Janice Kay - One Frosty Night

“Does that mean you intend to sell the business, too?” she asked. The one she’d thrown herself heart and soul into revitalizing?

“I don’t know. I can’t expect you to run it forever.”

“Apparently you have made up your mind.”

“You sound mad.”

“A little taken aback,” she said truthfully. “When do you want me to move out?”

Her mother’s expression changed, showing a hint of shock and some vulnerability. “But...you know it’s going to take time to make decisions about everything we have. I hoped you’d be willing to help.”

This had been a really lousy few months. Mom and Dad suddenly, overnight, refusing to talk to each other. The house seething with everything they wouldn’t say aloud, at least within Olivia’s hearing. Dad’s face, tinted blue. The oxygen tank kept beside the big chair in the den. The slow way he moved, struggling for breath. The shock of Marsha Connelly finding a teenage girl frozen to death in the woods. Dad insisting on going to the funeral despite his fragile health. Mom’s angry absence obvious to anyone paying attention.

And then Olivia waking up in the morning to her mother telling her Dad had died sometime in the night. Mom didn’t know when, because she had been sleeping in the guest bedroom, which meant he’d been alone.

Another funeral, held only eight days later.

Olivia had been hanging on by her fingernails since.

Those same fingernails were biting into her thighs right now. Yes, Mom, I am mad.

“I don’t know what to say.” She sounded a thousand times calmer than she felt. “You’ve hardly spoken to me in weeks. You don’t care about the business. I’m not so sure you care about Dad dying. Now you’re rejecting everything that represents our family and my childhood.” She blew out a breath. “What do you expect me to say? Gee, Mom, that sounds like fun. Let’s dig right in. How about a garage sale? Ooh, I love garage sales.”

Marian Bowen sat so utterly still, she looked like a wax effigy. Only her eyes were alive, with a whole lot more than a hint of shock now. Apparently Olivia had betrayed more of her own pain and anger than she’d realized. In fact, out of the corner of her eyes she could see that other diners had turned to look. And, oh God, the waitress was bearing down on them with a tray holding their entrees. Bad time to jump up and say, “I’m not in the mood for lunch.”

Instead she kept her mouth shut until the waitress had come and gone again, probably wondering why neither woman so much as glanced at her, forget thanking her.

Then she said, “We need to talk about this later,” and reached for her fork. She wasn’t sure she could so much as put a bite in her mouth, but she could pretend.

* * *

BEN HOVIK DIDN’T know what had possessed him to take a long detour by the cemetery.

Until a few weeks ago, he hadn’t given it a thought. Growing up in Crescent Creek, he’d been as oblivious as any child was to the reality of death. Yeah, Grandma Everson was buried there, but he hardly remembered her. However, after the two recent funerals, the cemetery held a grim fascination to him.

He felt good about the first funeral. Not the death, of course, because that still left him stunned. How was it possible that a kid no more than sixteen had been too sick or injured or just plain scared to seek help on a freezing cold night? Why had she wandered so far into the woods, lacking even a coat? Then just lay down and died, like an animal that had lost hope?

And how was it that a girl that age could go missing with, apparently, no one who cared enough to be looking for her? The police had been unable to identify her, despite nationwide interest in her life and death. She was entered in missing persons databases that could be accessed by law enforcement from any agency. A drawing of her face had appeared in newspapers, on Seattle television news and even on the internet. There’d been calls, tips; none led anywhere.

The fact that the community had come together to pay for her burial was the part he did feel good about. It saddened him that she’d become theirs too late, when all they could do for her was give her a headstone, but at least they’d done that much.

Having Charles Bowen die so soon after Jane Doe, that hit hard, too. Ben had gone to his funeral because he’d known Mr. Bowen his whole life and had once loved Olivia Bowen. It had been all he could do to see her grief and not be able to do more than shake her hand at the end of the service and murmur condolences, the same way everyone else was. To see how blindly she looked at him, as if he were a stranger.

That was the moment when he’d given up.

His decision to apply for the job of principal at Crescent Creek High School, a return to his hometown, had awakened the seed of hope that he would see Olivia. That maybe they could reconnect.

The first time he saw her after the gap of years had been like a hard punch to his belly. She was only home on a brief visit that time, but she must have gone into work with her dad, because when Ben walked into the hardware store, Olivia was mixing paint and laughing at something a customer said. And, damn, she was even more beautiful than she’d been when he’d so stupidly broken up with her. At five foot ten, Olivia had gotten her height from her dad. That and her natural grace had made her a star on the girl’s basketball team in their small high school league. She still had the most amazing legs he’d ever seen—long, slim, but strong. And, man, he knew what it felt like to have those legs wrapped around his waist.

Thick, shimmering hair the color of melted caramel was from her mother, as were those hazel eyes, a complex of colors that changed depending on the light or what she was wearing.

He had stood, stupefied, a few feet inside the hardware store, seeing only her. Inevitably, she’d turned and seen him. Her eyes had widened; there had been a flash of something remarkably intense, then...nothing but a pleasant, slightly puzzled smile. “Ben. Goodness. It’s been forever. Do you need some help?”

Whatever that intense something was had kept his hope alive, even though she wasn’t receptive on the few occasions he managed to meet up with her during her visits home. When she had moved in with her parents ten months ago, to take over her dad’s business, he’d thought, Now I have a chance.

But apparently he’d been fooling himself, because she kept treating him like the merest acquaintance, not someone who’d once been a friend, never mind her high school boyfriend and first lover.

His fault, he knew, but still he kept thinking—

Didn’t matter. It was time he quit thinking about Olivia. Unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life alone, maybe he should start noticing other women. Much to his mother’s dismay, he hadn’t so much as gone on a date in the two and a half years since he’d come home to Crescent Creek with his stepson.

I should change that.

He gave a grunt of unhappiness and took one more look at the cemetery in his rearview mirror. A fresh bed of snow covered the graves, new and old. Only the headstones showed. The one he pictured most vividly said, “Jane Doe, Much Mourned,” and gave the date of the girl’s death.

Usually he ate at his desk or in the cafeteria with the kids. The one student he stayed far away from was his stepson. Most students likely knew Carson’s dad was principal, but the two didn’t share a last name, and Ben figured it was just as well not to remind anyone. Today Ben had felt the need to get away. Ever since Marsha Connelly had found the girl dead, he’d felt unsettled. No, that was putting it too mildly. He’d felt a gathering sense of foreboding, as if the one tragedy was a harbinger of worse to come. His worry increased with the second death following so soon, even if it was unrelated. He didn’t like the atmosphere at school. Sure, he’d expect kids to be disturbed about the death of a girl their age, but— This felt like more. Not whispers, he wasn’t hearing those. More like silence, unnatural for hormone-driven teenagers. Especially such sustained silence.