Abby pushed the porch swing with her toes, staring into the yard as an August shower drenched the rose bush. The floral fragrance, tinged with earthworms, wafted into the air; she breathed it in greedy gulps, inhaling memories of her dad, the old house—B.J.
Morton sat on the wicker chair opposite the swing. “What’s going on up in that noggin of yours?”
“I think about my life as B.J., Before Jack, and A.J., After Jack. It’s lame, but I had to do something to separate then and now. For a while everything got split up based on Dad being alive and—not—but these weeks since Jack—left—things changed. I miss him.” She didn’t share the sense of loss from Silas moving on. Love might have been a river for him, but for her it had reached a dam. “What’s that look?”
“You miss the guy who would have killed you,” Morton said with a snort. “It’s twisted.”
Abby rolled her eyes. “All right, maybe a little. But we have a connection I can’t describe. No matter what, he’s my brother. I blame his father for setting him up. The real Jack wouldn’t have hurt anyone. I have to believe that.” Footsteps sounded from the house.
Lisa walked onto the porch, the screen door slamming behind her. “Honey, I have to run into town for an appointment. There’s a couple who want to get married here at Bikers’ Rest, and we’re going to talk about it. He’s a history professor at Pitt, and loves the idea of having their ceremony at the site of a stop on the Underground Railroad. And listen to this; he wants to write a book about Silas Munroe.”
“Awesome, Mom.” Abby smiled. The professor would never believe her if she told him how handsome, kind, and gentle Silas had been. Or that ghosts had the capacity to love and to be loved.
“I like being called Mom.” Lisa paused. “When the F.B.I. finally reached me and I heard about everything, I got mad because you might have been killed. I couldn’t take that. But now you’re okay—and we’re okay—and even Jack is safe, so I have to thank you. I should be back in an hour or two at the most.”
Abby waved as Lisa drove away.
“I get the feeling there’s something you aren’t telling me.” Morton popped two M&M’s into his mouth at the same time.
“Nope. You know what I know.” Abby justified her statement with a silent, you don’t know what I feel. She could never explain to anyone how it had been for her with Silas. Or how much she wished he could have stayed with her.
“Okey-dokey. Gotta go before it storms again.” Morton gathered his empty candy wrappers and stuffed them into his pocket. “Let me know when the professor guy is coming. I want to meet him, you know, give him my scoop on local history. Maybe he’ll put me in his book. And you.”
“There are things I never did figure out.”
“Yeah, but you solved the important parts of the puzzle,” Morton said. “You even stopped Jack-the-Ripper.”
“Don’t call him that.” Abby glared at Morton. “And don’t you ever tell anyone what my brother did.”
Morton’s face drooped. “Abs, I wouldn’t do that. You can trust me. Besides, I don’t mess with the F.B.I.” He paused, started to speak, then stopped again. He popped a handful of M&M’s into his mouth and crunched.
“What now?”
“I know the agents said not to talk about it,” Morton said. “But I’m not sure why.”
“The F.B.I. guy said the Secret Service and Homeland Security don’t want to risk more danger to the president from other terrorists. They want this to go away because Jack and his father got too close to President Keller. You and I are the only ones who know the whole story, besides my mother. So I promised to keep the secret. And I always keep my promises.”
“Abs, you gonna answer the phone?”
Abby started and picked up her cell. “Hello?”
“Miss Whitney?” a female voice asked. “Miss Abigail Whitney?”
“Yeah, and I don’t buy things from telemarketers.” Abby prepared to disconnect.
“Miss Whitney, this is the White House. Please hold for President Keller.”
Abby clutched the phone.
“Abs, your face is white,” Morton said. “Who is it?”
Abby shook her head and waited.
“Miss Whitney, this is Hartley Keller. May I call you Abigail?”
“Yes,” Abby whispered, then stronger, “Sir.”
“Abigail, I want to personally thank you for the role you played in thwarting the assassination plot against me—and for your discretion. It’s a National Security matter.”
“Yes, I understand,” Abby said.
“I appreciate the sacrifice you’re making for your country.” President Keller cleared his throat. “I understand we have your promise on this.”
“Sir, I always keep my promises. My father taught me that.”
“Then take care, Abigail. Good-bye.” A click and silence.
Abby sat the phone on the padded seat and resumed swinging.
“What just happened?”
Abby smiled, but before she could answer him a white panel truck pulled up in front of Bikers’ Rest. No logo or markings marred the smooth sides of the van. Two men in dark suits and sunglasses got out and unlatched the back doors.
“You getting a delivery?”
“I don’t think so. And who delivers things in a suit?”
Abby picked up the phone and walked to the porch steps. One of the men appeared from behind the truck.
“Miss Abigail Whitney?”
“Who wants to know?”
The man held up one hand. “We’re making a delivery, Miss.”
“I told you.” Morton smirked.
The slam of the truck door and the screech of a latch resonated in the misty air. The caress of warm drips from the trees barely registered as Abby walked toward the new, blue Cannondale bike being wheeled across the gravel. The man leaned it against the picket fence and returned to the truck.
“President Keller sends the regards of a grateful nation, and asks you to accept this token of his appreciation.” The other man returned to the truck, and they drove away.
Abby ran her hands over the bike. The center bar had a Mt. Zefal air pump attached to it and a tool kit under the seat. A utility rack was mounted on the back, a water bottle on the front, and a can of dog repellent on the handlebars.
“It’s just like Dad’s bike.” Abby got on, rode it around the yard, and then into the barn. She returned to the porch, where Kitty sat washing her fur.
“Cool. Happy for you.” Loud rumbles of thunder moved closer. Morton frowned. “See ya. You okay?”
Abby nodded and settled onto the porch swing waiting for the rain to begin again. Now that the excitement had ended, all she wanted was Silas. She yearned for the gentle touch of his hands, for his tender eyes gazing into hers, and for his singular focus on loving her. It would never happen again. The river still flowed past her door, but it had swept Silas’s love away from her, not to her.
Through the mist a figure approached on foot. He seemed to be in no hurry, looking left and right as if taking in everything in his path. As he got closer, he studied Bikers’ Rest, not appearing to notice Abby until he had climbed the steps and stood on the porch. He reached down and patted Kitty’s head, setting her to purring.
His blue linen shirt and jeans were nondescript. In fact, nothing about him screamed to be noticed. Just an ordinary guy, maybe seventeen years old, taller than average, shoulders broad, and waist slim.
Abby didn’t get up or speak. For some reason breathing had become difficult.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t see you there.” He stared at Abby for several seconds.
She stared back. Because as unremarkable as he appeared to be in general terms, he sent Abby’s heart into a spin. His dark brown curls dipped below one eye as if too independent to obey a comb. Expressive eyes—hazel with flecks of gold in them—bored into hers. He must not get much sun, because his pale skin showed little color except for a blush of heat high on his cheekbones.
With a big smile, he opened a dimple in his right cheek and revealed bright white teeth. “Hi there.” He reached out to Abby.
She stood and grasped his hand. As they came together, he stroked the back of her hand between her thumb and finger before pulling away.
Abby worked to center her thoughts, to still her core, to believe what she plainly saw. Because this boy looked like Silas, right down to the handshake.
“I’m Abby.”
His eyes opened wide, his deep voice almost a whisper. “Abigail ...”
“Yes. Abigail.” She knew she would never use her nickname again.
“I’m Evan Munroe.” He looked as flustered as Abby felt.
Abby swallowed hard. “Munroe?”
“Yes. Evan Silas Munroe. Supposedly this house belonged to some ancestors of mine a long time ago. I came to check it out.” He paused. “This isn’t a pick-up line, honest, but do I know you? Because you’re familiar, like we’re already … friends.”
Abby inhaled a hint of soap and fresh linen dried in the sun and knew, in the way that certainty comes with pure love. Silas had earned his rest. But he hadn’t taken her heart with him. Instead, just as he had said, “Love is a river that flows without ceasing.”
And that river had brought Evan Silas Munroe to her shore.