The Memory House. Линда Гуднайт

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       2

      Peach Orchard Inn

      Present Day

      She’d kissed him goodbye that last morning. Julia was sure she had. Wasn’t she? The action had been so ingrained in routine. Grab the backpack, stick the lunch box in his hand and kiss him, quick and sweet, before he galloped to the bus stop. She’d watched him get on the bus. She always did, though afterward she’d second-guessed a thousand times. If she’d driven him to school, or if she’d kept him home, because hadn’t he been a sleepyhead that last wonderful, terrible morning?

      Six years had passed and yet the horror and grief never left. It was the not knowing that drove Julia Presley quietly mad. In those moments of solitude, especially right before sleep and like now, upon waking, the thoughts would come in rapid-fire succession before she had a chance to block them. She’d become adept at blocking.

      Most days she survived and some days she even thrived. But days like today were the worst. Michael’s birthday. He was still alive. She had to believe that. Yet, wondering who had him and what was happening or had happened was too hard to bear. But bear it she did, for what choice did she have? Someday, somewhere, someone would spot him in a crowd or he would simply walk free of his captors and come home. Such miracles still happened, and those children once lost but now found gave Julia hope.

      He would be fourteen today, no longer the wide-eyed little boy who hated baths and adored mud puddles. Was he tall and loose limbed like his father, and wouldn’t he be heartbroken to know his mom and dad had unraveled within a year without him? That he was the glue holding their ragged marriage together and that in his absence, they’d been unable to comfort each other? They’d laid blame where none was due, such a stupid reaction to a heinous crime. The only person at fault was the evil being who’d snatched a happy little boy from a peaceful town where nothing bad ever happened. And yet, she felt responsible. Mikey was, after all, her child to guard and guide and she’d failed in that essential role of motherhood.

      Dragging herself from beneath the ice-blue duvet, Julia reached first for the iPad on the nightstand. With a poke of a finger, she tapped open the Facebook page where Mikey’s bright eight-year-old face smiled out at her next to a computer-aged photo. Would he really look like this today?

      She trolled the comments, saw the handful of birthday wishes and closed the program with a sigh. No news. No sightings. Just like every day since she’d started the page with the help of a support group. Other mothers who waited for their children to come home. Most days she didn’t visit the forums for idle conversation. They depressed her, and Lord knew she couldn’t go back down that dark tunnel again.

      With a breathed plea for strength to get through another day, Julia dressed and dabbed makeup on the shadowy half-moons beneath her eyes. Though dawn had yet to break, she had to get up and get moving. She had guests to attend, breakfast to cook and a myriad other tasks to address. Keeping busy was important, soothing therapy. Culinary therapy, she termed her cooking obsession. If she worked herself into exhaustion, she could sleep without the oppressive dreams.

      She was thankful every day for the rather inexplicable purchase four years ago of Peach Orchard Inn, this big, old oddity of a Southern mansion, now a guesthouse. There was something benevolent about the two-story structure that had survived a Civil War and the century and a half since. The day Valery had dragged her out here “just to look,” the house had wrapped itself around her like a warm hug. Though cobwebs and dust had covered everything, her heart had leaped. For the first time in months—years—she’d felt something other than despair. This wonderful old bed-and-breakfast had, quite literally, saved her sanity. She’d yet to understand why. It simply had.

      She’d clung to her former home on Sage Street—Mikey’s home—too long, fearing her son would return and find her gone, but she was dying there. Depressed, barely able to get out of bed each morning, and some days she didn’t get up at all. Since a dead mother was not what she wanted her son to come home to, at her family’s urging Julia had sold the modern brick home and moved into a piece of history sorely in need of restoration. In that way, she and the house were the same.

      Everyone in Honey Ridge knew about Mikey’s disappearance, but most were Southern enough to speak of the loss only among themselves and never to her. She was left alone and they, along with her family, pretended that she was a normal person, an ordinary divorced businesswoman running a guest inn and clinging to history—her own and that of this antebellum house.

      She was stuck in the past, both in the distant and the near. Stuck. In freeze-frame for six years, waiting, unable to move forward, unwilling to give up that gossamer thread of hope that one day she’d awaken and Mikey’s disappearance would only have been a nightmare.

      Bingo, the aging Australian shepherd, rose from his rug at the foot of her bed. When Julia paused to give his blue-merle head a rub, she spotted an object on the floor where he’d slept. At first she thought it was a rock and bent to pick it up, puzzling to discover another smooth, round child’s marble. Not an ordinary, modern marble. This one was reddish in color, made of clay, a handmade antique like the others she’d discovered in the house.

      “Did you bring this in here, Bingo?” He was forever bringing her little gifts. “Better than the dead snake you brought last time.”

      She rolled the child’s toy in her palm, wondering. She and Valery had found a number of interesting and historic items during the ongoing remodel, each one adding another layer of mystery and history to the old inn. But the marbles were different. They showed up randomly, usually in a place she’d recently cleaned and always on a bad day. They spoke to her, comforted her, and wouldn’t Mama have a fit to hear that her unbalanced daughter was now communing with marbles.

      “She’d say I’ve lost my marbles.” Maybe she had.

      Grasping comfort where she could, Julia slipped the little clay ball into her pocket and started toward the kitchen.

      Bingo trotted by her side past the wide stairs that led from floor to floor. Though not as grand as the one in Gone with the Wind, the staircase had captivated Julia on sight. She imagined a nineteenth-century bride sweeping down these now burgundy carpeted stairs, one gloved hand on the gleaming oak banister as her heart canted toward her true love waiting next to the enormous marble fireplace in the parlor below.

      Fantasy, yes, like the comforting marbles, but a house like this allowed a certain imaginative license. Part of a Southern upbringing is to believe history lingers in walls and whispers from ancient oaks, and though she believed in so little these days, she believed that. This house was a living entity and Julia had carefully listened as she and Valery worked to create an inn worthy of a special trip to a small town in rural Tennessee. An inn where others might find peace even if the owner couldn’t.

      Sometimes, СКАЧАТЬ