Chapter 8
Emery
Light shines from the window above the garage as I watch from my darkened kitchen, my knees still shaking from that unplanned encounter. I foresee a lot of time spent spying on Logan Landry from this vantage point.
I can’t believe I threw myself at him like that.
Worse, I admitted to keeping his letter all these years, through adulthood, through a marriage.
It’s tucked under the felt liner of my jewelry box, the page so thin it doesn’t cause so much as a wrinkle, and yet every time I look at my dresser, I remember that it’s there.
Was it the wine that weakened me? That allowed this pent-up emotion to surge like a lightning strike against a power line, uncontainable?
I’ve carried the weight of our tragic end for so many years.
I thought I had a handle on it, but in those brief moments, hearing his voice and staring into his eyes again, I had to admit to myself that I have a handle of very little.
To make matters worse, eighteen-year-old Logan has nothing on the very masculine, muscular, middle-aged version who stood before me, wearing only boxers and decades of stories that I’m desperate to pry out of him.
The hooked scar at the corner of his left eye hasn’t marred his handsome face in the least. In fact, it suits his square jaw and balances his full lips and long lashes.
Logan was always broad-shouldered and tall but now he looks like he’s been carved from stone, the plane of his torso etched with muscle. And yet, when I attached myself to him like a desperate fool, nothing felt softer and more comforting than his powerful arms around me.
He invited me upstairs. Just like that, after all these years, after all the pain, with the soft music from our past life a melodic background for my turmoil.
An unexpected part of me was desperate to say yes. If I had, if I’d gone upstairs with him as he suggested—no, demanded—it wouldn’t have been to talk and, in that fleeting moment, I didn’t care.
I would have thrown every shred of common sense out that broken window.
“Mom?”
I spin around to find Isla staring at me. “Yes?”
“What’s wrong?” At least her blistering anger from earlier seems to have faded.
“Nothing,” I deny as I brush away the tears with my palm. “That was a very stupid thing you girls did tonight.”
Her gaze drops to the floor. “Holly was obsessed with meeting him. I don’t know why.”
“Really? You can’t guess?” I flash my best doubtful look. “Holly’s last name might be Monroe, but she’s a Whitley.”
“Yeah, I forgot,” she mumbles, and I think she’s telling the truth.
“I’m sure she’s heard Logan’s name at the annual family barbeque once or twice.
” Likely more often, considering Logan’s still very much in Brad Whitley’s thoughts.
Rumor has it Eric Whitley’s father wrote letters to the parole board and Correctional Service Canada to try to stop Logan from returning to Cold River upon his release.
Tomorrow’s call to Holly’s mother Jenny—Eric’s second cousin—will be interesting.
I’ve known her since high school, and while we’re far from what I’d call friends, we tolerate each other for the sake of our children.
If she judges me for my continued closeness to the Landrys, she’s never commented.
Probably because she doesn’t want people reminded that she once dated Jay, the accomplice to her cousin’s killer.
I hazard I won’t get a dime out of Jenny unless I threaten to pursue vandalism, but that would mean charging my own daughter too.
Isla shifts on her feet. “What happened after we left?”
“Nothing. We said a quick hello, I told him to stay out of trouble, and that’s that.”
Her brow furrows. She doesn’t believe me, but she’s also hesitant to call me out. “Was it weird seeing him again after all this time? Especially since, you know, you guys were together.”
I refocus on the window across the way. “We were friends for a lot longer than we were anything else. And it was nothing. A high school thing. We wouldn’t have lasted.” Can she hear the lie in my voice? Because I don’t believe it for a second.
Logan and I would have had a long life together. I know it as readily as a mother knows when their child is hurting, as clearly as a cop knows when someone’s guilty.
“You dated Dad in high school,” she reminds me.
“And look how that turned out.” I chuckle, but the sound is hollow.
“I wouldn’t go around reminding people that Logan and I were anything back in the day, if I were you.
” That detail has slipped through the cracks of most people’s recollections, though I doubt it’ll take much to resurrect and for it to become a thorn in my professional side.
“As if I want people to know,” she mutters, easing in beside me. “Are you going to tell Dad? About the window?”
“I think it’s best we keep that to ourselves.
” Especially after our spat earlier in the driveway.
“But I can’t promise he won’t hear about it from someone else.
Logan is all anyone’s going to be talking about for the next while, and both your father and I will be getting calls from concerned citizens as soon as they catch wind. Plus, Holly’s got a big mouth.”
“Sometimes it really sucks having you two for parents,” Isla huffs, more to herself.
“You definitely can’t get away with much around here.” I toy with strands of her silky hair, remembering how wispy it was when she was a baby. “Tomorrow, you’re going to go over and apologize to Logan—”
“But—”
“And then you’re going to work off what you owe. Annie can take it out of your pay. It’ll probably cost a few shifts. Good thing the market is extra busy between now and Christmas.”
Isla’s shoulders slump. “It wasn’t my idea,” she grumbles in a weak, last-ditch attempt to shed blame for the window fiasco.
“Right. You just followed along. Ask Logan how well that worked out for him,” I add before she can find another angle for an argument.
Her lips purse in frustration, but she doesn’t counter. She knows I’m right.
Just like I know telling my daughter that she’s not allowed to hang out with Holly anymore will only lead to a rift between us.
“You need to use your brain. Don’t be game for whatever Holly comes up with.
Because I’m telling you, one day that girl is going to get herself into a jam, and I don’t want you getting caught up in it. ”
“She’s not a bad person, Mom. She’s not Jay Landry!”
“I know she’s not. I just wish she’d use her head more sometimes.” I pat Isla’s shoulder. “Get to bed. I’m right behind you.”
With sullen steps, she ambles away.
And my attention returns to the window across the field.
One thing is for sure: Logan’s return won’t be easy for a lot of people.
Me included.