journey toward publication.
She loved reading what he wrote about his parents’ disappointment in his decision to leave his university studies and focus
on his writing, about his troubles finding an agent to represent him, about the writing conference he went to in the Midwest
where he was treated like a child trying to sit at the grown-up table.
The tone of the entries seemed to change, become more confident as he worked on finishing the book that would later become
Purgatory River .
There’s this strange mix of pride and shame whenever I think about my book. Pride that I’ve actually done it, shame that maybe
it’s not as brilliant as I hoped it would be. I’ve never felt so fragile, so vulnerable.
Then he wrote about the agent who had finally taken him on as a client, about receiving an offer for that first book almost
right away and how much courage it had taken him to refuse the offer and instead send the book to auction, where it had been
sold for a staggering sum to a publishing house his agent felt would be the best fit for him.
I feel like I’m on the edge of something big, but I’m terrified of falling. The closer it gets to reality, the more I doubt
myself. It’s like staring into the abyss. So much potential, but also the possibility of complete failure. I’ve always wanted
this, but now that it’s close, I don’t know if I’m ready.
The second journal was all about the path to publication. The heady excitement, the whirlwind of edits and revisions and cover
art discussions. Through it, he had started and discarded three other ideas for his second novel, talking at length about
the dreaded sophomore slump.
She knew nearly four years passed between the publications of his first and second books, but that he wrote a book every two years after that.
After Purgatory River came out to a whirlwind of praise and a clamor of publicity, he seemed excited at times but apprehensive, too, as if afraid
to believe it was all real.
Today I allowed myself a moment of peace. I reread the book, trying to see it through someone else’s eyes. And you know what?
It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. Every word, every sentence, is part of me. No matter what happens, I’ve created something
that didn’t exist before. That has to mean something.
And then the tenor of the entries changed. Apparently, Carson fell in love. He met someone he called only E and he wrote about
how the world seemed different now.
Theirs seemed a doomed relationship. He wrote about their one charmed week together and how his life had been forever changed.
She had obviously broken his heart somehow. He seemed both angry and resigned that she had left him, taking all his dreams
with her.
June read until her eyes crossed and her shoulders ached. She needed to sleep, she decided, as much as she didn’t want to
leave the fascinating journals.
Early the next morning, she was doing yoga on the front porch of the cabin while the morning sun dappled the wood-slat flooring
when her favorite canine ambled out of the woods. He stopped at the bottom of the porch and gazed up at her.
“Hey there, Hank. Good morning.”
As if he had been granted permission, the dog trotted up the steps and stuck his nose into her hand.
She petted him obediently, amused at how clearly this nonverbal creature could obtain what he wanted.
“Does Beckett know where you are?” she asked. In answer, the dog simply lolled his tongue.
She hadn’t had the chance to pick up dog treats for him yet, but she had some chicken she had cooked the other day. She went
inside to the refrigerator and pulled off a small piece, which she handed over to the dog once she returned to the porch.
“Sorry. That’s all I have,” she said after Hank gobbled it up in one bite and gave her an expectant look, clearly wanting
more.
The dog eventually seemed to accept the harsh reality of no more treats and instead settled down on his belly beside her,
as if prepared to launch into one of her yoga poses.
She sighed. “You can stay for a while, then I probably need to take you home.”
She went through a few more yoga poses, feeling more refreshed than she had since she arrived in Bridger Peak.
Staying active had always been important to her. She had made a career of it, after all. It had been solace to her after her
mother’s death and had provided her an emotional and social outlet in high school and eventually a college scholarship.
She loved the exhilaration of running, of finding her rhythm, of pushing her body to its limits.
She still ran the occasional 10K and half-marathon and had been considering trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon the
next year. Alas, she suspected she would have to permanently table that dream.
Harsh reality pressed in, leaving her almost breathless with sadness. She pressed a hand to her chest, aware with each inhale
and exhale that everything had changed.
She wouldn’t be running any marathons now. Better to focus on everything she still could do. She was still alive to enjoy the pure morning sunshine, the song of the birds and the climbing roses sending out their
lush, delicious scent.
Her heart was still pumping, even if it did need the occasional shock to keep it on task.
Hank seemed to sense her turmoil. He nestled closer to her thigh and rested his chin on her leg, gazing up at her with those
understanding eyes.
She smiled down at the dog, grateful for his uncomplicated affection. “All right. Let me change first and we can take you
home.”
She rose to go into the cabin when a voice called out.
“Hank. I told you not to come over here and bother the nice lady.”
When she looked across the clearing, she found Beckett walking toward them, sunglasses shielding his eyes and sunlight glinting
off his dark hair. Her chest suddenly felt tight, but she suspected it had more to do with her unease at his presence than
any actual cardiac issue right now.
“Good morning,” she said. “I was about to take him back to your place. He stopped by to do yoga with me, apparently.”
He smiled as he walked closer and June willed herself not to respond. “Hank has skills I never realized.”
“You might think he would excel at downward dog, but it’s actually morning sun salutation where he really shines.”
“Good to know.” He smiled again, then looked at her with concern. “Are you okay to do yoga?”
She wiped a towel across her forehead, wishing she were wearing something slightly less revealing than body-hugging workout
pants and a bright pink tank top with the Move Inc logo across her breasts.
“Yes. Every day I feel stronger, but I am afraid I have a long way to go before I feel like myself again.”
“You’ll get there. Before you know it, you’ll be commanding board meetings again and running with all the movers and shakers.”
“My running days might be over. I’ve been feeling sorry for myself about that.”
She suddenly didn’t want to talk about her health issues or anything else about herself. “Would you like coffee?” she asked on impulse.
Surprise flitted across his expression at the offer. “Coffee would be great. Thank you. You’re a lifesaver, actually. I ran
out yesterday and need to head to the store.”
“Come in.”
She was drinking decaf, unfortunately, but Carson had a whole drawer of pods for the high-end coffeemaker in the kitchen.
“I’ve already put hot water in,” she said as Beck went straight to the drawer with a familiarity that spoke of his long relationship
with the author. Hank, she saw, had stretched out in his usual spot in front of the fireplace, even though there was no fire
going.
After making his coffee, Beck picked up the mug and sipped with a grateful look before he wandered over to the dining table,
where all the journals were spread out.
“You look like you’ve been working hard. I hope it hasn’t been too onerous for you.”
“Not at all. It’s fascinating. I loved his work before because my mother did, but now that I’m coming to know him as a person,
I admire what he accomplished even more.”
“He was a complicated man, as I’m sure you’re learning from the journals.”
“Yes. Did you know he ran away at sixteen? Not because he was unhappy at home, only because he wanted to experience more of
life than the suburban Green Bay home where he was raised.”
“I did. He talked about what a mistake it was and how much he regretted hurting his parents.”
“I could relate to how alone he felt when he left home. I had a wonderful foster home after my mom died, but still struck
out on my own at seventeen, when I left for college. In retrospect, I was way too young to be responsible for myself.”
“How did your mom die?” he asked.
She debated how to answer, then decided on the truth. “She was a high school teacher and was in a car accident on her way
home from school one day. There one moment, then gone the next.”
“I’m sorry.” The harsh lines of his features softened with compassion.
She wanted to make some kind of casual acknowledgment of his sympathy, but she couldn’t find the words. Losing her mother
had shaped her entire life. “It was devastating,” she said honestly. “She was... all I had.”
She could remember it so very clearly. Waiting at track practice for her mom to pick her up. Finally jogging home after leaving
several frustrated voice mail messages when she couldn’t reach Elizabeth on her cell, only to find a police officer waiting
for her at their house with the grim news that her mother was on life support and not expected to survive.
That night, June had stayed with a neighbor, one of her mother’s good friends who had rushed over as soon as she heard the
news and had driven her to the hospital. Tamara Aoki had wanted to take her in, but she and her husband had been going through
a nasty divorce at the time, fighting over custody over their own children, and June hadn’t wanted to add to the chaos.
She knew she had been extraordinarily lucky in her foster care placement. Living in Cape Sanctuary had truly been idyllic.
Stella Davenport had welcomed her into her home with a generous love that still made her want to cry whenever she thought
about it.
As loving as Stella had been, her kindness still hadn’t filled the gaping void Elizabeth’s death had left in June’s life.
“What about your dad?” Beck asked.
She pictured the framed photograph of a handsome man in uniform that had always hung in their home. Another one had hung in
her mother’s room.
“He was in the military and was killed in a training accident while serving overseas. I was too young to remember him at all, but my mother always talked about what a good man he was.”
“And your mother didn’t marry again, in all that time?”
“Never. She didn’t even date, though she was beautiful and I’m sure plenty of men asked her out. She always said she would
have time to date again after I graduated from high school. I wish she had been given that time.”
He sipped at his coffee and said nothing and she realized she had revealed more about herself to Beck than many of her good
friends of longstanding ever learned about her.
“What about you? Do you come from a big family?”
“I have a couple of older sisters and a younger brother. My parents are still alive, still living in the home where I was
raised in Los Angeles.”
“What do they think about you moving out to the wilds of Wyoming to live in a log cabin and make furniture?”
He looked rueful. “They love me. I think they’re mostly happy I found a relatively safe place to land after... after my
wife died.”
June wished she hadn’t pushed their conversation in that direction, but now that he had brought up his wife, she didn’t see
how to avoid the topic.
“I looked you up online the other day, wanting to see some of your other work. I hope that doesn’t sound too stalker-ish.”
He shrugged. “I’ve looked you up, too. Isn’t that what people do these days when they meet anyone new?”
What had he read about her? Probably that article that had been written a few years ago in her alumni magazine. Adam had been
thrilled at the exposure for Move Inc, but June had mostly been embarrassed about the attention.
“I read about what happened to your wife. I’m sorry, Beckett. How tragic.”
His features seemed to grow even harsher than usual, his expression more shuttered. “It was a tough time, but it was five years ago. I like to think I’m finally starting to find my way to the other side.”
“One of the articles I read online said the woman who ran down your wife was arrested and convicted of voluntary manslaughter.”
His jaw tightened. “They couldn’t prove Kathleen Morton was out for revenge after I convicted her son.”
“But you believe otherwise.”
“How could I not? After her son’s conviction, she told me outside the courtroom that she would find a way to make me pay.”
What a heavy burden he must carry. She couldn’t imagine the pain of believing someone he loved had died because of his actions.
Whenever she started to feel sorry for herself because of a health diagnosis she didn’t want, she needed to remind herself
that everyone struggled with something.
In that moment, she realized her bitterness and anger toward Beckett over what had happened to Robin had somehow dissipated.
It wasn’t right, no. Her friend deserved justice and a sexual predator should have been put away to protect other women. But
it wasn’t fair to blame Beck for that. He had been doing his job the best he saw fit.
The same job that had taken so very much from him.
“This is a pretty grim topic of conversation over coffee on a beautiful summer day,” he said, lifting his cup again. “Why
don’t you show me what else you’ve found in the journals?”
She also couldn’t blame him for wanting to change the subject.
“What do you know about an unpublished manuscript Carson may have written?”
He stared at her, looking shocked. “Nothing at all. That would be amazing, if it were true. An additional Carson Wells manuscript
to add to his canon would thrill his readers.”
“It might be nothing,” she warned. “I’m only up to the diary he was keeping around the time Purgatory River came out, but he’s already planning the next book he wants to write and it bears no resemblance at all to his second published
book, Beneath the Dusty Sky .”
“One of my favorites of his.”
“Mine, too. Let me show you the sections I’ve marked and you can tell me if I’m on the right track.”
She picked up the journal she had been reading most recently and held it out to him. “I’m interested to know what you think.
Start where I’ve put the purple sticky notes.”
He sat down at the table, picked up the journal she handed him and started reading.