Chapter One
Penns Point
Aaren shifted under the snug fit of her seat belt and tried to focus once more on the journey. The narrow stretch of highway ran two lanes, one north and one south. It divided the dense Kentucky foliage, parting occasionally to reveal wide-open plains. Sleepy farmhouses, just like the one she’d grown up in, sat well back from the road. This road was the road she hadn’t seen or travelled in over fourteen years.
The darkness thinned under the car’s headlights. It was then that the approaching sign on the side of the road made the contents in her stomach pitch.
Welcome to Penns Point, Kentucky! The Salt of the Earth.
She was home.
Aaren closed her eyes for the millisecond needed to release the tightness in her chest. She exhaled slowly and opened her eyes. Her two-seater sports car coasted past the sign. Once, this road had been rutted gravel. The smooth, paved surface under her tires spoke to progress, advancement, and changes that only time could visit. Funny, change she could handle. Except for one: Penns Point without her father in it.
Old Rachette Bridge, the great divider of the haves and have-nots, was just beyond the next curve. Beneath it, the murky waters of Salt River flowed in and out of the Ohio River. Without conscious thought, she eased her foot from the gas pedal. The car slowed. Aaren let her eyes seek more as she rode over the bridge. The familiar dips in the road and rusted beams that formed a ghostly arch above. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel and her breath stilled.
She was home.
On the seat next to the empty bottle of Pepsi, her cell phone beeped. Aaren reached inside her Kate Spade bag, never taking her eyes from the shadows that her headlights fought hard to part. Her fingers grazed lipstick, a comb, and something else solid. Contact. She removed the phone and flipped it open.
“Hello?”
“So you leave town and I have to hear it from your answering service?”
“Hello, Gavin.”
“What’s your excuse this time? You aren’t taking any cases so it can’t be work.”
Aaren’s fingers, riding the top of the steering wheel, parted, then closed around it tightly. She chewed at her bottom lip, tasting the coppery remnants of her fading gloss. She was in no mood to hear again how she’d failed him.
“Aaren? You can’t keep refusing to face me.”
“I don’t owe you an accounting of my whereabouts—”
“I beg to differ. I’m your husband. We owe each other. Till death do us part and all those pesky little vows in between.”
Her eyelids fell shut briefly, until the urge to the end the call passed. When she refocused on the road, her voice was controlled and exact. “We are separated, Gavin. And we’re getting divorced.”
“I won’t just give up on our life, our marriage.”
“You think you can force me somehow?“
“Melodrama doesn’t suit you, Aaren. Save it for the courtroom.”
She fumed. Gavin was bitter now, and it made him predictable. He’d never lost a case, nor a client. He had no intention of losing a wife.
“What is it you want?”
“For starters, you can answer my question. Where are you?”
“I’m home,” she mumbled.
“The hell you are. I went there. We were supposed to have dinner, remember?”
“When I say home, I mean Kentucky,” she sighed.
There was a pause. She could see him in his office: nostrils flaring, glasses riding the tip of his regal nose. Her words would have his Nubian skin deepening with each measure of anger. And now he’d make this trip about them. How many times throughout their marriage had he tried to convince her to visit Kentucky? How many times had he asked to meet her father?
“Aaren, six years—”
“Six and a half—”
“Six years I’ve asked to visit your home. We separate, and then you decide to go?”
“I don’t have time for—”
“Make time, damn it! What’s going on with you? We’re more than husband and wife. We’re partners. We were friends. Now I can’t reach you, and it’s been happening for months.”
“All the more reason to end our marriage.”
“All the more reason to save it!” he snapped back.
She closed her eyes once more. He’d been a good husband; he did all the things he was supposed to. He’d always provided for her, not that she needed him to, but still. He supported her, kept their lives in neat, tidy order. Nope, it wasn’t Gavin, the famous litigator, who had the problem. It was her.
How could she tell him what she rarely admitted to herself? That she’d married him only because she didn’t have a good reason not to.
“My father died,” she blurted. Then she clenched her teeth, not wanting another unnecessary word to slip. Farmhouses shrouded in darkness zipped by. The speedometer climbed as the engine purred along the empty road. She was getting closer. Soon she’d be there. What would she do when she was actually there, at the house she swore never to return to? She had little time or patience for this tired debate. God help her, she barely had the strength for what lay ahead.
“Oh, Aaren. Baby.”
She tensed.
“Aaren?”
He’s dead, Pops is dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Slowly, she eased the pressure off the gas pedal. She was speeding. The trees had cleared. Her eyes went over to the vacant terrain. There the tall grass swayed under the blue-grey light of the moon. A mist coming in from the river made it ethereal. She’d forgotten the quiet beauty of the country, especially along Route 23. How could she forget that?
“Aaren? Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“What time is the funeral? I’ll be there.”
“It’s not your concern anymore.”
“Are you serious? I should be there to support you.”
“I’m fine, really. I’m sorry I didn’t call. Sorry I was such a horrible wife, sorry for everything, okay? I can’t do this now. I don’t have the energy.”
“You’re not alone.”
“There’s no need for you to come.”
“No need? Even now you don’t get it. Your needs are my needs. We’ll talk more when I get there.”
“NO! This is hard enough. Let me deal with Pop’s death my way. I can’t do that and deal with us, too. Don’t you understand?”
“No, I don’t understand! Christ, Aaren! What is this? Really!”
“Nothing! And your constant need to ‘fix’ me is what I can’t take anymore!”
“I’m not trying to fix you! I love you!”
She recoiled. He’d spoken those dreaded words again. It chained them together. She was sick of pretending those words held merit.
“Let me go,” came her soft plea. Aaren held her breath during the answering silence. Gavin responded, finally, with a sad sigh.
“Fine, you’re right. This isn’t the time to argue. You’re in pain. I understand.”
“Thank you. I’ll call you in a couple days, okay?”
“Of course. Talk to you then. And Aaren? I’m sorry about your father.”
The muted sound of his disconnect left her ear as numb as her heart. But it soon passed. Once again she felt nothing. And that was exactly the way she liked it.
Making a hard turn to the left, she drove off the paved road to a dirt one that stretched 500 feet before veering across the lawn to the front of the house. Aaren shifted into park, then released a deep sigh. She laid her head back into the headrest. Her childhood, her entire world for the first eighteen years of her life, sat before her. The house built by her father for her mother, and treated as shrine to her memory since her death, was not the way Aaren remembered it. Now, it was in a dilapidated, weather-worn state. Everything about the exterior screamed forgotten. The white siding that used to have a fresh coat from Fred’s Hardware every other year was peeling and covered by growing weeds.
The large front porch swing moved with a slight sway from an unseen push, and Aaren could hear the creak of the chains through the closed-up car windows. Gone were the days of girlish giggles and secret-swapping with her best girlfriend. She and Becca had sat there many an afternoon, blowing large fruity-pink bubblegum bubbles while debating their futures. Ebony and Ivory was what they’d called themselves. Rebecca Treviso was the only white girl who lived on the south side of Rachette. Their friendship went all the way back to the first day of preschool. Together they’d planned their entire lives from that swing. For Aaren, it had been a family and home with the boy of her dreams, not the hope-stealing walls of a New York courtroom.
But that was a long time ago.
Aaren turned the car off. She squeezed the keys from the ignition into her fist, letting the metal bite into her skin. She wasn’t Abraham Robinson’s baby-girl anymore, hadn’t been for fourteen years, and Pop’s death made it all the more clear. She considered starting the car again and leaving.
Maybe I should find someplace in town to hole up until the funeral? she thought. Should it really be so hard to walk through that door, after all these years?
Her heart answered no. Part of her wanted to come home. Part of her had always needed it. A bigger part of her was tired of running. She pushed her car door open, and emerged into the cool night breeze. Kentucky air carried the freshness of soil, new spring leaves, and lemon grass that grew wild wherever there was water nearby. She closed the door and moved toward the porch, hugging herself against the gentle breath of the wind. Each step forward brought memories that broke over her like an incoming tide. Aaren looked up to the second-story window that was once her bedroom, and the tree with branches, even thicker now, that reached the sill. She would climb out that window and swing down from those massive limbs to sprint across their land to the stables where she’d meet Jarrod. My Jay-bird. She remembered the grin he’d give her, and the out-of-breath kisses he’d steal, lighting that fire inside her. And then he’d look at her, and—
Aaren caught herself. Those thoughts had no place in her present. And for a long, cold moment, she wished Jarrod Pennington was just as dead as her Pop.
The wooden steps creaked under the soles of her shoes as she climbed to the porch. It was the only sound; the night had gone quiet around her. A check under the weathered welcome mat turned over the key Becca had promised to leave for her. Pop had given her one inside a small mustard-yellow envelope when she’d left home, but somewhere during the years, it had fallen into the forgotten space of things never used. Thanks to Becca, the humiliation of being locked out of her own house was averted. She fingered the silvery metal for a moment, until a soft squeak drew her eyes to the left. The porch swing moved slightly. A ghostly image of her father rocking in it, smoking his pipe, materialized. He stared out at the land he loved. His gaze never moved her way.
“Pop…” she said softly to a now-empty porch swing. She closed her eyes and reopened them. Gone. Pop is gone. No, dead. Pop is dead.
Aaren unlocked the screen door, then the next, and pushed it open. The darkness was complete. She reached a hand along the wall for the switch and flicked it up. The foyer brightened underneath the domed globe, but shadows remained in the corners. The house smelled the same, looked the same, and to her surprise felt the same as it did the day she left. The stairwell faced the front door and the hall that ran alongside it led directly to the kitchen in the back of the house. To the left was a bonus room that her father used for his office, and to her right was the entrance to the living area. She closed the door and stepped through. Inside was the same taupe-colored cloth sofa set she wasn’t allowed to sit on as a child. Now, seeing how worn it was, she wondered why. A white-and-tan crocheted throw was folded evenly over its rounded back. She smiled and ran her finger over the loops. It was old, something her mother had made years ago. She didn’t remember a time when it wasn’t there.
Her mother’s caretaking touch remained, even long after her image had faded from Aaren’s mind. Noelle Robinson’s black ceramic figurines, ordered straight from the Sears and Penney’s catalogues, were polished and lined up on the coffee table, ready to watch over her daughter. As a girl, Aaren had taken extra care in preserving their shine. In doing so, she’d preserved the mother she’d barely known.
She moved through the living room, her eyes darting from one fixture to the next, landing on the fireplace mantle. Photographs of Aaren and her mother together were crammed in between her school photos, one for every year from grade-school to high school. Her fingers closed around a cool silver frame. This one had always been her favorite: it was a close-up of Aaren as a new baby, gentle in her mother’s arms. Noelle’s hair was styled into a single, large afro puff that had always reminded Aaren of a halo. Pops had told her that the photo was taken three days after she was born, right here in this very house. She put the frame back and looked at the others, documenting her evolution into pre-adulthood. He hadn’t put her pictures away. She’d just assumed he would. From their placement, it was obvious he looked upon them every day.
Aaren stepped away, forcing down the knot in her throat. The back of her leg bumped the piano bench. Turning, she found more of her mom’s collectible figurines. A sad smile tipped the corner of her mouth as remembered music filled her ears. Most nights, she’d sit here after supper, playing tunes she thought her Pop would like. Blessed Assurance. And Sweet Hour of Prayer. And out of the corner of her eye, she’d see him nod, smiling, with his eyes closed. Those times were the only ones Aaren knew she’d made him happy.
She flipped up the key cover then sat on the cranberry cushion that covered the wooden bench. Running her fingers over the ivories, she tickled out the start of a melody, one her father loved. And though the tears didn’t flow, her fingers trembled from the aching in her heart. She grabbed the lid to the piano and slammed it down over the keys.
“Damn you, Pop! Damn you!”
* * *
The horses were secure, not an easy feat. There was a full moon, and something in the air. Even he was unsettled. Jarrod ran the back of his hand over his sweaty brow. Plucking his work gloves off by the fingers, he walked out of the stable, worn thin from a day’s work. His faded Wranglers were dusty and grass-stained, his boots caked with the muck he’d just shoveled out of several stalls. He grimaced, knowing he’d have to give Wes another talking-to. The job was only going to stay his if he showed up for work. Jarrod pulled on the brim of his baseball cap and completed the motion out of habit, pushing his brown hair behind his ears.
His mind did an inventory of the things he’d need to tend to before sunrise, until the rumbling sounds of a pick-up truck traveling fast over his land drew his eyes up. It was Antonio’s old white Ford. He marveled at the sight: Antonio had somehow kept that ancient thing running since they were sophomores in high school. The truck kicked up dirt and grass in its wake. As it turned, Jarrod saw the driver was Becca, Antonio’s wife.
Sticking his work gloves in his back pocket, he walked over to the truck. Becca rolled down the window and tossed her light-brown hair with a bright smile.
“Hey, you done for the night?” she asked, looking back to the stable.
“What’s up?” He peeked out at her from under the brim of his cap.
“She’s here.”
“Who’s here?” he stalled.
“Jarrod… she’s here!”
“She’s here for her father’s funeral. That’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Aren’t you going to go see her?”
“What for? It’s been fourteen years. What’s done is done.”
He turned toward his farmhouse. He heard the truck shut off and the door creak open, then slam. Sighing, he stopped and looked back.
“The hell it is and you know it! I kept your secret. I never betrayed your trust. But old man Abraham is dead! It’s time for her to know the truth! It’s time you two healed.”
Healed? He scoffed at the idea. The time for healing was long past. They were both different people now.
“Let it go, Bec.”
“I will not! She’s over there in that house right now, alone. After all this time, she’s come back home to us. Don’tcha wanna see her?”
Jarrod exhaled. “You think you know everything, Becca, but you don’t. I promised Abraham that I would honor his wishes. That’s what I did, and that’s what’s going to happen now.” He looked toward his house. The pause between them lasted another long minute before his eyes cut back over to her. “The truth doesn’t always free you. Not our truth anyway.”
“It wasn’t the truth that broke you. You let that old man guilt you into that sick promise all those years ago. Now she’s home and you plan to just let her go, all over again? This is your chance, Jarrod. Don’t pretend you don’t want it!”
He shook his head, saying nothing. He couldn’t lay eyes on her. He didn’t trust himself if he did. He’d been the one to find Abraham. He’d sat in the Robinsons’ living room, surrounded by pictures of her, with her father upstairs dead. He wanted to phone, to tell her all of it. He wanted to apologize for failing her, but he didn’t even know where she lived in New York City. Besides, what would he say? Too much had happened and too much time had passed since he’d hurt her.
“You’re a fool, Jarrod Pennington! A fool!” He heard Becca call out to him as he kept on toward his empty home. He threw his hand up to her. So he was a fool. He’d been a fool then, too. Why should that change now?
* * *
Aaren climbed the stairs. She walked along the aged runner she used to push the carpet sweeper on every Saturday. When she arrived at her bedroom door, she called upon her courage to push it inward.
Her room was just as she remembered it. Time had passed it by. The white, blue, and green quilted comforter was tucked around the mattress of the twin bed with the pillows fluffed underneath. The top of the bed was littered with a colorful assortment of Beanie Babies. She hadn’t seen Beanie Babies in so long she couldn’t help but smile wider. It must have taken her forever to collect so many different kinds.
MC Hammer, Digital Underground, Paula Abdul and New Kids on the Block posters were tacked to the walls. The shelves her Pop built housed her trophies from cheerleading competitions and track. On the dresser, a small pink-and-yellow music box drew her attention. Her Pop had given it to her on her twelfth birthday. She picked it up and studied it, before opening the cover to release the soft tune of Somewhere Over the Rainbow. A fairy princess spun around on one leg with her arms raised. The up-and-down of her tiny tutu kept time with the chimes.
The inside of the music box was lined with a pink satin cushion. Aaren lifted it and uncovered a picture she’d forgotten she’d tucked away. Since her father was so strict, she hid anything that told of her love affair with Jarrod Pennington. The picture was of the two of them, arms looped around each other, after a football game back at Pennington High. She wore her hair up in one ponytail with blue and yellow ribbons that matched her cheerleading uniform. Draped around her shoulders was his letterman jacket. He’d scored two touchdowns that game, and later that night, another one with her. It had been their first time together.
It had been the first time for both of them.
It all seemed like it happened to someone else. She didn’t know that girl anymore.
Aaren stepped back and sat on the bed. She dropped against the mattress, causing some of the Beanie Babies to bounce off. She stared at the photo. Excited, youthful faces stared back at her. They looked so in love.
“It was all a lie. Everything about us was nothing but a lie,” she mumbled. Closing her eyes, she sighed and went back to the first time Jarrod told her he liked her. It was right before summer, the beginning of the few happy memories she would have of her time in Penns Point.
Spring 1989
Aaren, fresh out of the shower, padded into her room in her robe as she ran the comb through her wet locks. Pop was downstairs in his office going over his books. She would go and clean up the kitchen after she finished her roller-setting. She was digging through her bag for the biggest rollers when a smack sounded against her window pane. Twice, birds from the oak tree outside had flown directly into the glass. Each time, Pops had to replace the pane. He wouldn’t be happy if this made it the third. She put down the rollers and moved the curtain back.
The window wasn’t broken, but movement pulled her focus. Jarrod Pennington stood in the ankle-high grass below, just outside the slice of light cast by her window. He shrugged back into his blue-and-yellow varsity letterman’s jacket, a smart grin on his face. The light night breeze tossed his hair over his brow but she could still see the dazzling sparkle of blue eyes glistening up at her.
Becca had told her he was going to ask her to the dance. Aaren had been flirting and hanging out with him at school, and sometimes even met up with him to swim at the creek on the Jackson farm, but he never made it anything more than usual teasing and jokes most of the boys played. She was beginning to think she was making a fool of herself. He not only lived on the north side of Salt River but was from the wealthiest family in the county.
That, and he was white.
In Miss Griffin’s class, she kept catching him staring at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. She just knew he would approach her today, but when the bell rang, he got up with Antonio and walked out. Now he was standing below her window. If he got caught, her father would skin him alive for sure.
Unlocking the latch, she grabbed the bottom rail and pushed it upward. The curtains blew inward from the rush of the night wind. She leaned out, knowing her long locks would thicken and frizz into tangles thanks to the breeze.
“Jarrod, what are you doing here? My Pop catches you and he’ll tan your hide!”
“Then grant a dying man his one true wish. Come down here and talk to me.”
Aaren laughed. “Are you crazy? I said my Pop is downstairs.”
“You want me to go to the door and ask then?” he said, pretending he was going to turn and head to the front of the house.
“Wait!!” she exclaimed in a loud whisper. “Give me a sec!”
Coming in from the window, she raced around the room to find her baby blue gym shirt and the matching shorts to put on. Forgetting her bra, she went to the dresser and got one of her banana hair clips. She twisted her hair into a thick strand before clipping it to the back of her head. She grabbed her Keds and slipped them on her feet, trying to be quick about it. She couldn’t believe that Judge Pennington’s son was outside of her window. Was he finally going to ask her? She got all nervous just thinking about it. Going to her bedroom door she peeked into the hallway. She then stepped cautiously out, stopping at the top of the stairs.
“Pop!”
“Yes?” His voice was deep and powerful, commanding authority even when he wasn’t enforcing it. He sounded to her to be in the kitchen, which was at the back of the house.
“I’ma go to bed. I’ll clean the kitchen first thing in the morning.”
“Night.”
“Night, Pop!”
She raced back to her room then closed and locked her door. She’d never blatantly lied to her father. Never. Definitely not a lie that would have her sneaking out in the middle of the night to talk with a boy. But she’d known Jarrod since kindergarten, and of course so had her Pops. What harm could really be done? Aaren leaned out of the window. There was only one way down. She’d climbed up and down that tree hundreds of times when she was ten, but now she was seventeen and it seemed a lot riskier. Throwing one of her legs out, she looked down to see Jarrod back up with alarm in his eyes.
“Hey, what are you doing?” he called up.
“Shut up before he hears you!” she hushed him. Tossing her other leg out of the window she reached with both hands above her to the largest branch, testing her weight on it. Feeling safe in her maneuver, she grabbed it like a gymnast, swinging her long, powerful legs back and forth until she reached the other branch beneath her. She was able to balance herself, then let go of her hold, to scale down the rest of the way.
She dropped down in front of him, grinning, and he shook his head. “Aaren Robinson, you’re a tomboy, aren’t ya?” he chuckled.
She pushed him playfully. “Jealous much?”
The light to the back porch flipped on and they both jumped. Aaren grabbed his hand, giggling, and ran with him in the opposite direction around the house. They kept running across the tall grass to the stables. Aaren dropped his hand as it turned into a chase, one she was winning. Jarrod kept after her. He was soon panting, faking fatigue to give her the lead. She sprinted the rest of the way and got there first, moving so quickly her clip broke. Her hair fell wet around her shoulders.
She tossed the latch upward and pulled the large wooden door open. The horses snorted at the disturbance. Aaren kept running, now into the semi-darkness. She didn’t dare turn on a light. Besides, the large windows above allowed enough moonlight to illuminate the stable. Jarrod ran in after her, then stopped in his tracks, looking around. Aaren smiled, making kisses at her favorite gelding, Bishop, to settle him down. She heard Jarrod approaching from behind her.
“Nice race. Do you want your prize?”
“I know you let me win, Jarrod Pennington. Seen you run a ball clear across the green. Don’t try it.”
“You’re just faster than any running back I know.”
Her eyes slipped over to him. “Mmmhmmm.”
“You’re good with him.” He nodded to the horse. “What’s his name?”
“Bishop. He’s my baby. Born right here, weren’t you sweetie?”
She looked over at him. Jarrod was staring, and not at the horse. “What are you doing here, Jay?”
She stroked Bishop’s nose and tried to pretend he had no effect on her. He wasn’t just any boy: he was Jarrod Mitchell Pennington. He put his hand against the stall and moved in close.
“I came to ask you to the dance,” he said in one breath.
“You came all the way across Rachette to the south side of town to ask me to a dance? You could have asked me in class.” She cut her eyes over to him once more.
His cheeks burned scarlet. Now that was cute. Dropping her hands to her hips she faced him. She couldn’t wait to tell Becca about this night visit. Her friend was going to flip.
“I was out riding my bike…” he started, then realized how silly it sounded. He shook his head. ”Yeah, I came out to see you.”
“You’re crazy, Jay-bird!”
“Okay, cut the Jay-bird stuff.”
“Yes, sir,” she smiled.
She was so pretty. He wondered at times if she knew that. She wasn’t like most girls in school. She was different. He felt like a grinning idiot, staring at her the way he did. In the dark they could make each other out from the moonlight pouring in through the windows. He’d put every one of her features to memory. Her large almond-shaped brown eyes, her button nose and high cheekbones; the dimple in her left cheek and her full, thick lips were a perfect pair on her heart shaped face. Often he found himself staring at her in Biology class. And tonight when she moved, it was hard not to notice the bounce of her breasts under her tee shirt. He found himself cataloguing every curve, admiring her flat tummy and long brown legs. She stood there smiling sweetly at him, her wet hair drawing up as she tried to tuck it behind her ears.
“I like you, Aaren. I figured I’d do it up right and all,” he stammered.
“What would your folks think? I mean asking me to the dance?”
“My mom is cool. She’s not like the rest of them, but my father? Screw him. He don’t tell me what to do.”
Aaren eyed him for a moment. Pops would bust a vein if he knew she was keeping time with a boy, no matter what color. But Jay was different. She couldn’t help but feel a surge of flattery and excitement over the offer.
“Sure, Jay… I’ll go to the dance with ya.”
His head lifted. “You will?”
“Yeah. Why you seem so surprised?”
“I… well… I thought you were going with Scott,” he stumbled over his words. “Truth be told, I was kinda expecting you to reject me. So I had this whole thing worked out on how I’d convince you.”
She laughed, girlish giggles that did something remarkable to her eyes. “I wouldn’t go to a carwash with Scott.”
Jarrod felt relieved. “Good. So should we ask your dad?”
Aaren’s smile faded. “No.”
Jarrod brushed her arm, wanting to see her eyes.
“He said I can go only if he takes me and brings me home. So we will just meet there, if that’s okay,” she said, walking out of the stable. Jarrod followed her back into the moonlight.
“That’s cool.”
Aaren stopped and looked at him. “I can’t believe you came all the way out here to ask me to the dance.”
Jarrod stuck his hands in his pockets. “We’ve known each other since we was kids, Aaren. Why is that so shocking?”
“Just is, that’s all.”
She smiled, he smiled back, and for a moment, Aaren thought he was going to kiss her.
“Well, I better be going.”
“Yeah, it’s getting late… I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah, tomorrow,” he said, rushing off.
She watched him from her position at the stable door. His father was the law, the only Judge in eighty miles. No one dared cross James Mitchell Pennington. His ancestors had built the mill, the town and everything in it, and the subsequent generations had run it. The Pennington house was the biggest in the county. Even from the outside, she could tell it was as big as the Robinson house and the stable, combined. All the little white debutantes in Bullitt County wanted to catch Jarrod Pennington’s eye. And why not? He was rich, athletic, and the handsomest boy around. He was also the kindest, keeping friends on both sides of the bridge. And here he was, having ridden his bike across town to her bedroom window to ask her to the dance. Life couldn’t be better than that.
* * *
What a fool I was! Aaren crumpled the picture in her hand. She hated him for hurting her the way he did, making her believe that life wasn’t defined by class or skin color. She hated everything about this place, and who she was in it. Sighing, she buried her face in the stuffed animals and willed herself to go to sleep. She was home again, and miserable as ever.
Chapter Two
The Prodigal Daughter Returns
The persistent rap-tap downstairs caused her eyes to flutter. Aaren rolled over, snuggling the sea of stuffed animals. Then the sound came again with more force. She squinted at the light from the morning sun. Her head lifted and the fog cleared. The tapping was actually knocking. Someone must be at the front door.
“Alright! I’m coming,” she mumbled. She wiped at the corners of her eyes. Sleep had never come easy for Aaren. If anything, falling asleep had gotten harder as she’d gotten older. So it was surprising that a night in her old room had given her some rest. Sitting up, she scratched her head and waited for her vision to focus. Sleeping in her clothes? Nice. And now she had company. She hurried. Aaren worked her hands back through her tangles, trying to smooth them out. Her mouth, dry and cottony, made her crave the toothbrush buried down in her cosmetic bag. The only problem with that was all of her luggage remained in the trunk of her car.
Coming down the stairs, she saw Reverend Morris, and who she thought was Miz Marie from the Murphy Brothers Funeral home, at the front door. They peeked in through the thick paned windows. Aaren cursed silently to herself for falling asleep the way she had. Her watch said it was after nine in the morning, and for country-folk that meant she’d overslept.
She opened the door and offered a small welcoming smile.
“Good Morning.”
“Aaren? My Lawd, look at you, sugah!”
Miz Marie, who had to be the same age as her father, nearly deafened her with her greeting. Hands reaching, she threw open the screen and overwhelmed Aaren with a tight hug. A little surprised by the affection, Aaren stepped them back into the foyer. Their arrival confirmed it. Pops was really dead. She tried hard to mask the hurt. They were sure to look for any sign of it. Instead, she focused on her visitors. Neither had changed much. Aaren towered over Miz Marie, who stood maybe four foot ten and was quite plump. She had short, chubby legs and a rounded face with large cheeks that transformed her eyes into little slits when she smiled. Each smile sparked a twinkle from her gold front tooth, gleaming amongst her pearly whites.
Aaren looked up to the Reverend, who’d always stood as a giant amongst them. His head was crowned with gray hair knotted like sheep’s wool. He rubbed the neatly trimmed beard that outlined his jaw, stretching into his sideburns, and returned her smile.
“Hello, Aaren,” he said. She closed her eyes to the memories in his soothing voice. He’d led the flock of black southern Baptists in this town since before she was born.
Miz Marie let go of her, but brought her fingers to rest on Aaren’s cheeks. She studied Aaren as if it had been a lifetime, instead of a decade and a half, since she’d seen her last.
“Please come in,” said Aaren, leading them into the living room.
“I hope we haven’t come too early, Aaren,” Reverend Morris asked.
“No, it’s okay, really—I needed to get up.” She smoothed her hair again while running her tongue across her teeth to clean them. The truth was she would have appreciated it if they’d called first. She waved her hand at her guests to sit. As they did, she realized that the chair left for her had been her father’s. She’d have chosen another seat. It hurt too much to sit in his place.
Aaren faced them, waiting patiently for what was to come next: pleasantries, small talk, and then the business of burying the last member of her family. The Reverend smiled and Miz Marie looked on with closely-held tears.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Aaren.” She placed her briefcase on the coffee table. The edges pushed aside her mom’s figurines. Aaren flinched at them being disturbed.
“Yes, Pop was a good man,” she replied softly.
“Amen. Your father was a great man and everyone south or north of Salt River respected him,” the Reverend chimed in.
Aaren gave a thin but polite smile, not knowing what else to say. She had no idea what Pop had been doing for the past fourteen years, and she knew they knew that. There was no need for pretense with them.
Miz Marie opened her briefcase.
“Let’s see here. Abraham left detailed instructions on how he’d like to be laid to rest,” she said, her tone proper and businesslike. But when their eyes met as she handed over the contract, Aaren took note of the glint that slightly altered her professional smile. A pregnant pause extended between them as Aaren hesitated. She swallowed the lump in her throat and accepted the stapled paper.
Contract in hand, she scanned fine print then stopped. She hadn’t really thought of the next step, but Pop had planned out her life so it should be no surprise that he planned out his death. Thumbing through the documents, she saw he was to be eulogized at First Macedonia, and then buried next to her mother. The figures for the service stated paid in full. He didn’t want her money. It stung that he might have thought she wouldn’t have come, or been willing to cover the expense.
“Aaren, he’s also left with the church the hymns he would like for the service. He made a special request.”
Aaren looked to the Reverend.
“Special request?”
“He wanted a solo by you. He asked that you sing Thank You Lord,” the Reverend said.
Aaren blinked. She hadn’t sung in public since she’d left home, since she left the Reverend’s choir.
“He what?”
“Baby-girl, everyone in this parish loves that angelic voice of yours,” cooed Miz Marie, evoking the name Pops would use. The forced kindness caused the hairs to prick and stand at the nape of Aaren’s neck. “Your father would brag on you all the time!”
“I…” Her voice choked at the mention of her father’s praise. She sucked in her bottom lip and tried to digest his request. Pop wanted her to sing?
“We have him resting down at Murphy’s, sweetie.” Miz Marie cleared her throat and straightened her back. Aaren’s eyes dropped to the way she fiddled with her hanky’s frilled edge and the persistent tapping of her left foot. The action caused her wide lap to shake. Abraham Robinson’s passing took a toll on Miz Marie too. “We needed to know what you wanted to dress him in. He was a stickler for details, but everyone forgets that one.”
Aaren looked between them. She slowly closed her eyes. The gravity of her mounting sorrow anchored her heart. He died alone in this house, alone and in this house. It hit hard. Closing her eyes, she tried to regain control as waves of grief kept moving through her. Miz Marie’s brows drew together in concern. Her eyes turned to the Reverend, who also wore a look of worry.
“Aaren?”
Aaren blinked away the tears and opened her eyes. She wanted this over and done with.
“Can we do the service tomorrow?”
Their brows rose jointly in shock. “Well, uh….” stammered Miz Marie.
The Reverend chimed in. “We thought you might want to prepare, maybe decide on—”
“No, Pop left no room for preparation. There’s nothing left to decide. I can come over to the church and take care of things, but I’d like to have the service tomorrow if that’s okay. I need to get back to New York.”
“I don’t think—”
“Of course, Aaren. We can have the repast at the church as well.” The Reverend smiled.
Aaren nodded. “Miz Marie, let me get you some clothes for him.”
She rose and walked out of the living room. She could feel their eyes on her and ignored it. She couldn’t stay there much longer, in Pop’s chair, having that conversation. It was too much. Racing up the stairs, she felt a sense of relief to be alone again.
She paused at her father’s door. The old tobacco-and-leather smell that he carried with him greeted her. She stood there with her heart in her throat. His cowboy boots sat side by side, neatly next to the bed. They always did when he’d stepped out of them for the day. She looked over to his straw hat hanging off the post of the headboard and his pipe laying on the nightstand. Her chest went tight. His presence was so strong, she could barely fill her lungs with air. She wanted it all to stop. Aaren dismissed sentiment for common sense. He was gone, and people waited. She had to do what was expected of her.
She went to the closet. Inside were two suits, a black one and a gray one. She pulled them both out and threw them across the bed. The shirts were underneath, and the belt to the pants hung from the hanger. Tears dropped down her cheeks despite her resolve. Abraham Robinson was a striking man when dressed in his Sunday best. She retrieved his Stacy Adams. They were still polished to a perfect leather shine.
“I can do this,” she mumbled.
Their last conversations echoed in her mind. Neither of them had ever had much to say. And the one time he’d visited her, she’d told him to leave. The last night she’d spent under this roof with him, she’d told him she hated him. She never retracted that statement. Now, she wished she could at least understand why he hated her. Wiping at her face, she looked over to the bed. An empty impression left by her Pop was all that remained. She gathered the rest of his things, including undergarments to wear. His suit bag was in the corner of the closet; she put everything in it neatly, then zipped it up. She desperately wanted out of the room and away from the flood of memories this place brought.
She could hear their quiet voices as she made her way downstairs.
“She looks pretty,” said Miz Marie. “Her life must be good, wherever she is.”
“Yes, she looks well, praise God. Aaren was always a very beautiful girl, just like Noelle.”
“So sad how things turned out for Abraham and Noelle. After all that man done. He should have told her of his sacrifice.”
Aaren stopped cold.
“Please respect the dead, Sister Marie. Wagging tongues are an instrument for the devil. We aren’t here to pass judgment on this family.”
“Of course. Abraham was a good man. I’m glad she came home to show some respect. Didn’t think she would.” There was a pause. “What? Forgive me, Reverend, but you have to admit, this family caused this town a great deal of pain.”
Aaren held the bag tight. She and Jarrod—what they’d done before she left had nothing to do with the town! What was Miz Marie yapping about? She cleared her throat and continued down the stairs.
“I think you’ll find what you need inside,” said Aaren, her tone dry.
Miz Marie stood. “Thank you, baby-girl.” She took the suit bag with a smile and upward toss of her chin.
“Reverend, how about two this afternoon? To go over the service?” Aaren asked.
“That will be fine, Aaren.”
It was evident he would like to say more. She just wanted them to leave. The uncomfortable silence hung between them for several seconds. Finally, the Reverend stepped over and kissed her cheek.
“It’s good to have you home, Aaren.” He grasped her hand. “I was the one to baptize you. I watched you grow into a beautiful young woman. Your mother and father would be very proud to see who you’ve become. Very proud.”
“Thank you, Reverend,” she said weakly.
Miz Marie came up behind him holding the suit bag folded over her arm. “We’ll take care of him Aaren. Don’t you worry. How about a viewing tonight at six? I’ll swing by the radio station on the north side to have it announced. There are a lot of people that loved your father, who’d like to pay their respects.”
“That will be fine,” replied Aaren. “I mean, of course. Yes.”
She nodded and walked out with the Reverend. He stopped halfway out the door and looked back. “God bless, Aaren. God bless.” He then turned and left.
Aaren stood in the living room, watching the front door close. She’d spent all that time alone in New York, but she had to come home in order to feel truly lonely.
* * *
Jarrod crossed the kitchen to his pot of coffee. The rich aroma opened him up as he poured a cup. He’d gotten little sleep last night. How could he? Staring at the dark swirl in his mug, his thoughts drifted to her. Again.
“Aaren,” he said softly, shaking his head.
Becca told him she was back, but she didn’t say whether she was alone. What did it matter? Fourteen years later and married to boot, she probably didn’t give him a second thought. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder.
Up early, he’d already been out to greet his hands, who were at it before sunrise. He gave them their instructions for the day, making sure the right things were prioritized. He had a team of four that helped groom and train the show horses that he bred, along with some of his race horses. The horses weren’t the only thing to tend to on his farm. He also had a smaller herd of cows that he had to let out for grazing during the day, and a cornfield to manage.
He picked up the paper and thumbed the pages for the obituary section. He wondered about Abraham’s service. Then the phone rang, drawing his eyes upward.
“Hello,” he said, sipping his coffee.
“Jarrod, its Sam Spence.” The voice of the oldest attorney in Penns Point came through the line.
“Morning, Sam. What can I do for ya?” He tucked the phone into the crook of his neck as he turned the page.
“I was going to call out to the Robinson place to ask that Aaren come to my office this week.” He coughed and hacked through the last of his words. He’d been diagnosed with lung cancer two months ago and refused any treatment. The cough that plagued him was becoming increasingly worse. Anyone who clucked over him got the same response: ‘When it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go.’
“Okay?”
“It’s Abraham’s will.”
“And?”
“I’ll need you present as well. He’s requested you.” Sam’s voice was still scratchy from the coughs.
“He what?” Jarrod dropped the mug down on the counter. Hot liquid licked over the rim and spilled down the side, splattering his hand. “Shit!” He flinched at the burn, putting the side of his finger to his mouth. “Say again, Sam?”
“I can explain it better in person. Going to schedule it with her and then I’ll let you know.”
“I can’t, I mean I don’t want—”
“Hey. Don’t give me a rough time on this one, Jarrod. It’s what Abraham wants, okay?”
Jarrod said nothing. He couldn’t process it further. Why would Abraham do this? They’d been close the last couple of years, mostly because he’d made an effort to forge a relationship with the man. She was gone and it was Abraham and his father’s fault, yet he couldn’t let Abraham live his days out in isolation. So he did what he knew Aaren would have wanted. He made sure that her father was all right; in the process, he’d learned a lot about Abraham Robinson. He’d learned a lot about himself.
“Sure. Fine.”
“Good, then. I’ll be talking with ya later,” Sam said before hanging up.
Jarrod hung up the phone. His eyes went to the window over the sink and he gazed out across his land. Being in Abraham’s will could mean anything. What more could the man want from him, even in death? Shaking his head, he reached across the counter to grab his sun-worn baseball cap. He pulled it down on his head and turned to head back out to his fields, cursing under his breath.
* * *
Her senses seemed to sharpen on the land. Everything was bright and green, smelling of earth, pine, clean air and fallen leaves. The sun warmed her face. She slipped her hands in her front pockets, looking up at the clear blue sky. Had she missed this? Yes. She could easily recall the reasons why her father worked himself to the bone to preserve this place for them. Her eyes lowered and swept her father’s land. She wondered what he’d done all this time she’d been gone.
Her eyes eventually fell upon the stables. It was both the first and last place she wanted to go. She was walking toward it before her brain even registered the movement of her legs. That shabby building held some of her most treasured and most heartbreaking memories. Halfway there, Aaren stopped when she heard a truck coming around the forested bend of the property. Her head turned and her hand went up to shield her eyes, wondering who else the day could bring.
Becca stopped the truck and jumped out. The sight of her girlhood friend brought a smile to Aaren’s face. She opened her arms to welcome the loving hug. Becca was exactly what she needed.
“Oh my goodness, look at you! You sure do look good!” cried Becca, stepping out of the embrace and giving Aaren a once-over. She always spoke with her heart and she always gave it to you straight. Becca hadn’t changed at all. Her long hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, revealing her girlish charm. Half Irish-American and half Italian, she had deep brown eyes and a natural tan. Even now, years later, she’d give a 20-year-old a run for her money.
“You look pretty good yourself, Becca!”
“I called you last night, but you didn’t answer.”
Aaren frowned. “Oh, I must have slept right through. I was tired from the drive.”
“I can imagine! Where you headed?” she asked, looking over Aaren’s shoulder.
“Just to the stables,” she said quietly. “Wanted to see if Pop did anything more with it after he sold the horses.”
Becca’s eyes went from Aaren’s to the stables. She looked to question Aaren’s decision, but thought better of it. “Well, the word is the service will be tomorrow and the viewing tonight?”
Aaren looked away. “I forgot. News sure does travel fast in these parts.”
“And your husband? He must be arriving separate, then?”
Aaren paused. This detail, she’d overlooked. She’d exchanged Christmas cards with Becca: it was the one small indulgence of home she’d allowed herself all this time. For the last six years, it had been a photo of the two of them, elegantly dressed and posed smilingly in front of their tree, just above their gold foil-imprinted names. She grimaced, remembering how he’d insisted on having the Esqs. stamped at the end of the line. To Aaren, it was more than just a social faux pas. To her, it was putting on airs.
“He’s not really in the picture anymore.” She swallowed, shifting her eyes left to catch Becca’s response.
“Well, I’m here for you. You know, anything you need to do. I want to help.”
Aaren exhaled, glad there would be no further questions.
“No need. As usual, Pop took care of it. He’d rather we just wrap it up and get on with living,” she said bitterly.
“A lot has changed since you left. Your father really did miss you.”
“What would you know about that?”
“Only what Jarrod told me.”
“Yeah, you mentioned him having some kind of friendship with Pop—what on earth was that about? Pop hated Jarrod. When did they become so chummy?” Aaren tried to make the question sound casual, uninterested, even.
“Can we go talk?” asked Becca, looking back at the porch.
Aaren shook her head and walked away. She didn’t want to talk. Just thinking about Jarrod Pennington was hard enough.
* * *
The sun remained a relentless, blazing fireball in the sky, despite the hour creeping past two. Moisture gathered on Jarrod’s upper lip and under his arms. Beads of sweat trickled down his temples. It was too hot for more planting and too early to abandon his chores. He settled on helping out in the stables with the horses, getting their feed together on the far side of the adjoining barn. Hard work wasn’t just an escape: it was a cleansing. Even in the desert sands of the Middle East, with blood on his hands, he put in work wherever needed to keep his mind clear. Digging trenches, setting up posts, hauling equipment, breaking down equipment, you name it and Pennington was your man. His reward? Mind-numbing silence where he could shelve away those dirty little secrets he didn’t want to live with. File them away neatly and endure for just a little longer without regret. Possible? Not really, but damn. The work was all he had. Jarrod grunted and shoveled more, minimizing the pauses between his movements.
Out on the land was the only place his life had purpose. He worked silently, oblivious to his surroundings, as was his habit.
Carrie Benson watched him from the shadows, her hands concealed behind her back. She knew exactly what was under that sweat-stained shirt. Those hard angles defined the chiseled perfection of a tight abdomen. Each time his biceps flexed with the tossing of hay, she was reminded that Jarrod Pennington was one of the few boys from high school who just got finer with age.
The raspy voice of an old Springsteen tune played out of the little transistor radio, and he moved with the rhythm, unknowingly. Tossing her golden locks around her shoulders, Carrie strode through the stable, confident in her own self-worth and determined to make him recognize it. Jarrod finally looked up. The brim of his baseball cap prevented her from seeing the look of irritation burning in his eyes.
“What are you doing here?” He leaned on his pitchfork, letting his breathing slow.
Carrie stepped closer. “Hello to you, too.”
“No time for jokes, Carrie. Whatcha want?”
“I came to see if you had lunch,” she said, revealing the picnic basket. Jarrod looked at it, then at her. Pushing his cap up, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I know how you are. You won’t eat unless someone reminds you.”
They’d been sleeping together off and on for the past four years. She’d known since high school that he couldn’t be pushed, but she wasn’t above trying to make him jealous from time to time. For Jarrod’s part, he’d been clear from the outset about his intentions: whenever she began making plans for their future, he made himself scarce for a while. Abraham had teased him, not long ago, that she was his penance. Well, so were several other women, the kind that offered little and wanted less. Carrie just never let go easy.
“Look, I was an ass. I came in Rory’s all in your face ’cause I saw you with Sheila. I know it was innocent, Jarrod. Just you two having a beer. I swear, sometimes I don’t think. C’mon, let’s just forget about it, ’kay?”
“I told you, Carrie. I don’t have time for your games. Take your lunch and head out.”
Carrie sighed. “It’s been a week. How long you gonna pretend to be mad at me?” Her voice dropped in pitch as she drew in her bottom lip and made her eyes wide.
“I’m not mad. I’m just… done.” He bent to pick up a large bale of hay and dropped it on top of a stack near the stable wall.
“Jarrod. Baby—”
“Can you just… leave?” He turned away from her to continue his chores.
“I hear Aaren’s back.” Her voice went high again with mock innocence. “Abraham’s death finally bought her home. The whole town is talking about it. Miz Marie done told everybody.”
Jarrod continued his work. He knew Carrie hated Aaren, all the way back since high school, and he had no interest in reliving that time. Especially not with her.
“Whatcha gonna do now she’s home? Light up that torch you been carrying for years? Don’t deny it, Jarrod. I know you itching to see her.”
Is he hearing me? she wondered. Of course he was. Same old Jarrod, no talk, plenty of ’tude. Why he had to make it so hard was beyond her. Not that he couldn’t be sweet, when away from this farm. And that’s what it was: this place she was never truly allowed to venture to. His sanctuary. Here he could be miserable, until he found it insufferable and needed the escape of her arms. Fine. She accepted his terms because she’d always known he was the one, but she was not going to stand by and watch Aaren Robinson come in and take him away. Not again. Carrie chewed on her bottom lip.
“Maggie at the diner said she’s burying old man Robinson tomorrow. Said she just came into town in the middle of the night. Told Miz Marie to just get it done and over with, like she was bored by the whole thing.”
Jarrod kept at his work, not missing a beat. She watched for some type of response and saw none. He was an expert at hiding his emotions. Even when he was angry, he looked bored. It was getting harder and harder for her to get a reaction from him.
“You know she hates you, right? I mean the whole town knows she hates you and her father. I hope you don’t think—”