Chapter 13 Harper
Tree swallows chattered and rustled the canopy of leaves, a glitter of blue feathers among the forest greens. After last night’s storm, branches piled against the jagged boulders on Hammer Creek, dams spilling into rapids and churning the mud, debris knotted into tree roots on the far bank.
Harper had left the truck by the gate and trekked into the forest to search for the small lake from her childhood.
It had seemed so clear in her memory. The pristine water and tufts of reeds and turtles sunning on rocks.
Sitting alone as a child on its banks, she’d listened to the chatter of birds and watched the clouds shape-shift into a parade.
But it was entirely possible that she’d conjured up a magical lake. Overactive. That’s what a teacher had told her mom with much disdain during Harper’s middle school years. Her imagination was getting in the way of her studies, important facts like numbers being ignored.
But water, with all its possibilities, was her happy place. Imagined or real, an ocean or lake captured her mind. Calmed her when she felt stressed. Prompted her to create something new.
So much had happened since she’d last wandered these woods.
In fact, it seemed like another girl had roamed here in her place.
Still, there was something sweet in the remembering, especially now that her mother was gone.
The lake and the woods and the afternoon she’d returned to the Suttons’ to find her mom and Marcia baking suncatchers to hang on their windows.
When the sunlight hit, even though they were separated by almost three thousand miles, each woman remembered the friend she called sister.
Her phone pinged, a text from Kelsey elbowing its way through the poor cell phone service.
Wish you were here.
Swimming and sunning in the Maldives, she would enjoy, but jealousy was all she felt at the moment, tangled up in this desperation to not only be somewhere else but to be someone else. Someone like Kelsey. All sunshine and lollipops.
Nasty stuff, the green claws of envy. She hated how it pierced her chest.
She had a beautiful home to live in this fall outside a quintessential Mayberry-like town. Quaint. Safe. Quiet. The perfect place to write a new story.
What was wrong with her? She waved her arms like she could fight off the bitterness, but all she did was scare the swallows.
She should be celebrating with and for her friend. Happy that she—after Evan the Great surprised her with a new wife—was able to fly far away.
Glad you escaped the bubble. Miss you terribly.
Could still send you a ticket??
Part of her wanted to say yes, she’d catch the next plane west. But she seemed to be in Catawba for a reason, beyond caring for the Sutton house. Perhaps it was to recapture the memories with her mom. Perhaps she could even dig a little deeper into her mom’s story beyond Via Belle.
Love the idea but I think I’m supposed to be right here.
Then you should stay where you belong.
Hugs from PA.
The last text lingered on the screen, refusing to push through with the lack of service. Marcia and her mom were like sisters, and Kelsey was the closest thing she had to a sister as well. Even when their lives steered them different directions, she was forever grateful for her friendship.
Water trickled down a slope on the far side of the creek, dripping into the stream. Marcia may not know of a lake near here, but the one in Harper’s memory was hidden between trees, on a similar slope.
Rolling up her jeans, she ducked under a branch and then hopped rocks like a frog across lily pads, the cool river brushing her toes. When her Tevas found the muddy bank on the other side, she skirted around the trees and traced a thread of water uphill.
Then she saw it. The lake from her dreams. Reeds clustered around its edges and trees stood guard on three sides, their uniformed branches elegant and strong. White blossoms sprinkled across the water like powdered sugar, and leaves cluttered the shore, awaiting a return flight.
If only she had a camera. She’d try to capture its essence on film. The memories that took her right back to the joy of younger days when her mom was still alive and Harper felt as if she’d never have to grow up.
A neat row of flowers grew along a pathway on this edge of the shore, their blossoms curled, the stems cleared of any weeds.
Who had been tending this place?
As a girl, the lake had been Harper’s alone. In fact, it had never occurred to her that someone could own a body of water. But Lady of the Lake seemed a fitting title for Via Belle. She must have found a wellspring of fodder as she presided over this place.
Sitting on the grass, Harper pulled her knees to her chest like she’d done more than ten years ago, mesmerized at how her memory morphed into reality. Almost like she was supposed to be here in this time and place. Providential, according to Marcia, but for what purpose?
To discover a new dream.
Whispered words, a prompting of heart, as if God had breathed it inside her.
But what was His dream?
A turtle paddled toward a cluster of reeds, a spark of light gleaming on its shiny back, legs striped with yellow and red, splashing like it needed to stretch after weathering last night’s storm, its wake melding quickly into the surface.
Wild turtles, she’d read, could live at least thirty years.
If so, it was quite possible the same creature swam by the last time she’d been here.
Standing, Harper stepped slowly toward the water’s edge, not wanting to startle the animal with her intrusion.
With the sun behind her, the lake still, the reflection warped Harper’s face like a fun house mirror.
Ridiculous is what she looked like in its glass.
Inept and confused. Like it knew, whether or not she felt ready, that she needed to grow up.
Her chest tightened at the thought, the details of adulthood overwhelming. Paying bills. Buying a car. Finding insurance on a miniscule budget. Stop dabbling with her story ideas and find a real job.
The turtle disappeared into the cluster of reeds, and she wished she could hide away too. Crawl into her shell with the notebooks and pens that gave her life. She didn’t need a turret to live in her story world.
A cloud blocked the sun, and as her reflection disappeared, she saw something metal under the surface, partially buried in silt like it had been stirred up by the storm.
Harper pushed away the sediment with a stick and retrieved the small, muddied object, rubbing away layers of mud and algae in her palm until she saw a shimmer of gold on the rectangular piece.
A bracelet charm, she thought, except it had a small bar on the back.
Like a fastener to slip through a buttonhole.
Someone must have dropped it by accident, a long time ago judging by the grime.
She continued flaking off muck until two rows of tiny, engraved letters slowly worked into a name.
SIMON
FARROW
Was someone searching for it? The gold was probably valuable and perhaps sentimental to this man or someone who loved him.
She set the fancy button on a flat stone to dry, hoping its owner would return to find what he’d lost. Then her gaze swung west, to the peak of Via Belle’s tower above the trees, much closer here than at the gate.
A harbor for the woman’s heroes and villains alike, the walls probably bulging as it tried to contain her many words.
Harper could write anywhere, but it was still a writer’s dream to have a few square feet dedicated to mental wanderings.
If only she could climb up the turret and just listen, in case one of Via Belle’s many characters wanted to join her on a new journey.
Or take a cart from shelf to shelf like she was at some sort of boutique shop, rescuing characters who’d never made it into a book.
Then again, the characters in her screenplays had always found her first. Like with poor Miles when he walked right onto the pages of her script, uninvited, and took over.
She’d missed hanging out with him this week.
No one but the birds and turtle heard her groan. What was wrong with her, wanting to spend time with pretend people? Most of the world would think her mad if she told them she talked to her characters.
But Via Belle would understand. Those who dreamed up imaginary friends really needed to stick together.
She wouldn’t go inside the house, of course, but maybe she could glance to see if the place was more like the mansion in Lavender Ridge or, after all these years, the hovel in Verity’s mining town.
According to her watch, it was almost two, and while she had no pressing engagement, her stomach begged to be fed.
Perhaps Betsy’s daughter would serve her a late lunch at the café.
She’d simply pass by the old Belle house, then find her way back to the gate.
A much shorter path than following the river.
The chirp of a hidden bird accompanied her as she circled the lake path, walking toward a patch of oak trees at the base of the hill. A clear trail divided the trees, leading up to the house. Surely, no one would—
“Is that your truck?”
Harper whirled so fast that she almost tripped over a stump. A man stood between her and the lake, arms crossed over his beige T-shirt and black vest.
So much for being alone.
“Who are you?” she demanded, her breath barely a gasp, unsure if the man before her was one of the good guys. He certainly wasn’t a ghost.
His gaze didn’t leave her face as if he could read exactly what was happening in her head. “Is that your truck by the gate?”
She stood a little taller. “Technically no, but I drove it here.”
His dark blond hair, parted and perhaps even combed at one time, skewed different directions like it had forgotten which way to turn. His eyes were iron-gray, and with his cargo pants and hiking boots, he looked like he’d just stepped out of REI. More city chic than a rugged mountain man.
He was approaching thirty and would appear harmless enough if she met him in town, but out here, with no one around. Most serial killers appeared harmless before they—
She forced herself to blur out the images of those movies where single woman meets creepy man in lonely woods, not a soul in screaming distance.
Then again, she didn’t need a filmmaker to tell her to panic.
Confidence was what she needed to exude. The serials smelled fear.
“I’ll be heading home now.” Right around the wall of this pseudo mountain man.
He glanced up at the tower before looking back at her. “Do you mind telling me what you were doing by the lake?”
She brushed her hands together and checked her watch like she had someone waiting on her. Either way, she was done with this conversation. “That’s none of your business.”
He drew a cell phone from his back pocket. “I suppose we can let the Catawba police sort it out. Around here, they actually treat trespassing as a crime.”
What would Gerald and Marcia think if their houseguest was arrested for criminal trespassing? Everyone in their town would be whispering about Angeline’s girl, no longer a godsend.
“I wasn’t planning to trespass.”
He shrugged. “You can explain your plans to a judge.”
He started dialing, a loud beep for each number. Perhaps she would have to share a bit of her business before he finished. “I was just out exploring and—”
He didn’t appear the least bit sympathetic.
“I wondered where Via Belle lived,” she explained. “No harm done.”
He lowered the phone. “You know about Via?”
“I’m a fan of her books.”
“You look decades too young to be a fan,” he said.
“Don’t let the package fool ya.”
An edge of his lip angled up, but he quickly battened it down.
Fine. He could call the police if he wanted. Perhaps they would find her funny.
He slid the phone into his vest pocket. “How did you get past the gate?”
She wasn’t about to tell him about her path along the river. “I found my way around it.”
“The property is private.”
“Figured that out.” Then again, he might not even be legit. They could both be trespassing.
“Do you need an escort back to your truck?”
“No, thanks.” She was ready to be done with Mr. Stoic except she had one more question. “Do you know if Via Belle owned this lake?”
He didn’t even consider her question. “I trust you can find your way back to the gate without any more detours.”
Smiling wouldn’t win her any favors, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. “I suspect you’ll make sure I don’t get distracted.”
“It’s my job.”
She eyed the rock where she’d left the engraved piece. “Are you Simon Farrow?”
He flinched like she’d thrown him a punch. “Are you kidding me?”
“I didn’t know it was a joke.”
“What is your name?” he demanded, but she could play the don’t-answer-my-questions game too.
“I’m out.” Instead of attempting to step around him, she turned to walk up the hill. Perhaps she could still catch a glimpse of the house along the path.
“Wait!”
When she heard the crunch of footfalls, she spun around, cell phone in hand. “I can call the cops too.”
“No need.” He splayed both hands by his shoulders. “And you really can’t. No service down here.”
“But you said—”
“Why did you think I was Simon?”
There was no way she was going to tell him what she’d found in the lake. “Just a hunch.”
“That’s not a name we welcome around here.”
“I get the feeling you don’t welcome too many people, no matter their name.”
“I’d suggest you focus on reading Via’s books instead of trespassing on her property.”
A laugh burst through her lips even if he wasn’t trying to be funny. “Focus isn’t really my gift.”
“Goodbye, Ms.—?”
Like she would fill in that blank.
“See you around,” she replied even though she had no intention of ever seeing this man again.
The dual-storied home stood vacant on the hill, its windows veiled in fabric, and stone tower rising above the trees. While the lawn was overgrown, several garden beds held freshly turned soil.
The wide front porch hosted four chairs that looked as if they had a few more years of rocking left in them, and a pot of red geraniums stood by the front door, a flag of defiance against the decay.
If Via Belle had left no family, who was taking care of her home?