The Truth About Love and Lightning (18 page)

“So will you do it?” her daughter said and got up, rounding the table to hug Gretchen from behind, pressing her cheek in Gretchen’s hair. “Will you give him a trim? I’d offer to do it, but the last time I cut my own hair I had bangs that were insanely cockeyed. Took two years to grow them out.”

“I’d be happy to volunteer,” Trudy cheerfully offered, “except that he might not appreciate that Bennie and I use the mixing bowl for guidance when we give each other a snip.”

The man repeated, “You use a mixing bowl?”

Abby laughed. “He’d look like one of the Beatles.”

“So?” Bennie sniffed, feigning offense as she shook a finger in her niece’s direction. “What’s wrong with the Beatles? Particularly since you were named after
Abbey Road.
”

“I was?” Abby drew away from Gretchen, loosely shaking her shoulders. “You never told me that.”

“That’s because I didn’t—” Gretchen started to protest, but Bennie talked right over her.

“It’s a well-known fact,” the older twin announced, “that Sam Winston couldn’t go anywhere without whistling a tune from the Beatles’ last album. Whenever he came by to fetch Gretchen from our house in town, it was ‘Here Comes the Sun.’ Dear Lord.” Milky-blue eyes rolled heavenward. “I could hear him from two blocks away, sometimes three. It used to drive me batty.”

“No wonder you played Beatles songs so often when I was a kid.” Abby crouched beside Gretchen’s chair, giving her a look. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“The truth is I just liked the name Abigail,” Gretchen said, which was only half right. Yes, Sam had been a Beatles fan from early on. Lily Winston frequently had their LPs playing when Gretchen would visit. She would sit with Sam on the back porch, the music flowing through the opened windows, while Sam perched on the top step with a sharp-bladed knife, carving tiny shapes out of errant blocks of walnut. “I think I like Paul best,” Gretchen had said once to make conversation. “Or even Ringo. He’s kind of like a big puppy.” But if Sam had a favorite, it was George Harrison, which made sense as George was the quiet one, the contemplative one, much like Sam himself.
Abbey Road
had come out the year before Sam left with the church mission, and every time Gretchen heard those songs she thought of him. But that had nothing to do with her naming Abby, she reminded herself, at least not consciously. It was simply a rather neat coincidence.

The Man Who Might Be Sam sat quietly, hands in his lap, watching Gretchen with those familiar eyes and listening.

“So what else don’t I know about my roots?” her daughter asked, rising to her feet and walking back around the table. She gripped the back of her empty chair with one hand, waving the other as she spoke. “I came home to figure out what’s best for me, but how can I decide if I don’t know everything about who I am?”

“Who we were once doesn’t always define who we’ve become,” Trudy said and stopped knitting for long enough to count stitches with her fingers. “Don’t you agree, Gretch?”

“I do.” Gretchen had spent way too much time ruminating over the choices she’d made. It had taken years before she’d finally accepted that Sam wasn’t coming back, that Annika had flown the coop, and she was on her own, caring for a child, a farm, and her sisters, too.
Must we live our lives in hindsight?
she wanted to ask. Wasn’t it enough to be right where they were, to accept their lot and move forward? Or was she lying to herself, believing she could ever forget the mistakes she’d made and never ever dwell on the past?

“Why do I feel like you’re being evasive?” Abby asked, staring solemnly at her.

“I’m not,” Gretchen insisted, her mouth tasting sour. “I just don’t seem to have the answers you want to hear. There’s a difference.”

Her daughter sighed petulantly and, for an instant, Gretchen saw a twelve-year-old Abigail, pouting in pigtails, not a thirty-nine-year-old woman who ran an art gallery in the big city. Why did it always seem that when her daughter came home, she turned into a kid, all tangled hair and endless questions?

“Can we talk about this later?” Gretchen murmured as she got up and began to collect empty plates. “Let me clean up first,” she said and wished her heart would stop beating so wildly, “then I need to find my sewing scissors so I can cut our guest’s hair. That is, if he’s willing—”

“I am,” the man said, although he didn’t sound as sure as he looked.

“We’ll take care of the dishes,” Bennie suggested, pushing back her chair. Trudy set down her knitting on the table and quickly followed suit. “You take care of Billy Ray Cyrus.”

So while the twins cleared the table—with a bit of help from Abby—Gretchen left the room to fetch her sharpest sewing shears, a comb, and a towel. She took a deep breath before reentering the kitchen and instructing the Man Who Might Be Sam to drag a chair to the middle of the floor.

While her sisters and daughter busied themselves at the sink, scraping plates and washing dishes—and pretending not to pay attention—Gretchen sat the man down and draped the towel around his shoulders.

“Be still,” she told him, hoping he couldn’t see her fingers tremble as she combed out his salt-and-pepper hair, snipping a bit here and a little more there. Hadn’t she done this once before with Sam years ago, when he’d asked her to chop off the ponytail he’d grown before he’d left for Africa? He’d told her there might be times he couldn’t wash for weeks, and he wasn’t game for dreadlocks. Gretchen had gone whole hog, nearly giving him the buzz cut of a marine. When she’d finished, he’d blinked, looking dazed for a full five minutes before he’d started laughing. “If Hank Littlefoot could see me now,” he’d said, staring in the mirror and touching the back of his newly naked neck. “I just hope I don’t lose my superpowers,” he’d joked, “like poor old Samson.”

“Hey.” Strong fingers grasped her trembling hand to still it. “Are you all right?” the man asked. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m sorry.” Gretchen realized she’d been holding the scissors awfully near his earlobe. “I promise I won’t cut off your ear.”

“Just don’t take it too close,” he remarked, his gray gaze following her as she began to snip at the nape of his neck. “I’m not sure I’d recognize myself scalped.”

“You don’t even recognize yourself now,” Gretchen said, trying to joke, but he didn’t laugh.

“You’re right.” He tugged at the towel around his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Until I can remember my past, all I’ve got is the present. Kind of like you were talking about with Abby earlier.”

Gretchen put a hand on his shoulder. “When it comes down to it, that’s really all any of us have got, isn’t it?”

He gave a quick nod. “Yes, I guess it is.”

Trudy was wrong, she decided. He didn’t smell like sorrow and lemongrass. He smelled like a man—one scrubbed clean with Ivory soap—but a man nonetheless, all woodsy and warm. And he was solid and real, not a vaporous specter.

Gretchen touched his cheek to angle his head, and a shiver went through her. “Hold still, please,” she said, knowing that, whoever he was, there was something compelling about him, a kind of current emanating from him. She could feel it thrumming from his body and through her hand. Even when she drew her fingers away, she could sense it, buzzing like an insect in her ears.

“Is there a problem?” he asked as she hesitated.

“No,” Gretchen lied, “there’s no problem at all.”

It took little more than fifteen minutes for her to clip his hair to a reasonable length, hardly the flattop she’d given Sam that summer day long ago. When she removed the towel from his neck and brushed the loose hair from his collar, she saw something that stopped her heart again: a dark brown mole low on the back of his neck. It appeared swollen, like a puffy teardrop. A bit dry and scaly. Was it not a birthmark at all but a scab from his bout with the storm? She had glimpsed other scratches on his arms and legs when he’d come out of the bath in his towel. This could be one of them.

But if it
was
a birthmark, well, such a thing—such a small thing—would be another piece that fit into the puzzle. Sam Winston had been born with a teardrop-shaped mole at the base of his neck, one that seemed to get darker whenever he was out in the sun. He had hated the thing and had wanted it removed, but Lily had steadfastly refused to let that happen. “It’s a sign of your gift,” his mother had told him. “A connection to your past, to your grandfather and your great-great-grandfather as well.”

But the older Sam got, the more he’d seemed to resent the burden this legacy had placed on him. “Someday,” he had told her, “I just want to forget it all and be free.”

So are you free enough now?
she had asked in the first letter she’d sent to him in Africa via the church’s care package. Only she had never heard back from him, not a peep.

“We’re done,” Gretchen said, slipping the scissors into her back pocket.

“That was painless enough.” The man reached up to touch his newly trimmed head. “I feel ten pounds lighter already.”

Gretchen opened her mouth, tempted to ask about the mole, to see if he’d had it his whole life, only she never got the words out.

“Oh, heavens, he’s back,” Bennie said quite plainly, shutting off the tap and cocking her head toward the front of the house. “I can hear his plodding footsteps.”

Trudy dried her hands on the dishtowel, leaning near the screen of a half-opened window and inhaling deeply. “Pine tar soap,” she said, which was as good as agreement.

There came a sudden and very loud pounding at the door. “Gretch? It’s Frank Tilby. I’m back. So c’mon and open up!”

“The sheriff?” Abby said, turning questioning eyes right on Gretchen. “What’s he doing here again?”

“I don’t know,” Gretchen said. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she added, though she knew that was about as far from the truth as she could get.

Fourteen

Frank Tilby considered himself an honorable man in that, no matter how he screwed up sometimes—well, he
was
only human—he always kept his word. When he’d told Gretchen he’d return within a few hours, he did exactly that. Setting down the case in his hand, he pushed up his hat, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He took a deep breath and raised a fist to soundly knock on the door of the farmhouse before hollering through it: “Gretch? It’s Frank Tilby! I’m back. So c’mon and open up!”

While he waited on the welcome mat, he whistled tunelessly, the noise dying on his lips at the click of the lock and a swift squeal of hinges.

“You’re here again so soon?” Gretchen said, suddenly standing before him. She was dressed more presentably this time in jeans and a pale linen blouse, her hair neatly drawn back into a ponytail. She wore a nervous frown on her lips.

“As promised,” he said and, with a soft grunt, picked up his field kit. “I’ve got everything we need right here.”

A soft “oh” escaped her mouth and her gaze fell to the aluminum briefcase clutched in his right hand. “If I didn’t know better, I’d figure you’d brought a backgammon set.”

Only they both realized what was inside the case, and it was hardly a game.

“May I come in?” he asked, plucking off his cap and tucking it beneath his arm. He felt sweat trickle down his face despite the cool morning. He’d walked the half mile from the dirt road again, which had him breathing hard. The overhang of belly atop belt attested to the fact that he wasn’t used to regular exercise, not anymore. Sometimes even he found it hard to believe that he’d been an athlete back in high school. The years may have been kind to Gretchen but they’d definitely sucker punched him.

“How long will this take?” she asked, not looking happy about the whole thing, or perhaps just her part in it.

“Five minutes tops,” he said.

“Then you’ll leave the poor man alone?”

“I’ll have no cause to bother him if he’s done nothing wrong,” he assured her. “And if it turns out he’s Sam Winston, hell, I’ll be the first to welcome him back from the grave.”

“For goodness’ sake! The things that come out of your mouth.” Gretchen’s face looked pinched, and she seemed about to turn him away.

Although she had to know it wouldn’t have done any good. Frank Tilby had been a small-town sheriff for twenty years, ever since his election to the post after his dad had retired his badge. So he was rarely deterred by a door in the face. Like sweet ants in the summertime, he’d just keep coming back. That was his M.O., always had been.

“Made up your mind?” He shifted on his feet, wishing he could scratch his back as perspiration slid down his spine.

“As if I have a choice.” Gretchen sighed. “Just be quick about it.” She waved him inside.

He nodded, telling her as he entered, “The boys are making good progress on the oak. They should at least have enough of it cut by later this afternoon so a car could get in or out.”

“Terrific,” she said, hardly sounding like she meant it.

Frank tried not to think that she might actually enjoy being stranded out here with a man who reminded her of an old flame.

“Oh, hey, and the power company’s arrived, too,” he went on as he followed her into the kitchen. “They’re aiming to fix the broken cables by day’s end. Although”—he hesitated as he glanced up at the brass fixture, its bulbs abruptly flickering—“I’m not sure that’ll make much of a difference since you seem to be powered by magic.”

“What about the phone company?” Gretchen asked. “Will they repair the line?”

“They should be on their way.” The sheriff stepped around the oak table. “Is it okay if I set up shop?”

“Just don’t get black powder all over everything.”

He laughed. “You’ve seen too many bad movies, young lady. I’m not going to dust for prints. I’ll just be using my neat little ink pad. A two-year-old could do it.”

“A two-year-old, huh? Well, in that case,” she said, giving him a look.

He ignored her sarcasm because she’d been giving him guff since they were teenagers. He liked to tell himself it was her way of keeping a safe distance between them.

“Can you fetch Sam Winston’s ghost for me, then? The sooner I do this, the quicker I’m out of here,” the sheriff said, plucking his hat from beneath his arm and catching it on the back side of a chair. He set down his field kit before running a hand over his sweaty pompadour. “That’s assuming he’s still around. He hasn’t taken off, has he?”