"And quit giving me that damn look. I don't need your pity," he adds.
Just like that, Grandpa is one hundred percent again.
We load the boat and stretch our muscles before taking off for a night in the bog. Moonlight leaps and dances in our wake. Sludgy water foams at the shore. A scattering of leaf litter floats on the surface like tiny stained spots. The swamp, rimmed with tall marsh grass, is a perfect place for someone to hide.
With the last fading bit of sun, night begins to wrap around me. I feel dampness on my skin, slick sweat at my hairline, and a rough metal seat underneath me.
Charlotte watches the trees.
"Did you see that?" she asks.
I peer at the spot she indicates, through narrow reeds, but I see nothing.
We float closer to the edge of the water. Plumes of gnats hang like a barrier between us and solid ground. That's when my beam catches sight of something.
"Look here," I say. "The branches are disturbed."
We know enough of the swamp to tell when a disturbance has been made by human or animal.
"Not animal," Charlotte comments.
We coast farther up.
"And here," Charlotte says. "The markings on that tree. What do you think they mean?"
Three lines are etched in, as though someone scraped a bag or pack against it.
We look for more signs, and we find them. Footprints. Broken branches. Someone has been here. The tracks are clearly fresh.
They can't be from Willow or her family. They were gathered in their living room, watching a movie, when we left. I saw through the open curtains.
No matter how hard we search for the next hour, nothing turns up but animal bones and alligator backs.
As we near home, and the sky has gone blue-black, Charlotte holds out her hand and whispers, "There's something out there." She leans forward, scanning the shore. "Something's close."
I eye the scenery, our property, Old Lady Bell's property. I see nothing unusual. Just the swamp under moonlight.
"What's there?" Grandpa asks.
"A shadow," Charlotte replies.
Either she's seeing things or her eyes pick up what mine cannot. I shine the flashlight around. Nothing. I swing the beam around more. My hand freezes. I suck in a breath. Charlotte locks onto my face. I think I see it, but it's too dark to know for sure. There are too many shadows.
"See something?" Grandpa whispers.
The swamp is deadly still.
"Maybe," I answer.
I have the very distinct feeling that someone is watching us.
23
Willow
The Wizard of Oz plays on Gran's static television. She loves it and cannot be persuaded to watch anything modern. I pass the heaping bowl of popcorn to her. Gran grabs a handful and passes it back to me. I pretend not to notice when her hands shake and she drops kernels on the ground. Mom and Dad share a separate bowl.
"Willow, why do you not have a nice pair of sparkly shoes like that Dorothy?" Gran asks.
I look at her in horror. "Because that would be social suicide."
"That dress is nice, too," she says. "I have an old tablecloth with a similar pattern. I could sew it up pretty for you."
"You're kidding," I reply.
She doesn't confirm or deny it.
The movie ends, and Gran insists I help her clean the kitchen. I don't mind, though. I like time with her. And the truth is, Gran is getting too old to do it all, which is why we moved here in the first place-to help her keep the place tidy, make sure she's eating right, and to keep her from getting lonely in her old age. God forbid if something happened to her-like a fall-and no one was here to help.
"You still talking to that damn hellion next door?" Gran asks as I stand at the sink to soap the plates she hands me.
"Mother," Dad says from the doorway.
"Don't you start with me about the cursing or I'll say every bad word I can think of right here and now, and I won't be quiet about it."
Dad sighs but lets it go. I shoot him a smile, and he shrugs as if to say, What are we going to do about her?
Mom watches our interaction, attempting to hide a laugh behind her glass of sweet tea.
"His name is Beau," I tell Gran.
Beau admitted that his heart is guarded. He hurts girls' feelings before they ever have a chance to hurt his, and so he thinks he's safe from ever caring deeply. But there was heart in the way he touched me. In his lips on mine.
Gran frowns. "What the hell are you grinning about?"
It takes me a moment to find my voice. "Nothing."
"I'm taking your smile as a ‘yes' to my previous question, Willow Mae. You're still seeing him. I know it. When will you listen to me? You don't know what you're getting yourself into."
Actually, I think I do.
"Tell me, then." I place the clean dishes on the rack. They leave water marks on the counter. "Tell me why you hate the Cadwells."
I need to hear what Gran has hiding in the cobwebs of her mind.
I pay careful attention to the wrinkles carved into her face. How much time she's had and how much wisdom must have come from that time. I see them deepen slightly as she frowns.
"Tell me what it is about them that upsets you."
"That family has a pull, Willow. I know you feel it."
I do. I can't deny it. I feel it in my throat every time I see Beau, the way I can hardly swallow. I should tell Gran that I feel it, but I don't.
"Give me a good reason to walk away," I say.
"Tell me if you feel it," she replies, ignoring me.
"Did you feel it for Mr. Cadwell?" I ask. "That's what I've heard. I heard he broke your heart once, and now you hate to see him. You want me to hate Beau, too, don't you?"
Gran's face falls, and I instantly regret my words.
"Willow," Mom warns.
Gran hobbles up to me, so close that her nose nearly touches mine.
"Let me tell you something, girl," she says in a calculated tone. "You think you can handle what that boy will do to your heart, but you're wrong. You'll never be the same. Not ever."
And with that, Gran leaves the room, goes upstairs, and shuts her door.
Well, hell.
"She's just grumpy in her old age," Dad reassures me. He grabs a rag and begins wiping the table and counters. "She doesn't mean anything by it. Maybe you're right that Mr. Cadwell broke her heart once. It would explain a lot. Not that she's ever admitted so to me."
Mom stands at my back and wraps her arms around my waist. She rests her chin on my shoulder. "You can see the boy as long as you want. Don't listen to her."
I relax in Mom's arms the way I always do. The way autumn brings colorful leaves and pumpkin spice and scarecrows. The way wreaths and lights and hot cocoa go with Christmastime. The way the swamp is always listening, a place to tell your problems and secrets. Mom's hugs are natural and warm, a part of everything I know.
I turn around and hug her back.
"Thanks," I whisper.
I finish the dishes. My eyes slip to the stairs. I can't help but wonder what exactly Gran is hiding from me. And what has her thinking I need protecting from Beau.
I finish cleaning the kitchen and begin to make my way upstairs to Gran's room. I find her at her desk, photo album open. She sighs when she sees me in the doorway.
"I'm sorry," I say.
She waves me in.
"If you want to know the answers, they're in here." She glances at the album.
I want to reach for it, but I'm not sure if I should, sensing that whatever is in there is deeply personal.
"Go on," she says, hand fluttering to the book. Her old fingers curl slightly, though she holds nothing in them. "Look already."
I sit on Gran's bed and open the book. Black-and-white photographs stare back at me, four to a page. I know right away that they're of a younger Gran. The first is of her-hair tied back with a bandanna, smirk on her face-standing in front of an old car. Well, possibly new then. Second is of Gran with a girlfriend, both their heads tilted back, laughing at who knows what. Third is of Gran at the pool. I smile. She was a knockout. Fourth is of her up a tree, a dog waiting at the roots.
I continue to flip through the pages, Gran in various places and poses, until I get to one that makes me stall.
"Yes," she says. "That's who you think it is."
"Mr. Cadwell?" I ask.
Beau's grandpa.
"You were right. We were an item," she says.
I trace a finger over the clear plastic that covers the aged photo. The corners have faded, and I'm afraid with enough time the entire square might erase completely.
Mr. Cadwell is handsome. Beyond handsome. Just like Beau.
I turn a page. And another. And another. His face is everywhere.
"There are several pictures of you and him together."
"Yes," Gran replies.
I swear she almost grins.
"He pursued me. Said I was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Little ol' naive me believed him, too."
I flip to another page. Gran and Mr. Cadwell are in a boat in the bog. They look only a few years older than I am now.