The souls of lost lake, p.34
The Souls of Lost Lake, page 34
“Redneck Harriet.” Wren would be happy never to see that awful doll again. To think that Pippin had written her name on its foot and given it to Jasmine as a play toy! The poor kid would probably have nightmares the rest of her life about creepy old dolls with human hair.
“How did you find us? How’d you know to look in that region of the forest?”
Eddie blew out a huge breath. “Man, you’ll never believe it.”
Wren closed her eyes for a moment. “Nothing would surprise me.” She’d already told the police about Pippin’s involvement. But she hadn’t even broached the full depth of his motives, and she was still perplexed as to what had caused him to take Jasmine so many years after their mom’s death.
She did know, thanks to an update from Troy, that the police had apprehended Pippin. They’d found him in the basement of the Blythe home—apparently he’d been putting together a pack of items. It hadn’t appeared his intention was to leave with Wren and Jasmine. Rather, he’d been intending something far less palatable.
Eddie’s upcoming explanation was halted as another person knocked lightly on the glass door. Wayne Sanderson. He poked his head in.
“I’m so sorry. I had to sneak in past the nurses. They’re like bulldogs.”
“What do you need?” Eddie asked for Wren. He must have felt protective, even against Wayne, who was remarkably harmless in the whole thing. Eddie rose to his feet anyway and positioned himself beside Wren’s bed.
Wayne hesitated. He looked past Eddie to Wren. “I—this is probably a bad time, but . . .”
Wren waited. Wayne was pretty much the king of bad timing, so she might as well give him that allowance.
Wayne hefted a deep breath. “I need to apologize. Profusely.”
“Why?” Wren felt another wave of exhaustion make the room spin. She noticed Eddie roll his wrist in a motion for Wayne to hurry up and explain.
“The woman in the woods.”
“Ava Coons?” Wren asked.
“No. Her name is Isla.” The admission was quiet, followed by, “Isla Nesbitt.”
“Nesbitt?” Eddie interrupted. “Like Trina Nesbitt?”
Wayne looked between them, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Isla is my sister. She’s Trina’s grandmother. She’s not been the same since Trina disappeared. She knew—knew her son-in-law didn’t take Trina, not like her daughter and the police were convinced. Especially when she got word four years ago that he’d died and there was no trace of Trina.”
“Next you’ll tell me she’s related to Ava Coons.” Wren was having difficulty keeping up. She was getting chilled again as the blanket was losing its warmth.
Wayne laughed hesitantly. “No. No, she’s not. In fact, Ava Coons left these parts decades ago. Story says she either vanished into the woods or moved. Most of us like to opt for the vanishing part because it’s . . . well, it’s more interesting. Anyway, Isla has spent years—years—looking for Trina in those woods. Near Lost Lake. That the search party found Trina, well, it crushed her.”
“She never came forward with any of this.” Eddie’s observation echoed Wren’s thoughts.
“No.” Wayne shook his head and sighed. “And that’s been my error in judgment, I’m afraid. Isla—she’s gone downhill since Trina disappeared. I-I needed to protect her—or felt like I did. So I tried to be her liaison of sorts. With the police. Keeping her uninvolved and being her voice. Until I found out—well, I’m sorry, I had no idea what Isla was doing. Today, she told me that she’d seen where Jasmine was, and that she’d left you information in hopes you’d link Jasmine to Ava Coons’s place, since that’s where Jasmine was first being held.”
“Before Pippin moved her because of the search party?” Eddie asked.
Wayne nodded. “Exactly. Then she started researching on her own. At the library. About Pippin.”
“So she knew all along it was Pippin who had Jasmine?” Eddie’s question was barbed.
Wren reached out and touched his arm.
“No, no, it’s okay.” Wayne shook his head. “She was suspicious of him. She’d seen him in the woods. She’d seen evidence of Jasmine being at the cabin, but hadn’t seen Jasmine herself. So Isla was putting pieces together, but you know how it is. The police hadn’t done anything—at least in Isla’s mind—to find Trina. Why would they believe her theories about Pippin—without proof?”
“She must have been desperate.” Wren remembered her standing in the Markhams’ driveway. Chasing her in the forest. “Why didn’t she just talk to me? Why the cryptic notes at night—or running away?”
“She doesn’t trust many people anymore.” Regret etched itself across Wayne’s face. “When people get lost, taken, or just disappear—when there’s no answers—we all respond differently. Some of us can’t process things but through our own muddled ways. And she’s not . . . she struggles with mental illness. It comes and goes, and she’s, well—” Wayne cleared his throat—“earlier today, she told me what she’d done. How she tried to help you connect it all together. That she’d found the newspaper article about you as a missing child when she was running searches on Pippin—the Blythes—and found out they’d come from Stanford, California. She started putting pieces together and thought—wasn’t sure—but she thought that baby might be you. Then Jasmine was tied to Pippin. You were tied to Pippin. Trina was tied to Pippin. That’s when I called the police.”
Wren’s eyes slid shut.
Wayne hesitated. “For what it’s worth,” he explained honestly, “Isla didn’t know where Pippin was keeping Jasmine. She was searching—all this time too. He had Jasmine well-hidden after he moved her from Lost Lake.”
“So it was Pippin who told you all where to look for us?” Wren opened her eyes to meet Wayne’s direct gaze. She looked to Eddie.
“Yes.” It was Eddie who answered then. “Pippin didn’t bother to try to hide anything once the police arrested him.”
“Why Jasmine?” Wren whispered, tears crowding her throat.
Eddie’s reaction was empathetic. “It’s been ten years.” Eddie rubbed his palm over her arm, careful to avoid the wounds on her wrists. “Ten years since your mom passed. It must have revived his need to take care of her. With a girl—to make everything okay. It’s why he took Trina. When she didn’t survive . . . well, a decade anniversary of her death acted as a trigger.”
Wren laid her head back on the pillow. “Mom. He always looked out for Mom.”
Eddie and Wayne exchanged looks, but it was Wayne who responded. “We’re all lost in our own ways. Some of us just hide when we shouldn’t. We hide in our grief, in our minds, in our pain . . . in the woods, like Isla . . . or in a story, like Ava Coons.”
48
Ava
He hadn’t explained who Emmaline was. It had been apparent that Noah wasn’t ready. A few days later, with her body having caught up with rest, and her throat showing green-and-yellow bruising from Widower Frisk’s attempt to strangle her, Ava was back in front of the general store, perched on a barrel. She sucked on a peppermint stick, only this time she stared into the distance at the white steeple of the church. Living with Hanny had been a blessing, sure, but it didn’t feel like home. The parsonage didn’t feel like home. The old Coons cabin ruins? Even home didn’t feel like home.
A few townsfolk skirted by her, eyeing her out of the corners of their eyes. Yep. She was still that questionable Coons girl, prob’ly up to no good. Takin’ a shine to the preacher, now that didn’t sit well either. ’Course, they didn’t know that Noah had hardly seen her of late, and truth be told, sitting on top of the barrel sucking that peppermint stick, Ava was hurtin’.
Sarah Sanderson had come and gone into the general store. She’d walked past Ava with her chin tilted so high, if it rained, she’d drown. Lofty princess. She knew she’d started the gossip that had wound up with two folks dead. She’d known it that day Ava had sat at her kitchen table. Prob’ly felt some guilt, which was why she’d been willing to stay out of things. Ava wondered if Sarah had been right. If, in another life, they could’ve been friends. But then Ava’d figured that most women weren’t friendly. Not really. They all spat and hissed behind each other’s backs instead of being a place each other could find warm welcome and belonging. Seemed like the world was a cow pie short of an all-out mess. People just makin’ up stories to suit themselves while ruining lives along the way.
“Ava Coons.” The store owner stuck his head out. “Got a letter for you.” His brother was the mail carrier, so Ava assumed that in small-town fashion, her letter had been dropped inside the mercantile when the mail carrier had seen her perched on the barrel.
She took it. Turned it over.
Emmaline.
Ava ripped into it with a vengeance. She’d not expected the woman to write to her.
Dear Miss Coons,
Your letter came as quite the surprise to me. Indeed, it spawned hope within me. I had thought it likely my brother Noah never spoke of me, nor received my letter.
Brother? Ava stopped, looked up as someone walked past, then dropped her gaze to the letter again.
We had a falling-out a few years ago. It was my doing, I’m afraid, and while I am happy now, I was a miserable wretch of a girl then. Noah raised me after our parents died. I expressed my gratitude to him by falling in love with a questionable young man and, to my shame, became with child. While I gave the child birth, I’m afraid I broke my brother’s heart when, in secret, I gave my baby to be adopted by a couple to whom we have no alliance or knowledge. The agency assures me the child is safe, but Noah—sweet brother of mine—blames himself as well as me. You see, shortly after I became with child, he banished me from our home. He would not speak to me. When he finally reached out to offer forgiveness, I’d already given my baby into another’s care. Noah could not forgive himself, I’m afraid. Perhaps he cannot forgive me either.
Miss Coons, Noah is a good man who takes others as his personal responsibility. He shows grace where none is found and yet gives none upon himself. If you could be the healing balm of Christ to his soul, reassure him I am well and happily married now. I would love to embrace him again one day.
With much regard,
Emmaline
Ava plumb near fell off the barrel.
Wren
Wren sat in an overstuffed chair in the corner of Patty Markham’s bedroom. Her knees pulled up to her chest, a red down comforter wrapped around her, she balanced a mug of coffee and stared at the empty spot where Patty’s hospital bed had been. Movement in the doorway snagged her attention.
“Hey.” It was Eddie.
“Hey,” she responded.
He moved into the room, hands in his pockets, and stared at the same spot. “Hard to believe she’s been gone a month already.”
“You okay?” Wren wasn’t, but she would not put herself before Eddie.
“Yeah.” His nod was reassuring. “Yeah, I’m good.” A soft smile. “Mom wouldn’t have wanted me to focus on her not being with us. That’s why she wanted that big celebration of life later this summer. Worship music. You know Mom.”
Wren nodded. Yes. It was just like Patty. She’d always belonged. Always been confident. Always been sure of her place in the world, but also in eternity. But oh, she ached—Wren ached—to confide in her.
The police had arrested Pippin the night they’d found Wren and Jasmine. The following day, after word broke about Wren’s kidnapping, they’d arrested Tristan Blythe as well. She was going to have to confront her dad one of these days. See her brother again. There were going to be investigations, trials, and then there was the whole other nuance to think about. The Johnson family. Her family. People she’d never met, never known, who had suffered for twenty-six years in fear their baby girl was dead. But Wren wasn’t their baby girl. She wasn’t Emily Johnson. She was Arwen Blythe. Regardless of how it’d developed. Worse than a sordid classic tale of rings and Orcs. She was Tristan Blythe’s “precious.” She was the ring that had held her family together—all for the sake of saving her mother and, in keeping her, inadvertently protecting Pippin’s psychopathic traits.
Eddie approached her, sitting down on the arm of the chair. He knew she and Troy had ended their relationship, but he’d said nothing, done nothing, to change theirs. But Wren knew she couldn’t face the next few months if Eddie wasn’t with her. She might not have the murderous background tale of Ava Coons, but she could relate to what Wayne had said that night in the hospital. There were many lost people in the world. Wren wanted to be found.
“So,” Eddie began, perched beside her, “I’m thinking we take Redneck Harriet back to the Coons cabin.”
Wren eyed him. “You can put her in the trash compactor.”
“Well, actually the police still have her, but someday it would be nice to return her to Ava.”
“You’re still sentimental over that ugly thing?” Wren stared incredulously at Eddie.
He smiled. In his way, he was handsome. His crooked nose, blond ombré hair, whiskers, and average brown eyes. No, he wasn’t handsome. He was striking. He was . . . she wanted him to be hers.
“Listen . . .” Eddie twisted on the arm of the chair. His eyes bored into hers with an intensity she wasn’t accustomed to. “I know we’ve always been pals—friends—like family.”
Wren waited, afraid even a single blink would ruin the moment.
“Mom loved you like her own daughter.”
Wren’s eyes burned.
“And Dad—he thinks you’re great.”
Wren smiled.
Eddie cleared his throat. “I’ve gotten used to you, Wren.”
The most romantic words she’d ever heard. Wren’s eyes filled.
Eddie reached out and flicked a tendril of her hair from her cheek. “I’ve gotten so used to you, it just about drove me crazy when you were with Troy. I realized if that went somewhere, we’d be . . . well, over. At least the Eddie and Wren I’m used to.”
Wren couldn’t say anything.
“I’ve just . . . gotten used to you,” Eddie stumbled to explain. He wasn’t a man of words.
“I’ve gotten used to you too,” Wren whispered.
The air was threaded with sparks. She’d never had sparks with Eddie before. Her mind quickly replayed the days when they were kids and came running into Patty’s kitchen with muddy shoes. She’d half holler at them to get out, all while setting fresh cookies on a plate for them. She remembered the time Eddie had told her to “suck it up” when one of her high-school boyfriends had broken up with her—probably for the same reason as Troy had—seeing what she and Eddie couldn’t see about themselves. She recalled the nights Eddie would help her recover from her nightmares. The ones that haunted her—the ones that made more sense now.
He leaned toward her, and Wren stilled. Her heart had stopped. She knew it had. She was surprised she was still conscious. Eddie paused a few inches away.
“I’d like to keep getting used to you,” he mumbled.
“Me too” was all she could manage.
He kissed her then. It was different. It was new. A thousand butterflies took flight inside Wren. She had never once—never ever—never—okay, she had to be honest, deep down she’d always dreamed of this. She’d just never admitted it to herself, let alone to the rest of the world who already knew it.
Eddie slid from the chair arm, and they squeezed together on the seat. Wren shifted until she half sat on his lap. She swung the comforter out and over him, and they snuggled there for a long moment. Quiet. Together. In the legacy of Patty, of her faith, and of the home she had nurtured.
Wren couldn’t extinguish her smile or keep herself from looking toward the ceiling as if she could see through to heaven. She’d been found. In so many ways, Arwen Blythe had been found.
Someone cleared his throat in the doorway. Eddie and Wren both looked up to see Gary. His grin was reflective, and he chuckled. “It’s about time.”
Ava
“Your sister?” Ava rounded the corner into Noah’s church office.
Startled, he looked up from his studies, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Glasses? When did he ever wear glasses before?
“What?” He was bewildered. Well, sure he was!
Ava planted her hands at her waist. “When were you goin’ to tell me Emmaline is your sister?”
Noah dropped his gaze to the Bible splayed on his desk.
Ava stomped forward and laid her palm on it, making Noah look up at her. She raised an eyebrow. “She wrote me, you know. Sent me a letter.”
“What!” Noah’s eyes widened, and sparked, and . . . shucks, they were already ablaze.
“Sure. And she said you give everyone grace but yourself.”
“You don’t understand, Ava.” Noah pushed her hand off his Bible.
She slapped it back. “Don’t ‘You don’t understand’ me, Preacher Pritchard of Tempter’s Creek Church. You and your sermons and your righteous indignation that no one should blame me for nothin’, and you sit here blamin’ yourself over what happened to Emmaline?”
“Ava—”
“No. I’m not allowin’ it.” Ava pulled her hand back and rounded the desk.
Bewildered, Noah drew back as she approached. Brazenly, she grabbed his tie and yanked on it, forcing Noah to stumble to his feet. She pulled his face down until it was almost touching hers.
“I may not have killed no one in my lifetime, but I sure as shootin’ was never all that shy either. And I can tell you what you’re goin’ to do, Preacher. You’re goin’ to write that sister of yours you’ve been pinin’ after and fix that. Once that’s done, you’re goin’ to get a train ticket home and get yourself out of Tempter’s Creek back to where you belong. With your family.”
She released his tie, flipping it so its ends lay over his shoulder.
“You’ve no right to—”
“I’ve every right!” Ava slapped him lightly on his shoulder. “You saved me, Noah. You did what no one ever did before. You saw me, for me. You cared. You fought for me. It’s time someone does that for you. An’ it won’t be all that hard, ’cause Emmaline is pretty plumb set on getting things worked out.”
