Wynn in Doubt (11 page)

He drags his lips from mine; his forehead drops against my neck. But he doesn’t remove his hand or take his weight from me. I arch back, glimpsing dust in a ray of yellow sunlight behind us. His shoulders move beneath my hands as he breathes in deeply. I bring my eyes back to his and see that they’re full of need.

He doesn’t ask, and I don’t say a word. We stand and walk hand in hand, out of the cemetery and back on the gravel path, the one that leads to my car. I reach for the driver’s-side door when we get there, but he pulls me away, back to him, and kisses me slowly. When we part, and the air conditioning is again crisp and cool on our skin, we drive to the hotel in silence. There are no words for this, for what each of us needs.

The truth is, our paths parted a long time ago. Now he’s looking behind for something he’s lost, and I’m running ahead, trying to find something I’ve never had. It feels like we’ve collided—run into each other at the place between what could’ve been and what can be. I don’t know how it will affect what we’re each searching for, but I’ve always loved him, and he came back for me. It’s enough for now.

I rest my chin on my hand, which lies just below his heart. His skin is damp, and my hair clings to it. The bed in my hotel room is somehow infinitely more comfortable now, with Oliver in it. His fingers play a melody on the small of my back. “What song is that?”

He grins, possibly unaware that he’s been strumming me like a guitar for the last five minutes. “I don’t know. Something new, maybe.”

“Something about me?”

He lets a wavy lock of my hair fall between his fingers. “I could write an anthology about
you
.”

I smile and turn my cheek against him. Is this real? It feels real. “I guess I must be your muse now.”

“You’ve always been my muse.”

I pull myself up until I can look down on him. I let my hair fall to one side so half of the dimly lit room is hidden. “I can’t tell if you mean that, or if you’re just trying to get me to sleep with you again.”

His smile is playful, but I can’t return it. I’m not proud of this, but there’s an insecure part of me that needs to know if he meant it when he said he came back for me. “Oliver . . .”

He plays with my hair and teases my side with his other hand, waiting for me to continue.

“Last night, you said you came back for me. What did you mean, exactly?”

His eyes reveal nothing but his usual contentedness.

“Why would you come back for me? We hardly knew each other.”

His hand follows the curve of my spine right up to the base of my neck. “You have no idea, do you?” He shakes his head. “Wynn, you were my what-if.” He must read the question on my lips, because he goes on without prodding. “I know you don’t believe me, but I did notice you back then. You were an enigma to me. Every time I tried to help you or make you laugh, you’d turn and run away. Do you have any idea what that can do to a young man’s ego?” He laughs easily.

“I was scared to death of you,” I admit. “You were so cool, everyone loved you. I wasn’t even cool enough to be in the drama club.” The sting of my drama club rejection remains fresh to this day. They were the quintessence of geekery during my tenure at North, and
they
wouldn’t have me. “I was a dork.”

“You were not.”

“Massive nerd.”

“Says who?”

“Says every single person who knew me. Ask my sisters, they’ll tell you.”

Entertainment crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Your sisters did not think you were a loser.”

“Hey.” I slap at his chest. “I didn’t say loser. But yes, they most certainly did. Tabby wouldn’t even acknowledge me in the hallway, and I was two grades ahead of her. Imagine being a junior and having your freshman sister ashamed to be seen with you.”

“Alright, fine. You were a little socially challenged. But I didn’t care about that.”

Oliver Reeves is not a good liar. I poke him in the ticklish spot I discovered a few hours ago. I can’t even process how cute it is. He laughs loudly before pinning my arms to my sides and rolling us over. He kisses me three times.

“You’re very persistent.” He says the words between more kisses on my neck. He rubs the tip of his nose against me before raising his head.

I want so badly to believe him. His eyes travel over my face. Not for the first time, I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. “Tell me.”

He sighs. “Come here.” We roll over, and I curl against his side, my thigh over his leg, my hand resting just below his heart again. Oliver plays with my fingers. “Have you ever been in a situation where something you tried didn’t quite work out, and you thought, what if I’d done it differently?”

He’s just described every moment of my life.

“That was you, for me. I’m not saying I was waiting around for you in high school—”

“My locker was next to Shannon Jefferson’s. I remember how much you were
not
waiting around for me.”

“But,” he says loudly, pausing for effect, “I was taken with you. While everyone else was competing to get noticed, you closed in on yourself.”

“My therapist calls it crippling self-doubt.”

“You can joke all you want, but—I don’t know, it just seemed like you knew something the rest of us didn’t. Like you were keeping some great secret to yourself. It drew me in, and I spent a lot of time regretting our missed opportunity.”

I smile against him and hope he can’t feel the size of it.

“And then you went and kissed me in the parking lot.”

I look up. “
I
kissed
you
?”

“Hey, that’s how I remember it.” He squeezes me tighter.

“Fine, have it your way.” I reclaim the spot between his shoulder and chest. “Before your blatant lie, it was getting pretty good.”

He makes a delicious rumbly sound when he laughs. “Stop interrupting me.”

I nip his skin with my teeth.

“Ow. God, you’re meaner than I thought you’d be.” He rubs at the spot, though I can tell he liked it. “So
you
kissed
me
, and a couple of days later, I packed my bag and left. And then you just sort of followed me everywhere. You and your
adventure
.” He’s quiet for a minute. The only sound in the room is his soft breathing. “When you said that . . . I recognized that need to want things. I have it, too.”

I keep silent. I don’t want to interrupt him. His words seem almost cathartic, like they’re cleansing something that’s been buried inside of him for a long time.

“I think having a dream makes you lonely. No one understands the way it invades you. The way it prevents you from having a normal life. A dream isolates you from everyone, even the people that love you, because they can’t understand why you need to chase it.”

He shifts beneath me, and I have to let go of him. We lie face-to-face, our hands pressed together beneath our heads.

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

I shake my head. I know he’s not crazy.

He looks at me in the thin light falling through a gap in the curtains. His eyes are dark now, too dark to tell their true color. “I never wanted to be famous. I just wanted to feel connected to people, the way I felt connected to you in that parking lot. I chased it for a long time.”

He closes his eyes, and I watch him rest. I’ve read every magazine article about him and watched every interview he’s given, and I’ve been jealous of him. I saw a man who followed his heart and lived, truly lived, while I stayed and worried and made excuses. Listening to him makes me wonder if that jealousy was undeserved. He got away, but did he find any solace in the dream he chased? Or does he regret his choices, like I do?

I listen as his breath evens out, then roll onto my back. The light outside has faded, and the room is mostly dark. I close my eyes and think of Lola and of what we might find tomorrow. I imagine her face, what it might’ve looked like when she was young. Did she smile? Did she have dreams? Did something terrible drive her from Grams, or was it that she simply couldn’t stay? A thought pushes its way in and as much as I want to, I can’t clear it from my mind. Was Lola like me? Did she give in to the desire struggling inside her, even though it meant hurting the people she loved? Am I capable of the same?

nine

“Are you ready for this?” Oliver reaches for my hand. The sun is heating the car quickly. Today will be another hot one.

I nod, drumming up courage. Behind the door of the Craig House might be the answers I need. Maybe even answers to questions I don’t know yet. I squeeze his fingers and step onto the dirt drive of the Craig family home. There’s one other car in the lot, probably the curator’s. It’s an old GMC with faded green paint. Oliver’s hand skims my back and settles low on my hip. We take the steps up to the door together.

There was no room for breakfast in my stomach this morning. Oliver did what he could to settle my nerves, but the pull of the string at my waist was strong and persistent. I’ll find her here, I’m sure of it.

Oliver turns the knob and steps back, waiting for me to go ahead. The house is cool and smells of wood. An old gas stove, a few ladder-back chairs, and a distressed rug are all the furnishings in the first room.

A man of about sixty with thinning white hair greets us through a hallway on our left. “How you doin’, folks?” His accent is thick and pleasant.

I return his smile. “Great, thank you.”

“Y’all are welcome to come and have a look around.” He removes a folded brochure from a plastic folder on the wall and hands it to Oliver. “That’ll give you information on the house and the previous owners. My name’s Carlan. Let me know if you have any questions.”

“This home was owned by the Craig brothers, right? The ones around during the twenties and thirties?” I ask.

He sticks out his lower lip and nods solemnly. “S’right. The Craig family owned this house from 1878 to 1994, when the last of their kin died and bequeathed it to the state. I can give y’all a tour if you’re interested, though I don’t know much. The regular gal is out on medical leave. Got a nasty case of gout.”

My sympathy for the gout-ridden curator aside, I’m eager to find out how much this man can tell us about the Craigs and, hopefully, Lola. I look to Oliver and he nods toward Carlan, encouraging me to do what we came here for.

My hands shake as I remove the article from the back pocket of my shorts. I hand it to the older man. “This is an article about Michael Craig and a woman named Lola Harrison, my great-grandmother.”

“Is that right?” Carlan removes a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and holds the article out before him. “Well, look at that, you got a piece of history on you. Yeah, them Craig brothers were a rowdy bunch. Everyone from around here grew up hearin’ stories about their various illegal enterprises.”

“They were moonshiners, right?” Oliver’s question is more of a statement.

Carlan hands the article back to me. “Among other things. ’Course, that’s probably what they was best known for.”

“And the woman? Have you ever heard of her?” I ask.

He grabs his chin with a hand spotted by age. “Lola, was it?”

“That’s right.”

He makes a thoughtful noise and squints toward the ceiling before shaking his head. “Can’t rightly recall, but they had a lot of help running whiskey back then and, as I said, I’m not the expert.”

My chest falls in disappointment. Oliver moves around me to look at a picture hanging on the wall. “Do you know who’s in this picture?”

I stand beside him. The photograph is black and white. There are five people, one woman and four men, all in overalls, standing before a row of wooden barrels connected by pipe. I scan each face but focus on the smiling woman in the center. Her hair is short, and her arms are looped through the arms of the men on either side of her. Carlan comes to stand between Oliver and me.

“Now this I know.” He points at each face. “That there is Michael Craig. The one in your newspaper article.”

Michael is standing on the far end. Even without Carlan, I would’ve known it was him. His lively smile is wholly unique.

The substitute curator continues, pointing to another face. “That’s Jimmy, his youngest brother, standing on the other side. Jimmy was the prankster of the bunch. If you look real close, you can see he’s got a scar on his cheek.”

Oliver and I edge forward. A very light line extends from Jimmy’s left eye all the way toward his chin. I look at Carlan, beside me. “What happened to him?”

“From what we’ve been told, he was cheating some other boys at cards. They caught him with an ace up his sleeve or some such, and gave him a helluva beating.”

“Jesus.” Oliver cringes away from the photo. “Rough town.”

“Rough family,” Carlan says, again sticking out his lower lip. “Legend is, Daniell there gave it to him.” He points to the man on the right of the pretty woman. “Spelled with two
l
’s.”

My eyes examine the man identified as Daniell. He has unruly hair and a scowl on his face. So unlike the others in the photo.

“Daniell was another brother?” I ask.

“The oldest. And a mean son of a gun, apparently. There beside him is Cecelia Craig, his wife.”

My heart sinks as he names the woman in the photograph. For a minute, I was sure it would be Lola.

“And the fella on the other side of her is Patrick, the third-youngest brother. They called him Patty Cake.” Carlan chuckles, nodding toward the photograph. “Yep, they were a right squirrely bunch, them Craig boys. This is the only picture we have of the whole family together.”

“Were any of the other brothers married?” Oliver asks.

“Michael Craig was married. I’m not clear on her name. She died giving birth, I believe, along with their only child. I don’t think the younger brothers ever married, far as I know.”

I can’t keep my eyes from Michael. Just as in the newspaper image, he looks like he’s having the time of his life. I point this out to Carlan, who snickers into his fist.

“He was a handful. Tried to rob the bank when he was no more’n fifteen.”

Oliver laughs. “You’re kidding?”

“No sir.” Carlan shakes his head. “He was a wild thing. My uncle Ty was a kid when the Craig brothers were running moonshine to Louisville. They paid him to leave signals on the railroad tracks if the police was out patrolling. I remember him comparing Michael Craig to the sun. Said people were drawn to him. I reckon that’s how he managed to find his way out of trouble. Everyone wanted to be his friend, even the law. Yeah, he became quite the legend in his time.” Carlan leans back on his heels.

The pull begins just beneath my belly button. “What happened to him?”

The old man nods to my article. “You’ve got the answer to that there in your hand. He was captured selling his moonshine. He went to federal prison in Atlanta after that.”

An uneasy feeling overtakes me. If Michael was sent to prison, where did Lola go?

Oliver tells Carlan that we’ll look through the other rooms on our own. Carlan takes a seat on one of the old wooden chairs and unearths a crossword puzzle and pencil from his back pocket. Oliver takes my hand and leads me to the next room, which must have been the study. Leather-bound books line two handmade shelves over a rolltop desk. Most have no titles on the spines. One is covered in a pretty floral pattern. Almost out of place in such a hard, rustic environment. We examine every surface, every photograph, afghan, and carved piece of wood in the house. But there’s no sign Lola was ever here.

“What do you want to do?” He runs his hands down my arms.

I let him pull me into a hug. “I guess go back to Frankfort and talk to that crazy receptionist again. Maybe she can point us in a new direction.”

He bends to kiss me. It’s thrilling to feel his mouth pressed to mine. Even in this shabby house that holds no answers, it makes me feel hopeful.

We move back the way we came. Carlan stands and offers his hand as we say good-bye, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Now, if y’all are lookin’ for more information about the Craigs running moonshine, there’s an old-timer you might consider talking to.”

“Who?” Oliver asks.

“Name’s Eby White. He lives with his great-grandson out in the woods about twenty or so minutes from here. I can give you directions if you like. He’s a bit long in the tooth, but he’s ’bout the only one left who can give a firsthand account of what went on around here during Prohibition.”

“That’d be great, thank you,” I say. Carlan writes out a name and directions on the back of our brochure, then hands it to me. “So this man was alive during Prohibition?”

“Yes ma’am. I’m pretty sure he ran with them Craig brothers, too.”

Oliver looks skeptical. “Wouldn’t that make him close to a hundred?”

The substitute curator nods, rocking on his heels. “A hundred an’ four last spring.”

“Do you hear banjos?”

I punch him in the arm, and he grins at me.

“God, you’re mean.” Oliver turns the car down a shady country lane. He volunteered to drive us to Eby White’s home, citing my nerves as the reason, but I suspect he misses driving, having never had the opportunity to do so on tour.

We pass a rusted piece of metal on the side of the road that’s been left burned and twisted. A license plate dangles from what must’ve been the driver’s-side door of an old car. A piece of cardboard with the message “Trespassers Will Be Exploded” is taped to the hood. Oliver can barely contain his excitement.

“Let’s hope there aren’t any IEDs in rural central Kentucky,” I say, scanning the lane ahead.

“Don’t tell me you’re not having a good time.”

Well, maybe I’m having a
little bit
of fun. I point to a spot on the left, about two hundred feet up the road. A white trailer rests, lopsided, in a small clearing. Massive piles of junk on three sides threaten its existence there. “That must be it.”

Oliver pulls to the right and cuts the engine. Whether he’s excited or not, I know the fear of getting “exploded” makes him reluctant to leave the car.

“Ready?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” I place a hand against my stomach. I’m as nervous about what we may find as I am about finding nothing at all.

His hand slides against my neck and he brings my lips to his. The first kiss is slow and gentle. He tugs on my bottom lip, encouraging me to open wider. Soon, I’m lost in the fog of him, his scent, his taste, the feel of his hands on me. When he pulls back, I’m disoriented and stupid with happiness, but no longer nervous.

“Ready?” He opens his door. He’s tricky, this one.

We walk hand in hand toward the trailer. Birds call to one another high in the trees. Branches sway and creak like rusty hinges on a door. The wind blows up dust but offers no respite from the heat. A circle of chairs sits to the right of the front door around a patch of scorched earth. A half-dozen wind chimes, all partially broken with missing pieces, tinkle softly as Oliver raises his hand to knock. The sound of a shotgun being cocked behind us stops his fist from connecting with the metal screen door.

“What the hell you want?”

Oliver and I slowly turn toward the man’s voice. He’s at least six feet tall, with disorderly brown hair, a scraggly beard, and small, squinty eyes. He holds a black sawed-off shotgun.

“Don’t shoot.” Oliver raises his hands and I do the same. “We were told Eby White lives here.”

The man is wearing cutoff jean shorts. A smiling red pig adorns the front of his blue T-shirt. “What ’choo want with Eby?”

“We were at the Craig house, and a man named Carlan told us we might be able to ask Mr. White some questions.” My voice sounds calm, even though my heart pounds in my ears.

He considers us for a moment, then points the weapon toward the ground. “Y’all aren’t cops? You got to tell me if you are, you know. Otherwise it’s entrapperment.”

Oliver and I lower our hands and shake our heads. I let him do the talking. “No sir. We’re looking for information on her great-grandmother. She worked with the Craigs at one time. We were hoping Mr. White might know something about her.” It’s cute how Oliver’s manners improve under duress.

The man in the pig shirt spits near his feet. “You might’ve wasted a trip. The old man’s crazier than a loon most days.” He rears back and yells Eby’s name. “You got some folks here to see ya!”

Oliver places a protective arm around me and eyes the shotgun. It’s no longer pointed at us but remains a viable threat.

The storm door opens with a long, drawn-out squeak. The arm holding it is thin, the skin around it sagging and covered in dark-brown spots. Oliver and I step forward as the old man lowers his foot to the first of the concrete blocks that serve as the trailer’s front steps. He carries a cane in one hand. I move quickly, offering him assistance. He’s hunched over and has fluffy white hair coming out in tufts over each ear. His smile is happy and void of teeth. He sets me immediately at ease.

“These folks got questions about them Craig brothers,” the man says.

Eby nods to one of the plastic chairs behind me. Together, Oliver and I help him to his seat, then sit down on either side of him.

“You got to talk kinda loud.” The man with the pig shirt sits at the other end, laying the shotgun across his knees. “He don’t hear so good no more.”

Oliver nods and focuses his attention on Eby. “Hello, sir.” His voice booms. “My name’s Oliver, and this is Wynn.” Oliver gestures, possibly thinking the man is blind and dumb as well as deaf. “We were told we could ask you some questions about the Craig family.”