Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
F inn stood beside his pa as they spoke with other locals in the parlor of Briar House. Every chair was taken. Many more stood. Damp clothes, sweat, and heavy perfume filled the remaining space.
Rose had been the last Finch grandchild to arrive in the parlor, a good half hour after the others, but she hadn’t stayed in the room for long. Finn hadn’t been able to reach her to offer condolences. She’d been surrounded.
At the service, she’d sat in the front row, on the end, beside her brother, Thorne. Finn hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. She wore her hair down. It was longer than he remembered, but still wavy and dark. Like midnight. That’s how he thought of her hair when they were kids.
She’d once told him his was like the setting sun.
Pa’s voice called him back to the conversation. “Isn’t that right, my boy?”
Finn nodded, unaware of what he’d agreed with. He needed out of this stifling room.
“I’m going to get some air.” It looked like it had finally stopped raining. Finn made his way through the gathered mourners into the front hall. He wandered the first floor.
The library was one of the few rooms Finn was familiar with. He and Rose had spent rainy days looking at old atlases, planning adventures around the world. Bookshelves climbed to the ceiling along every wall. A set of wooden desks sat in the middle, back to back.
Broome stood by one of them, talking with two men. Two faded navy armchairs still occupied the space in front of the single large window. The room smelled as he remembered: polished wood, a hint of orange, and old books.
Quietly, Finn moved around the room, studying the full shelves as he waited. Broome might have answers he didn’t about what happened the day of Ms. Magnolia’s stroke. They’d spoken briefly at the hospital. His conversation with Thorne had been longer.
The discussion across the room ended. Handshakes were exchanged. The men left.
Broome turned to face him. “What can I do for you, Finn?”
The oldest Everson grandchild looked older than Finn knew him to be. Exhaustion shadowed his expression. As an only child, he’d looked up to Broome, seen him as the older brother he’d never had.
Finn reached out, shook his hand, offered condolences, and then said, “I need to talk to you about your grandmother.”
“Is this about the old man?” Broome folded his arms and leaned back against the desk.
“It is.”
“Did you see him?”
“I did,” said Finn. “So did your grandmother. Her reaction to him—I believe it may have triggered her stroke.”
Broome stood, turned away a moment, pressed one hand to his desk.
When he looked back at Finn, he kept that hand on his desk. “Grandmother mentioned him. Her doctors figured he was a hallucination. Sheriff Hutchins said the same. There’s been no sign of him in the woods or in town.”
He couldn’t help it. “He’s real. I saw him. Edge of the woods, trespassing.”
Broome rubbed the side of his jaw as if he were thinking. “I believe you.”
“There’s more.”
Worry etched Broome’s face. “What’s that?”
“Rose is in danger. I promised your grandmother I’d protect her.”
Broome’s expression hardened. “From what?”
“Don’t know. That’s why I’m here. I wondered if you knew what she meant.”
Broome’s next words carried a bit of astonishment. “You promised to protect Rose?”
He swallowed. “Yes. Your grandmother insisted.”
“Two of you fell out a while ago.”
“Your grandmother—we talked about that.”
Broome looked skeptical. “Did you and Rose talk about it?”
“Not yet.”
“Where do you live?”
“I have an apartment in Asheville. I’m working on my residency.”
“I heard you were in Chapel Hill.”
“I was. When Pa broke his hip, I thought it best to apply for residencies that would be closer to him.”
Broome pulled out his wallet. He took a business card from it and handed it to him.
“My cell’s on there. Send me a text so I have you in my contacts.”
“What about Rose? Her safety?” He’d given his word.
“I’ll speak with Reggie MacShane. He’s the sheriff’s deputy and a friend. More likely to take me seriously.”
Finn knew what he meant; he’d heard things about Sheriff Hutchins. Many at Wylder wanted him voted out.
Broome must have seen his worry. He moved closer and put a hand on Finn’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry about Rose. She’ll be safe. My family is my highest priority.”
“But—”
Broome held up his hand. “Let me handle it. You don’t live here. I’ll talk to Reggie. I’ll let you know if he finds anything.”
Finn left the room with Broome’s card in hand. He sent him a text.
Broome would handle Rose’s safety. He should feel relieved.
Instead, he made his way down the hall, feeling as if he’d swallowed mud.
He found himself in the kitchen, another familiar room. Ms. Tess sat at the end of the table, a younger woman beside her. Her mouth split into a grin.
“Finn Murphy, I heard you were back.” She opened her arms. “Come give me a hug.”
Dear Tess, a treasured pillar from his childhood. This woman had spoiled him. She made the best damn cookies in the world.
He bent down to hug her. He took a seat on the bench closest to her.
“How are you, Ms. Tess?”
Her expression changed. “Heartbroken.” She clutched a handkerchief in her hand. “It’s not right what happened to Magnolia.”
“I know. I’m sorry about her passing.”
She dabbed her brown eyes with the cloth and reached out a hand to the mixed race young woman beside her. He recognized her as the one who’d helped him the day of Magnolia’s stroke. “This here’s my granddaughter, Olivia, or Livie, as I prefer to call her.”
“Nana.” The young woman shifted in her seat as she took her grandmother’s hand.
Finn nodded. “Nice to meet you. You were a big help with Ms. Magnolia, the day of…”
Livie looked down, wiped her eyes.
“She’s my replacement,” said Ms. Tess. “I’ve been training her.”
Ms. Tess had been the cook in the Everson kitchen for as long as Finn had lived in Evers Hollow.
She dabbed her eyes again. “I'm not sure what happens now. With the house. The kitchen. Livie’s job. All of it breaks my heart.”
Finn hadn’t thought about the house. He assumed it would be Broome’s.
He glanced at the clock above the sink. “Have you seen Rose?”
Ms. Tess’ eyes gentled. “Why haven’t you married that woman?”
Finn shifted his feet. Marriage to Rose? Wasn’t she…?
“She’s married.”
Ms. Tess snorted. “Where’d you hear that?”
“She got engaged. Six years ago. You were there. At the New Years party.”
She waved a hand in the air. “Pish posh, she dumped his ass.”
“Nana.”
“Well, the man’s an ass. In no way did he deserve her.”
Rose wasn’t married.
His shock must have shown. Tess watched him closely.
“You didn’t know.”
“I didn’t.”
“A little bird told me you were part of the reason.”
More shock. Surely Rose hadn’t listened to him. She’d been clear about where she stood when he’d near begged her not to marry Caleb fucking Brentwood.
Don’t marry him. Anyone else. Not him. Please.
Ms. Tess said, “I knew you’d come back. I didn’t expect it would take you so long.”
“I’ve been busy.” He tapped his knee, knowing she would not condone his lame excuse.
She snorted. “I’m sure you have. She’s been busy too.”
Too busy to let him know she’d broken her engagement. Why hadn’t she told him? Why hadn’t anyone else told him? Pa had to know.
He looked around the bright kitchen, its whitewashed cabinets. There’d been lots of cookies at this table, PB her cheeks the sort of wet that only comes from tears.
He stopped an arm’s length away from her. They’d grown up together. He’d offered condolences to the rest of her family, but for her, it was different. They’d once been the closest of friends. Until they weren’t. The right words wouldn’t come.
Instead, his mother’s funeral slipped into his mind.
Tears ran down his face. Pa sobbed beside him. His shoulders shook with his own grief. His hand held tight around Finn’s as they stood before her casket.
Then he felt Rose’s small, soft hand slip into his.
He’d glanced sideways, just able to make her out through his tears.
She looked back, her face a mirror of his, shiny and wet.
Her hand squeezed his in a long, gentle hug, a secret message.
She stayed beside him even when someone told her to take her seat.
No one else tried. Not that day or in the days that followed. She stuck to him like a shield, quiet and ready to listen—a solid friend. He’d never forgotten.
The pain he’d felt that day. The same swirled in her green eyes now.
Instinct sent him closer. He slowly reached out to wrap his hand around hers. He couldn’t look away. With a slow, cautious breath, their fingers intertwined. Gently, as she had fourteen years before, he squeezed, hoping it would say what his words could not.
She closed her eyes as fresh tears drifted down her cheeks.
He wanted to pull her against him, let her cry against his chest as he’d once cried on her shoulder for his mom. The past made him hesitate.
Rose launched herself toward him. He caught her, wrapping his arms around her when he felt the impact of her body against his. He held her while she cried.
She fit still, as if nothing had changed between them. She smelled of rain, but also roses and lavender, another echo of the past. He had no idea how long they stood there. He could have held her for hours. The sky disagreed.
Cold raindrops hit the top of his head, the back of his neck. When he felt her shudder, he knew their hug was over. She stepped back with the smallest of whimpers, as if her retreat hurt her. She looked away, her hands twisting together. He hadn’t forgotten what that action meant.
It was another moment before she seemed to gather herself and face him. Her hands separated, moved to her sides. Her shoulders and her spine straightened as if someone close by reminded her to correct her posture. With that movement, the two of them became strangers.
Her voice was soft, pained, and husky when she spoke.
“Finn—um, sorry for…” She motioned to his shirt.
He shrugged. The falling rain would make it all blend in. “Don’t worry about that.” He wanted to pull her back against him, comfort her more.
Her hands came back together, as did her fingers.
He said, “I’m sorry about your grandmother. She was something special. She did a lot for this town and for families like mine. Unforgettable.” He sounded too formal.
As a child, he’d called her a witch behind her back, something Rose once found funny.
Magnolia’s not a witch. She’s got rules. That’s all.
Super strict rules, especially concerning public displays of rowdiness. Ms. Magnolia scolded him as if he were one of her own grandchildren.
“My pa shares his condolences as well.”
Rose folded her arms. “Thank you.” Her fingers splayed on her elbows as she studied her floral rain boots.
She looked back up, sincerity in her eyes. “Thank you for what you did for her.”
Why was she thanking him? He swallowed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”
“I think we all know that. You did what you could.”
He couldn’t respond, couldn’t find the right words.
A sad smile graced her face. “Each of us spent time with her before the end. Not everyone gets that chance.”
She tapped the toes of her boots together. As if she were as unsure as he was.
“How are you holding up? For reals?” They’d once told each other everything.
“I’m managing. I have things to think about.” It was all she said, but she looked at him when she said it, studying him as if he were now a puzzle she didn’t know how to solve. It was an improvement over her attention to the large flowers on her boots.
“Like what?”
She shook her head. He didn’t press, but wished she’d answer. Ms. Magnolia had been tight-lipped about Rose when he’d visited.
She wiped her eyes again and focused on him. “Your dad, how is he?”
He was dumbfounded. She and her family had lost their center. Yet she asked about his pa. Such a small thing, but it pulled at him.