Chapter 8 #2
“But I want to tell you.” James’s voice cracked.
“My grief is, in many ways, who I am. Or it’s a part of me.
It will always be a part of me. I lost my son.
My only son.” He traced a line across the table with the tip of his thumb.
Outside, the wind howled. “He was sixteen when it happened. He’d had his license for maybe five or six months.
My ex-wife could tell you the exact length of time, because mothers are always better about time.
They’re always better about everything. It was right before Christmas, and he was driving home from a little Christmas party with friends.
He and his friends were nerds. There was no alcohol, nothing illegal—just too many chips, chocolates, and cookies at that party.
But someone else had been drinking that night.
And that someone else ran through a stoplight and smashed into my son’s car. He died instantly.”
Elena reached across the table to take his trembling hand. James felt as though he’d just given her a piece of himself. She squeezed, and he felt his pulse pounding in his own wrist.
“I hate that this happened to you,” she breathed. “How long ago?”
“Three years,” James said.
“Not long at all,” she said.
James nodded. It all crashed in on him. Sometimes, he couldn’t believe this was the story of his life.
For a little while, they sat in silence, their hands still clasped.
This was the very table where, once upon a time, he, his ex-wife, and his son had eaten dinner and talked about their days. He’d never imagined a future like this.
And then, Elena breathed, “Do you know anything about Cranberry Cove?”
James was surprised out of his reverie. He brought his hands back to the lip of the table and thought of those gaudy, soulless mansions stitched along the edge of the glittering Cranberry Cove.
He knew that, once upon a time, Cranberry Cove had been a gorgeous spot for Millbrook residents, a place for swimming, picnicking, and coming together as a community.
He also knew that money had changed all that.
Someone had privatized the space. Someone had come in and ripped through the lush surroundings, torn up ancient trees, and begun to build.
He’d also heard that more building was planned for the small area of the cove that still retained its natural landscape.
He’d chalked this up to more corporate greed and decided there was nothing to be done about it.
You couldn’t stop the wealthy. They did whatever they wanted.
“Sure,” James said finally. “But I’ve never been there. I’ve seen it from the water once, but that’s it.”
Elena flared her nostrils. “I have reason to believe that this ‘new build’ they’re planning isn’t legal.
But the residents of Cranberry Cove have manipulated the city and surrounding counties into doing whatever they want.
Money has exchanged hands, and crimes have been looked past. It’s similar to what Natalie wrote about in Connersville.
I think this thing goes deep. My grandmother first wrote about the building of the original Cranberry Cove mansions back in 1957, and it seems likely they’re still up to their awful ways. ”
James was stunned speechless. “It sounds like something out of a crime novel.”
“But you know what these people are like,” Elena said, her voice cracking. “These mega-wealthy millionaires are doing whatever they want to do, taking whatever they want. They’ve never cared a lick about Millbrook. They’ve stolen land from us. They’ve stolen our identity.”
Elena went on to explain that her grandmother died not long after the first of the Cranberry Cove mansions were built.
“I can’t help but think that she was the only one brave enough to stand up to them.
When she was gone, the wealthy had no voice driving against them.
People shrugged and let whatever corruption was happening, happen. ”
James was putting the pieces together, now. “You want to be the one to stand up to this new build.”
Elena’s face crumpled, as though she were embarrassed. “No. I mean, I don’t know if I can.”
“Why not?”
Elena hesitated. Standing, she walked to the window and pressed her thumb against the sill, watching the snow outside.
She looked smaller than James remembered, as though, sitting before her at the table, he’d grown accustomed to her larger-than-life intellect and personality. It didn’t quite match how tiny she was.
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough to change anything with journalism,” she explained.
“But you’ve been a journalist a long time,” James protested, fighting the urge to get up and wrap his arms around her. “You must have written about corruption. You must have faced terrible things. You’ve been brave, Elena.”
Elena scrunched her face into a tight red ball. James thought she was going to start crying, and he was on his feet, letting the chair collapse behind him.
“That’s the thing,” she said. “I’ve done more harm than good.”
“How can you say that?” James asked.
Elena’s dark eyes found his. “You’ve been honest with me, but I haven’t been honest with you.”
James gestured helplessly at the chair across from him. “I spend my life listening to people,” he said, as tenderly as he could. “Let me listen to you. Let me help you through.”
Slowly, as though it pained her to walk just as much as it pained her to think, Elena returned to the table, filled her glass with wine, and folded her hands.
She began to set the stage for what had happened to her: a painful story that had nothing to do with this quaint, small-town Christmas. It was a nightmare.