Fear (Alex and Cassidy #9)

Prologue

Schoharie, New York

Thanksgiving

Loss was never easy. Celebrating a holiday when you had just lost someone who’d been part of your life for nearly all of it was both cathartic and uncomfortable.

Familiar noise filled the house.

Children's feet pounded against hardwood floors. Michelle teased Jameson about something from the living room. Marianne and Scott laughed in the hallway. Laura scolded Jonah for raiding all of Jameson's good beer.

These were the ordinary moments Candace missed most.

This year, the ordinary felt strange.

That was the part that unsettled her—the strangeness itself. Jonathan had seldom shared holidays with the family. Candace had invited him over the years. He had nearly always declined, never quite comfortable in this house, in this life Candace had built after their marriage ended.

Still, today, she wished he were here.

Mourning and celebrating had always gone hand in hand. Maybe that was why Candace preferred the term "celebration of life" to "wake". Wake had always seemed unsettling to her.

When she was four years old, her great-grandfather had been waked in this house, right smack in the middle of the living room.

Her oldest brother had called it creepy.

Her cousin Roderick, who was nine years older and often pleased with his own imagination, had told Candace and her brothers that Great-Grandpa Stratton would wake up sometime in the night and look for his favorite cookies.

It had clearly been an effort to frighten the younger children.

Or, as Candace came to understand years later, Roderick's way of hiding his own discomfort.

She never forgot it.

Most children would have pulled the covers over their heads, afraid of a ghost, a zombie, or the old man in the wooden box downstairs.

Not Candace.

She waited until everyone went to bed, crept down the stairs, stole one of Grandma Stratton's cookies from the table, and sat in the corner of the living room with it clutched in her hand.

Waiting.

Great-Grandpa Stratton never sat up.

He stayed exactly where he was, lying in the middle of the living room in a giant wooden casket, his hands folded, his face too still to belong to the man who had slipped her peppermint candies and chewy sugary ones that stuck to her teeth.

Candace didn't know how long she had been sitting there when her grandmother found her.

"Candy? What are you doing in here?"

Candace held up the cookie.

Grandma Stratton sighed. "Now, I told you not to listen to Roddy's silly stories."

Candace looked back at the casket.

Her grandmother followed her gaze, then looked down at her again. "You're not afraid at all, are you?"

Candace shook her head. "I love Gampy."

"Oh, and Grampy loved you, too." Grandma Stratton held out a hand. "Come on now. You should get back to bed."

Candace frowned. "But Gampy needs his cookie."

Her grandmother smiled. "I'll bet he's having loads of cookies where he went."

"He's there," Candace said, pointing.

"Mm." Grandma Stratton looked toward the casket again. "Well, it looks that way, doesn't it?"

Candace nodded.

"But that's just the part that carried him."

Candace frowned.

Her grandmother kept her hand extended. "Since you have that cookie, why don't we have some milk? I'll try to explain it to you."

Candace looked back at the casket.

Then she slipped her hand into her grandmother's and let herself be led toward the kitchen.

"Candy?"

Candace blinked and looked up from her untouched tea.

Pearl stood across from her, one brow lifted, concern tucked beneath the familiar challenge in her expression.

"You looked a million miles away," Pearl said.

Candace smiled, a soft sigh escaping her. "More like sixty years."

"I'm sorry?"

"I was thinking about Great-Grandpa Stratton's wake."

Pearl nodded. "Lord, your grandmother told me your brothers had nightmares for years after that."

Candace chuckled. "They did. We stayed here that weekend. I don't know why. Probably because my mother didn't want to drive back and forth."

"Mm."

"I don't remember everything," Candace said. "I was four. But I remember Roddy telling us that Grampy would get up in the night looking for his cookies."

Pearl's mouth twitched.

"Whenever Grampy was here, Grandma was always giving him cookies," Candace said. "So I suppose it made perfect sense to me."

"That he'd wake up hungry?"

Candace shrugged. "Exactly."

Pearl laughed softly.

"I came downstairs after everyone went to bed, took one of Grandma's cookies off the table, and sat in the corner of the living room waiting for him."

"You did not."

"I did."

"Candy."

"I thought he'd be hungry like Roddy said."

Pearl shook her head, but affection warmed her eyes. "What happened when he never woke up?"

"I didn't get to wait very long. At least, I don't think I did. Grandma found me."

Pearl's smile faded into something gentler. "Were you scared?"

"No." Candace looked toward the doorway, where the distant sounds of her family continued to rise and fall. "That's what I remember most. I wasn't scared. I was confused. I loved him, so I didn't understand why everyone was whispering around him like he was suddenly something to be afraid of."

Pearl pulled out the chair across from Candace and sat.

Candace wrapped both hands around her cup. "Grandma told me his body was only the part that carried him. I remember that. Not all of what she said after, but that part stayed with me."

Pearl nodded.

"I think I believed her," Candace said. "Or wanted to."

"And now?"

Candace let out a slow breath.

From the living room, Jameson laughed. A second later, Jonah protested his innocence so loudly it was obvious he was guilty of something. Laura's voice followed, sharper this time, and Michelle's laughter rose above them all.

Candace smiled.

"I think she was right," she said. "People never really leave. Or maybe they just leave pieces for us to find."

Pearl's eyes softened.

"Jonathan was rarely here for Thanksgiving," Candace said. "And somehow, today, I keep expecting to see him standing awkwardly near the door, pretending he doesn't want to come in."

"He always did look like a man waiting for permission to belong," Pearl said.

Candace's gaze dropped to her tea.

"Yes," she said quietly. "He did."

"I know it's hard this year," Pearl said. "Maybe for you most of all."

Candace looked up, her smile surprisingly warm. "I don't think it's that. It's just strange. There's something to be said for wakes and funerals."

Pearl listened.

"I know this is what he wanted. No formalities. Scatter his ashes when the weather is warmer and have a party." Candace chuckled softly. "He never even liked parties."

Pearl smiled, even as her eyes moistened.

"It's like there's finality," Candace said, "but nothing feels finished." She shrugged. "Maybe that's the way it always is when you lose someone. They leave you in pieces. A little at a time. Maybe the formalities only make us believe there's an ending."

"I don't think so," Pearl said.

"Really?"

"No. I think they're part of acceptance. Maybe not the finish you're looking for. But the first step in letting go."

Candace sighed.

"Candy?"

Candace closed her eyes and shook her head lightly. "He gave me a place, Mom. A place to?—"

"Find Lucas again," Pearl said.

Candace nodded.

Pearl reached across the table and covered Candace's hand.

Candace held on.

Nothing more needed to be said.

Candace wasn’t overcome with sadness. She was sitting with recognition. With gratitude, too. Gratitude for the noise in the house, the laughter, and the love. Even for the little arguments she would inevitably be called upon to referee.

She still believed what her grandmother had told her that night, sitting in the kitchen with milk and a stolen cookie.

People were more than the bodies that carried them.

Jonathan was present in their children and grandchildren.

Her parents and grandparents lingered in corners of this house and surfaced in ordinary moments—more than memories, but not ghosts.

Something quieter. A feeling. A knowing.

The strange certainty that someone could still matter, still shape the air around you, even after they had been gone for most of your life.

Maybe acceptance was not the same as finality.

Maybe nothing was final. Different, yes. Changed. Most of all, missed.

But somehow, still present.

"Nana!" Craig yelled through the house.

"Nana!" Brody's voice followed.

"Nana!" Sophie screamed.

Candace blinked.

"That's you," Pearl said.

Craig stepped into the kitchen with his cousins close behind.

"Yes?" Candace asked.

"Jay says there are cookies."

"Does she?" Candace asked.

"Yep," Sophie said.

Amanda skidded into the room in her socks. "Nana!"

Pearl covered her face and laughed.

"Hey," Jameson said from behind them.

Jonah scooted around the children and headed straight for the counter.

"Jonah!" Laura called after him.

"What? JD said there are cookies!"

"Jonah!" Michelle called out. "Laura! Don't let Jonah steal all of Mom's cookies."

Candace shook her head, chuckling.

"There are plenty of cookies," she said.

Jonah grabbed a container and held it over his head. "Cookies in the living room! Line up now!"

"Who made you the Cookie Guard?" Michelle asked.

"Mom."

"Mom never let you be in charge of food," Michelle said. "Any food."

The voices faded slightly as the children followed Jonah from the kitchen.

"I'd better make sure he doesn't save the biggest ones for himself," Pearl said, pushing out of her chair.

She winked at Jameson on her way out.

Jameson stepped fully into the kitchen. "Candace?"

Candace smiled.

"You all right?"

Candace nodded, pushed her chair back, and went to Jameson. "I hope you know how happy I am that you're here."

"Should I be somewhere else?" Jameson teased.

Candace smiled. "No."

Jameson kissed her softly. "Thinking about Jonathan?"

"Thinking about a lot of people."

Jameson nodded.

She understood.

She had thought about Craig all day. Her grandparents, too. Blake. Being surrounded by the people you loved most had a way of making you wish everyone you had ever loved could somehow be part of it.

She kissed Candace again. It wasn't an advance. It was a whisper of understanding.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Michelle called from the doorway.

Candace's head fell against Jameson's shoulder, shaking gently with laughter.

"What?" Jonah asked from the other room. "Did Mom hide more dessert?"

Michelle groaned. "Two minutes! Two minutes, and they're studying the Bible. It's not even a Christian holiday!"

Candace looked up at Jameson.

They both laughed.

"Lunatics," Candace said.

Jameson shrugged. "They learned from the best."

Candace laughed. "I suppose they did."

"Mom!"

"JD!"

"Mom!"

"Leave your parents alone!" Pearl called out.

Candace kept chuckling.

Jameson smiled. "I love you. Even if you do run an asylum."

Candace rolled her eyes.

And then she heard it.

Or thought she did.

A laugh.

Not Marianne’s. Not Jonah's. Not Michelle's.

Something older and softer. Not exactly a memory, but?—

Candace looked over Jameson's shoulder toward the doorway.

For one impossible second, she could almost see him there—not clearly. It was more like the idea of him. A man who smelled faintly of peppermint and pipe smoke, waiting with a grin for someone to offer him something sweet.

"You okay?" Jameson asked.

"Yeah," Candace said. "I just..."

"What?"

Candace took a breath, then smiled. "I could swear I just saw my great-grandfather."

Jameson's brow lifted. "Well, if he was anything like the rest of his family, he's probably looking for the cookies."

Candace stared at her for a moment.

"What?" Jameson asked.

Candace smiled.

"Probably," she said.

Probably.

Westport, Connecticut

Home.

Some people's goals pressed them to work toward careers that would bring them notoriety.

Some dreamed of changing the world. Some hoped to travel to every corner of it or of amassing wealth.

Cassidy never cared much about any of those things.

She enjoyed traveling, cared about what happened in the broader world, and was grateful for financial comfort.

But she had never sought the spotlight, nor had she imagined herself working at the White House or standing front and center before the international press.

Life could be strange.

What had always mattered most to Cassidy was this: children running underfoot. Parents arguing over who would make the coffee. Laughter. Squabbles. Life.

Simple, uninterrupted life.

She expected loss, though the expectation had never made it less painful. And she expected change. Cassidy understood that even the changes someone chose brought a feeling of loss with them.

Marriage brought the loss of complete autonomy. There was someone new to consider when you made choices. Parenthood brought with it the loss of certain freedoms. A new job, a new home, a new school—every milestone meant letting go of something you once knew to make room for something new.

Being back in the house where Alex had proposed to her, where she'd raised children, celebrated birthdays and holidays, made tacos, watched children devour pizza, and cried her share of tears, was bittersweet.

She loved this house. It represented what Cassidy had always yearned for in life: a close family.

"Cass?"

Cassidy looked up from her coffee and smiled.

"You okay?" Claire asked.

"I'm good."

"You drunk?"

Cassidy laughed.

Claire shook her head. "I'll go with drunk."

"I'm not drunk, Claire."

"Uh-huh. Don't you want to watch the pool tournament?"

Cassidy chuckled. Alex had issued a challenge to Claire. That led to everyone wanting a piece of the action. The billiards table in the basement family room had been the best purchase Cassidy had ever made.

"I'll come down in a few minutes," Cassidy said.

"Cass?"

"Claire, stop worrying. It's nice, that's all."

"What?"

"Sitting here in the kitchen listening to everything."

Claire shook her head again. "You could hear it all better if you came downstairs."

Cassidy smiled warmly. "I will." She chuckled at Claire's expression. "You'll understand one day when Ian and Eva are a little older." Then she chuckled again. "Although you'll be the pied piper, just like Alex, leading them in some game while El is up here sipping her coffee."

"I love you, Cass. Sometimes, you don't make sense."

That did it. Cassidy laughed.

Another shake of Claire's head brought Cassidy to her feet. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To win this tournament you and Alex started."

Claire brightened.

Cassidy followed her toward the basement stairs, coffee still warm in her hand and the sound of family rising to meet her.

Change would continue.

This—home—would always be enough.

It had to be.