Wynn in Doubt (13 page)

Oliver pulls me up a steep incline, using tree roots as stairs. The forest is dense and the floor is littered with branches, vines, and plants that threaten to overwhelm us. My pretty floral top, chosen specifically for its sweet-to-sexy ratio, is matted down with dirt and sweat. Oliver’s doing no better. The back of his gray T-shirt has turned dark. He holds my hand as we struggle to keep up with our guide.

Mason stops at the top of a hill. He takes a drink from his nearly empty jar and howls loudly, the echo bouncing off the ravine below. “How y’all doin’?” He looks no worse for wear. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t even broken a sweat. But maybe he sweats moonshine and it reabsorbs into his skin.

“Here—” Oliver helps me jump from one jagged stone to another. “This the high-octane life you always imagined?”

I’m too busy blinking sweat out of my eyes to return the wink he gives me. We reach Mason and look over the side of the hill. The land beyond slopes away dangerously.

“We’re going down that?” I say. There are dozens of smaller trees and rocks beneath us.

“No point buildin’ an illegal still if it’s easy to find.”

The man may have serious orthodontic problems, but he has a point. Oliver releases me so I can walk between them. His hand rests against my lower back. He keeps finding ways to touch me and every time he does, a flutter of excitement travels in a circuit through my body. I still can’t believe he’s here. Holding my hand. Smiling against the skin of my neck. Kissing me. Making love to me.

Mason sings disjointedly as we walk down to the valley below. His spirits lifted considerably when he found out Oliver was a musician. “You know those guys from Primus?” he asks, twisting like an Olympic skier down a tricky patch of mud and grass.

“No.” Oliver grabs me around the waist as my foot twists out from under me.

“Megadeth?”

“No.”

Mason’s disappointment is evident. “Well, who do you know?”

“We opened for Young the Giant a few times.”

“Young the
who
?” His small eyes get impossibly round.

I pull up to avoid running into Mason, who’s stopped to stare at the rock star behind me. Oliver collides with my back. His hands wind around my waist and cover my stomach. It makes my breath hitch. I can feel the vibration of his voice.

“How much farther?”

Mason shakes his head, disappointed, and continues walking. “We almost there.”

I’m hesitant to move, wanting to feel Oliver’s body against mine as long as possible. But it’s either follow Mason or risk getting lost out here. There are probably scarier things than moonshiners in these woods, so I step forward.

We have to bend over to maneuver through a particularly short clump of trees. It’s the most overgrown of any area we’ve passed through. I step out of the thicket and onto spongy grass. Bright sunlight filters through tree branches. At first all I see are more trees, more hills, and rocks and bumpy ground. Then my eyes pick apart the mirage in front of me.

The soft hills aren’t hills at all, but wooden walls draped in vines and moss. They extend forty feet in front of us. Some are caved in and completely overgrown, others still intact, camouflaged by time.

Mason motions for us to follow. “C’mon, I know the best place to get inside.”

Oliver reaches out and touches a piece of wooden wall, hidden behind lime-green moss. “You can get inside this?”

“’Course. We used to play out here as kids. I still come out, time to time.” He points to a section that’s caved in. A piece of rusted pipe is visible beneath the debris. “That there was where they kept the copper stills. Those were all blown up when the area was raided. All the copper’s gone now, but some of the old caps and cylinders are still lyin’ around.” He kicks at a woodpile with his boot, unearthing something. It slithers away.

I grab Oliver’s hand.

Mason stands aside and motions us through a gap in the boards. Oliver goes first. The air inside is cool. It’s dark, but fingers of light poke through the patchy roof that sags dangerously, preventing Oliver from standing upright.

“Don’t freak out.”

When someone says “don’t freak out,” what they’re really saying is that there’s a reason for you to freak out. I stop moving. “What?”

His hand brushes my cheek. As he pulls back, I see that it’s cupped around something with a long black leg. He turns his hand and opens it. A fat black spider falls to the ground. He squishes it beneath his boot, and I sway a little.

“Oh my God.” I grab him, barely stopping myself from climbing up the length of his body.

Mason pokes his head inside. “Cool, huh?” He juts his chin to the left. My eyes follow Mason’s to a long row of wooden barrels. Pipe, split open and rusted through, reaches to connect one to the other. They extend as far back as the section of caved-in roof over the now-discarded stills.

Oliver steps toward the first barrel, taking hold of my hand. His fingers touch the place where an ax must’ve busted through the tough wood, spilling its contents to the floor. “This is where they stored the whiskey?”

“S’right.” Mason crouches beside him and beckons us to his level. “See, the mash was made at the far end”—he points to the destroyed area—“’cuz it was nearest to the creek. Then they’d heat it up to get the steam going. It’d travel through the cap arm and into copper coils in the cold water box. Coolin’ the vapor makes it liquid again, see? The whiskey’d come out through them pipes straight into these barrels here. And
wah-la
”—his smile reminds me of a jack-o’-lantern’s—“white lightnin’.”

For someone with so much hillbilly, the man knows a thing or two about chemistry.

Oliver nods, taking in everything around us. “Pretty amazing that they were able to run an operation so big without electricity. You could even call it”—he looks squarely at me—“old-fashioned.”

I roll my eyes and stand up. As fascinating as the science lesson has been, I want to search for clues. Eby made it sound like the still operation was destroyed after Michael’s arrest, which means something may have been left behind. It’s a long shot, I know, but I need to look. I leave Oliver and Mason and move to the back of the building.

A three-legged table stands precariously in a corner, its only salvation the roof above it, which must’ve shielded it from wind and rain over the years. The wood is thick with grime. My fingers hardly remove the top layer as I trail them lightly across. Under the table is a broken chair and a glass jar, foggy with mildew.

I move against the wall, looking for a forgotten piece of paper or a torn photograph. Anything that might fill the gaps in Lola’s story. But there’s nothing. Oliver moves toward me, hunched over.

“Find anything?” He kisses the damp hair of my temple.

“No. There’s nothing here anymore.” I step through the makeshift doorway and into the sweltering heat. Oliver hugs me from behind. I know I shouldn’t be discouraged. I’ve learned so much about Lola’s life. And it’s brought me closer to Oliver, which is something I never thought possible.

We walk back to the thicket of trees. Oliver asks Mason where the stolen money is said to be. He spins around, his hand before him.

“You lookin’ at it. This whole area has been combed over by treasure hunters. Ain’t none of them found a goddamn thing.”

Oliver catches my eye. “Want to have a look around?” I know exactly what he’s thinking. The man loves a competition.

The answer is no, not really. I’m hot, sweaty, and persistently fearful of being eaten by wildlife. But there’s not a lot I wouldn’t do to keep him grinning at me like this.

He calls to Mason over his shoulder. “We’re going to have a look around.”

Eby’s great-grandson sits with his back against a tree trunk and unscrews his jar. “Take ya time.” He gulps down moonshine like it’s bottled water.

Oliver rubs his hands together. “One-up?”

Oh God. “I knew it. I never should have taught you that game.”

“First one to find anything wins.”

“What’s my prize going to be?”

“My prize,” he says, coming close to nuzzle my neck, “will be collected back at the hotel.”

Best. Game. Ever.

We break apart to scavenge the area within sight of the ruined still. We call to each other every few minutes. It’s unbearably hot out here. I pull my shirt away from my skin and try fanning myself. Who thought it was a good idea to hike in hundred-degree heat? Oh yeah . . . it was me.

I head for shade under a group of trees at the far end of the field. Oliver’s whistle carries across the open space. I respond, then sit with my back to a wide tree trunk. The leaves above me are dappled by sunlight. It’s peaceful. Quiet. I can see what Lola saw in the place. I let my head fall against the wood and look around. Oliver’s black hair is just visible. Then I see something. Something that pushes the breath from my lungs.

I stand and walk slowly, then faster, until my hand falls across the bark of a tall oak. The wood has been scored by a knife. I trace the lines with my finger. Two letters joined by a plus sign.

M+L

eleven

My fingers follow the lines cut into the wood. New bark has tried growing around it in places, but the cuts were deep, and they’ve withstood the time that’s passed. My chest is crowded with wonder at what I’m seeing. M+L. Michael and Lola. I know it. A piece of their life has been carved out and left here for us to find. I let my fingers fall from the markings but keep them against the tree.

I sense Oliver’s presence even before I hear the twigs break under his boots.

“Jesus.” His hand comes forward and he touches the initials. “Do you think—”

“Yeah. I think so,” I cut in, knowing what he’s going to ask. I look over my shoulder. Oliver’s gray eyes are almost blue.

“It’s amazing. I can’t believe you found it.”

Blood pounds in my ears. I part my lips, inviting him to kiss me. I need him to. His mouth touches mine without hesitation, and he turns me toward him. One of his hands cups the back of my head while the other holds my waist. The sensation he brings is dizzying and volatile. It scares me, and I relish it.

He releases my lips. “You’re shaking.”

Tremors move beneath my skin. “I know.”

“Why?” His thumb runs across my cheekbone.

I wait until his eyes are on mine. “I don’t know,” I admit, laughing. And I don’t. Eventually I turn away and focus again on the tree. My great-grandmother’s hands touched this place once. Was she happy here? Did she find what she was looking for?

“You want to take a picture of it?”

I shake my head. “No.” I feel the letters beneath my fingers one more time. “This was something special, between them.” There are things about Lola I want to know, things I need to know, but this . . . this was meant to belong only to her. To them.

The arm he drapes across my shoulders is heavy. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” I turn into him, and we step toward the clearing.

Oliver drops his arm and takes my hand instead. We walk to where Mason sits, slumped, beneath a tree. He’s passed out, an open jar lying just beyond his fingertips.

“Mason,” Oliver says loudly.

The moonshiner grunts but stays asleep.

I get closer and call louder, with no luck. The man is dead to the world. Oliver bends and shakes him until his eyes flutter open.

“What ’choo all doin’ here?” He pulls himself up clumsily. He’s bleary-eyed and drunk.

“We’re ready to head back now.” Oliver reaches out and firmly shakes his shoulder. “Mason. You okay to lead us back? Mason.” His eyelids sink closed. Oliver grabs his jaw and shakes his head side to side.

Mason fights to gain coherency. His words are less articulate than they were before. “You’s red head back?” he mumbles, struggling to his feet. He defies all laws of physics by managing to stay vertical. “Hol’ on a min.”

He staggers toward the crumbling building and drops to his hands and knees, rooting beneath leaves and debris, unsettling more unseen creatures. Oliver and I exchange worried glances as he pushes himself up, standing bent over, with his back to us.

“What is that?” Oliver leans forward, his head bent to one side, listening.

It almost sounds like he’s . . .

Eby’s great-grandson turns to face us, a jar of clear liquid tilted against his mouth. The man has found more moonshine. He guzzles it greedily. The shine runs from the corners of his mouth and onto the smiling red pig on his T-shirt. He wipes at his soppy beard, then rears back and crows so loudly, it scares the birds from the trees.

“Goddamn!” He leaps off the ground, a capacious smile on his face. “What y’all waitin’ for? We got to get out of here before the rain comes.”

The windshield wipers work furiously, but the narrow back road remains a blurry mass of brown mud. Oliver leans over the steering wheel. “I can hardly see a thing. I think we should pull over.”

But there’s no place to pull over to. A thick line of trees butts up to either side of the lane. If another car were to come from the opposite direction, we’d have no way to avoid getting hit. After another minute of driving, the tree line on the right breaks away. I squint through the foggy glass. There’s a metal gate a few yards ahead of us. It’s hanging open. I can make out the shape of a barn a short distance behind it. The faded red roof calls out like a beacon in this bad weather.

“What about that?” I point to the smudge of wood in the distance. “Maybe we can pull into the barn until the rain lets up.”

Oliver turns the car onto a gravel drive and stops. “Do you see a house anywhere?”

I turn in my seat, looking as far as I can see in every direction. The land surrounding the barn is vacant. “No, nothing.”

He pulls the car as close to the front of the building as he can get. It’s clear from its weathered wood and unhinged doors that the place was abandoned a while ago. Oliver places his hand on the door release. “Ready to run for it?”

I nod, and we climb out of the car and run. The rain pelts my face and arms. Thunder rumbles so loud and close, it makes me jump. Oliver pulls one door back, just wide enough for us to pass through. The noisy hammering of rain barely subsides as we step inside.

Oliver runs a hand over his hair, sending water droplets to the dirt floor. He looks around, assessing the building. “I really hope this thing doesn’t collapse on us.”

The walls of the barn are full of holes and gaps. Water streams down in several places through cracks in the roof, but otherwise it’s dry, and a lot safer than the road we were stuck on.

“I think it’ll be okay.” The last owners left nothing behind but a few wooden crates, an old boot, and a half-dozen moldy hay bales. I test one of the upturned crates. It seems solid, so I turn it over and have a seat. I’m shivering again, but now it’s from the chill of wet clothes. I wrap my arms around myself.

“Cold?” He squats in front of me, running his hands up and down my arms.

“A little. I’m soaking wet.”

I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he looks at my shirt. His hands stop moving. Every place his gaze lands warms the skin beneath it. I find myself breathing heavily, even though I remain seated.

His eyes linger on my collarbone, and gooseflesh breaks out across my skin. “Do you have a jacket or something in the car?”

My voice is low when I finally find it. “There’s a blanket in the trunk.”

He stands slowly, almost unwillingly, then turns and disappears through the crooked doorway.

Within seconds he’s back, a red wool blanket tucked beneath his shirt to protect it from the rain raging outside.

“Come over here.” He picks a dry area and sits with his back against the barn wall. I move over to him and sit between his legs, my back to his chest. He drapes the blanket across me.

I relax, enjoying the comforting way his body rises and falls as he breathes. His fingers brush away the hair stuck to my neck.

“What’re you thinking about?”

I don’t know where to begin. I’m thinking: How is any of this real? Has he really thought of me, all these years? Why did Lola come out here? Was she running from something, or had she come for Michael? I wonder how Grams would feel about me doing this. She kept the secret of her mother for so long. Was she ever able to let it go? Why did she keep the article?

And beneath all of the unanswered questions about Oliver, Lola, Grams, even my mom and how it’ll be between us when I get home, I’m thinking about myself. My life. Can I change it? Do I have the courage to walk away from my family, my friends, the expectations of the life I should be living, and become something . . . more?

I turn my body against him and search his eyes. How much should I tell him? How much does he really want to know?

“I don’t want to think anymore right now.”

He leans forward and presses his mouth to mine. I’m shaky and scared. I need something tangible, something I can hold in my hands to prove this is all actually happening.

My tongue moves impatiently against his. He guides me to his lap, and my knees fall to the ground on either side of his waist. He peels my shirt away from the damp skin beneath. I grab the hem and pull it over my head. My hair falls in wet waves between us. He unhooks my bra and pulls it down my arms, then grabs the waistband of my shorts. When he slides them down my legs, his eyes grow very dark.

Our movements are hurried, anxious, the need to touch overwhelming. I lean forward to taste the sweat and rain clinging to him. He kisses my shoulder. I unbutton his jeans.

Once it’s just us, and nothing else, his fingers move lightly against me. His explorations are met with sharp intakes of breath. I run my tongue across his lips. I feel wanton, blinded by my need to be with him. To feel anchored to him. I move my hand between us, but he pulls it back and tells me to wait. He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, removing his wallet. His actions are fast and jerky, his body hard with impatience. He takes a condom from the leather billfold and quickly rolls it on.

In my need, I forgot about protection. Maybe I’m becoming careless, because the more we’re together, the more I want to let go, be reckless and young and not worry about what I’m
supposed
to do. I close my eyes and let my head fall back, giving in to the pleasure of the moment. Being connected to him feels surreal, dreamlike. But I don’t want it to be a dream. I want him to love me. I want him to stay for me. Would he, if I asked? He holds me close and I rock back and forth, forgetting where we are or why we came. All I know is the sound of my name on his lips. I close my eyes and let go of everything but this moment.

I run my fingers across Oliver’s chest. Wool fibers prick and scratch my skin as I move closer to him. The last time I used this blanket was during a field trip to the pumpkin patch last fall, when I subbed for a fourth-grade class. Good thing I never clean out my car.

Oliver runs his hand across my shoulders. “I will never be able to drive past a barn again without smiling.”

I laugh against him. The rain has let up some. Every once in a while, thunder rolls slow in the distance. His steel-gray eyes are focused on the wooden shingles of the roof. I drop my gaze to his chest and the waistband of the jeans he put back on. We’re both a little sticky from the lingering humidity the storm didn’t wash away.

“Let me ask you a question. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?”

It seems like such an Oliver thing to say. “I don’t know.” I draw circles over his skin. “Australia? Africa?”

“You want to go on safari?”

“Maybe.”

“Where else?”

My lips graze the skin just below his nipple. “Um . . . New York, Paris, London, Berlin, Rio—”

“You’ve
really
never been to any of those places?”

I burrow into the crook of his arm. “Nope.”

“I’ll take you to all of them.” His fingers tickle the dip of my back.

“You would?”

“Would you go with me?” His voice is soft, pensive.

I close my eyes. “Yes.”

“Promise?”

I rub my lips against him so he can feel my smile. It’s one of those things that makes you want to cry for no good reason. A happy thing that makes you sad at the same time. “Promise.”

He shifts, dislodging me from my resting place. He places an arm under his head, facing me, and uses the other to pull me against him. I wish I could read his thoughts. I loved him from afar for so long, I convinced myself I knew him. But I don’t, really.

“Are you glad we came?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Me, too.” His breath feels like a whisper against my cheek. “Do you think we’ll find anything else?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you so sure, all of a sudden?”

I concentrate on the tugging sensation against my abdomen. “I just know.”

His gaze won’t release me. “Are you worried?”

“Yes.”

He waits for me to tell him.

“Everything up to now has been about her life after she left. I think what I really want to know, what I need to know, is
why
she left.”

“Why does that matter?”

I look down. “I’m afraid maybe she was a bad person.” My throat constricts, forcing me to swallow. “It scares me. Because I think I might be like her.”

Oliver’s fingers move back and forth across my hip. “You’re not a bad person, and chances are, she wasn’t either.”