Lightning flashed across the sky, a jagged tear in the fabric of black, roiling clouds overhead. Sheets of rain cascaded down the window of Abby’s attic room, making the landscape outside blur. The downpour, deafening against the tin roof, almost covered Abby’s frustrated rambling.
“I know, I know.” She held the phone away from her ear for a moment. “Calm down, Morton. We can’t go into town in the storm. I get it, but I don’t have to like it.” She paused. “If it slows down, we can go to the Historical Society later, right? I need you there. You can distract Mrs. Thurman while I search for clues about Silas in the Bible.” Another long pause later Abby sighed. “I know the forecast. Yeah, text you later.”
She couldn’t sit still, ready to forge ahead with research on Silas but stuck in the house. As she peered out the window trying to wish away the rain, a thought took shape. Jack wouldn’t work in the rain. He could drive her into town and entertain Mrs. Thurman, and no time would be lost to the crappy all-day Pittsburgh rain.
Abby brushed her hair, pulling her bangs over her forehead. She darkened her lashes with mascara, smacked her full lips together over a fresh layer of lip-gloss, and sprayed a hint of Sexy Spring cologne behind both ears. After trying and discarding three T-shirts, she chose one from Abercrombie with a V-neck in bright yellow, hoping she would look like a ray of sunshine to Jack.
Lisa poked her head in the door. “I need you downstairs, honey. Our guests are staying a while until the storm passes, and I still have breakfast, beds, laundry, well, too much for me.” Without waiting for an answer, she hurried back downstairs, calling out a hasty, “Thanks.”
“Hey, I had plans.”
Lisa’s voice accompanied the clatter of her hurrying feet. “Sorry.”
Abby bowed to the empty space where her mother stood seconds ago. “Whatever you say. I just love to help here at the ever-popular Bikers’ Rest. It’s fun to fetch and carry for adults who want to act like kids and ride their little bikes all over the country. Getting up each morning to scrape gross dishes and wash strangers’ sheets makes my existence complete. Please, don’t let me ever have a life of my own. Unbelievable.” She rolled her eyes.
She toyed with the idea of sneaking out the front door to the barn but knew Lisa’s wrath would cause too much trouble. Instead she cursed mentally while she gathered dirty sheets and towels and took them to the first-floor laundry room. Glancing out the window, she sighed as Jack drove away in the truck. Mascara and cleavage wasted on dirty sheets.
The clatter of dishes and Lisa’s off-key humming came from the kitchen. Abby followed the aroma of bacon in the air; it smelled warm and inviting until she saw the grease congealing on dirty plates in the sink and gagged. Scraping grease. The worst.
“Lisa, could you give me a lift into town? After I help you, of course. Morton and I planned a trip to the Historical Society to, you know, study local history. We can’t take our bikes in the storm.” She took a deep breath and smiled her most engaging smile.
“Not today. Sorry, honey. With guests here it makes more work,” Lisa said. “And since when are you interested in history?”
Abby sniffed. “Yet another little fact you missed in your total absence from my life. FYI, Dad and I talked about the Civil War all the time.”
“I seem to recall seeing a Civil War paper you wrote in middle school in a box I unpacked. You got a C.”
“So glad you noticed, now that I’m in high school.” Abby still remembered that grade and the disappointment it had caused her dad. “Don’t forget to mention I didn’t want to take Dad’s advice on homework, I didn’t want to go biking, and I stopped kissing him good-night. As usual, your insight is invaluable. Take care of the guests and don’t bother with what your daughter needs. I’ll ask Jack to drive me when he gets back.”
Lisa threw the dishcloth in the sink; a little plop and splash followed. “I’ve had my own problems. You don’t have the patent on heartache around here. And you need to tone down the sarcasm; I don’t deserve it, and I’m tired of putting up with it.”
Abby opened her mouth, but Lisa kept talking.
“Now please get this kitchen cleaned up; it is, after all, your only job in a summer of doing whatever you want. The ‘poor me’ routine is getting old. And forget about Jack today. He went into the city for an appointment of some kind. Oh, and keep your busy schedule open to help clean out the attic space. I want to finish it as another bedroom so Jack doesn’t have to sleep in the barn.”
Abby wanted to ask why Lisa planned to remodel for Jack’s short-term stay, but what did it matter? She tried to stay angry at her mother while she did dishes and put away the remains of breakfast, but instead the weight of her own miserable behavior tugged on her heart. The lemony dish detergent reminded her of another morning, a flash of memory from somewhere deep inside and long ago. Her parents were doing pancake dishes, splashing each other with soapsuds and laughing. One of them had put a daub of suds on her nose. Where had the happiness gone? Would it ever return?
Abby stared at the bubbles in the sink, one drifting up to eye level. Like a shimmering prism it caught the overhead light, twinkling in the rain-specked reflection from the window. Then it popped, the fragility of the soap reminding her of how fragile life could be: Dad’s life, Jack’s brother’s life … Silas’s life.
Lisa found task after task that had to be done, so that afternoon shadows had deepened before Abby could open her laptop. She Googled “Silas Munroe,” finding genealogies with the same name in Texas, Virginia, and Ohio, but nothing in Pennsylvania. She found a website for Dravo Cemetery, but no information on graves seemed to be available because of the fire that destroyed cemetery records. Did Morton always have to be right?
She stood, rolled her shoulders, and walked to the kitchen for a drink. Through the window she noticed Jack returning in the truck, the vehicle a silhouette in the heavy rain. He sat there for several minutes in the gloom, until the truck windows began to fog.
“What are you doing out there, Jack Charpentier? This rain could last all night.”
As if he heard her, Jack opened the vehicle door slightly. In the overhead light Abby saw him wrap a red rag around something. He took off his baseball cap, put the wrapped item in it, and shielded the bundle next to his body. Ducking into the heavy rain, he ran into the barn.
Maybe researching Jack would be more important than Silas Munroe’s history. Abby returned to the computer but found no Google entries for “Jack Charpentier.” Next she typed in McGill University Montreal. Soon she knew their mission statement, address, and website. Lists of subjects, campus facilities, and alumni information popped up. The site even noted something called the Beluga and Bike Tour, which Jack had mentioned. But he could have looked up the same information online.
Nothing seemed useful, until she found McGill University Student Directory. The simple form asked for student name or email address. Her hands started to sweat, slipping off the keyboard as she typed. She typed in the last name, Charpentier, first name, Jack. No one listed by that name. A keen sense of betrayal pierced her heart. Maybe he made up the dead brother story. And the dead mother, too.
Abby sat back in the chair, pondering. What did this tell her about the person who now lived in her barn? Even his name might be bogus. With a muttered, “His name, right,” she entered Charpentier, Jacques on the Student Directory screen. His email address and major, creative writing, appeared. She breathed a sigh of relief. He seemed to be for real, but some of the veracity of Jack remained puzzling at best. What if he stole the entire name and identity off the web site? What if she had totally lost it?
In spite of being distracted by Jack, Abby’s heart tugged her back to Silas. “I’m losing my mind. Silas died forever ago. Ghosts aren’t real, and even if they are, no one falls in love with a ghost.” She couldn’t reconcile her confusion about Jack and something—love?—for Silas whether it made sense or not.
She exited the university web site and typed Civil War in the search block on the computer screen. Before anything came up, the empty battery icon flashed on the screen and it went black. Abby got up to plug it in, and the desk lamp blinked out. The house became very quiet—no refrigerator sounds, no fan noises; only the steady rain continued its rhythmic beat. “The electric’s out again?”She sat back down in front of the blank computer screen, thoughts drifting.
Crack.
Abby jumped. In the stillness, the abrupt reverberation split the din of the rain; an echo of it lingered even after the initial noise subsided. Turning her head to the side, Abby listened for a repeat of the sound, but only the storm continued unabated. She got up and peered out the window into sheets of rain … but no thunder.
The pounding of a headache chased away any concerns about strange noises on a rainy afternoon. Abby went in search of Tylenol and downed two capsules but couldn’t turn off her brain. Underlying everything else, niggling doubts about Jack and curiosity about Silas kept her company.
She stretched out in her dad’s old recliner, face pressed against the soft fabric, seeking the reassuring smell of him. A faint citrus scent remained embedded in the headrest. She reveled in it and drifted off.
The comfort didn’t last. Jack invaded her dreams—a handsome face that morphed into a skeleton with dead blue eyes.
And a frantic voice beseeching her, “Abigail …”