The Memory House

“Who are you?” The words were breathy, harsh and out of character for a Southern hostess.

A frown formed a vee between the man’s Faustian black eyebrows. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You were crying.”

She realized then that her face was still wet. “I’m fine.” She swiped both hands across her cheeks in one quick motion. “Where did you come from?”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The road. My car broke down. You wouldn’t have any jumper cables, would you?”

“Sorry, no.”

He glanced toward the section of the peach orchard that ran parallel to the house. His shoulders lifted in a hopeless sigh.

“Could I use your phone?” He asked as if expecting a denial.

“Don’t you have a cell?”

His jaw flexed, hardened even more. His eyes cut to hers and just as quickly cut away. “No.”

Everyone had a cell phone these days. Where had this guy been? The moon?

She heard a slight noise from inside the kitchen and knew her guests had begun to stir.

“The phone is in the kitchen. Come in.” She turned, felt his eyes at her back as she reached for the screen door. With a silent move that could have been unsettling, he joined her, took hold of the door and held it open as she entered.

She wasn’t afraid of him. But even if he’d been an ax murderer, she’d not have been afraid. A person who was dead on the inside had no fear.

One of her frequent guests, a bespectacled sixtysomething Bob Oliver, stood at the counter helping himself to coffee. He and his wife had been here so often in the past two years, she let them have the run of the place and was glad they felt relaxed. That was the point of Peach Orchard Inn.

“Good morning, Bob,” she said. “You’re up with the birds.”

“I smelled your coffee.”

She managed a smile. “I’ll fix a carafe for Mattie too.”

“Later, maybe. Seven is too early for Mattie. When she retired from teaching she said she was never setting another alarm. And she hasn’t.”

“Can’t blame her for that,” Julia offered before turning toward the man who stood uncertainly beside the back door.

Before she could point the stranger toward the landline, Bob said in his usual candid manner, “Didn’t know you had a hired man now.”

Julia slanted the stranger a glance, wondering if he’d been insulted. His hard face remained impassive.

“Unfortunately, help, other than Valery, is still a pipe dream for Peach Orchard Inn. His car broke down up on the road.”

“Probably the battery,” the newcomer said, and then as if he’d been reprimanded for speaking too loudly, he looked down at his feet.

“Is that so? Maybe I can help.” The older man offered a hand. “Name’s Bob Oliver.”

The stranger looked at the outstretched hand for an extra beat—long enough to draw attention to the hesitation—before he reciprocated. “Eli Donovan. I’ll take you up on that, Mr. Oliver.”

“Call me Bob. Mr. Oliver sounds like a professor of physics—which I was for thirty years. Now, I’m just plain old Bob.” He chuckled and reached for the silver carafe, giving the plunger a push with the flat of one hand. “Julia here makes fine coffee.”

The stranger flicked a glance at her but said nothing. She should offer. Offering coffee was the hospitable thing to do. “Would you care for a cup?”

He swallowed, seemed troubled by the simple question. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

She poured another cup and handed him the aromatic brew. His fingers trembled the slightest bit, but he quickly wrapped them around the mug while Julia pretended not to notice.

What she did notice was the fatigue around his eyes, the sheer weariness of the man. She noticed, too, that he was fit and muscled, his hands clean but rough, as if he labored for a living. He wore no jewelry, not even a wedding ring, though why she would notice bothered her a little. Good-looking men were not necessarily decent human beings, and even if he was the nicest guy on the planet, she was too empty to be interested.

“The telephone is over there if you still want to make a call.” She motioned to the landline on the brown granite counter and moved to check the casserole.

Mr. Oliver waved her off. “No need. I have jumper cables in my trunk. Never make a road trip without them.”

The stranger’s quick eyes moved from her to Mr. Oliver as if assessing both and wondering what to make of their friendliness. He was like a caged panther, dark and wary and dangerous.

“We’ll drive my car up there,” Bob said. “Give you a jump and have you on the road in a jiffy.”

“Thanks.” Eli Donovan took a brief sip of coffee and moved to set the still-full mug on the counter.

“Take the coffee with you.” Julia gestured between the two men. “Both of you.”

Eli hesitated. “Your cup…”

“Is returnable.”

“Oh. Thanks.” The word was rusty in his throat, as if he didn’t say it often. In fact, all his words were rusty, careful.

Bob clapped him on the shoulder. Julia couldn’t help noticing the way Eli tensed. “Today’s your lucky day, Eli. Good coffee from a pretty lady and a man who never leaves home without tools. My car’s parked around back. Ready when you are.”

“I’m ready.”

From the corner of her eye, Julia watched the two men exit her kitchen, their feet thudding against the board veranda. Eli carefully balanced his coffee, sipping as he walked, and Julia could hear Mr. Oliver, in his perky professor voice, chattering away while the other man remained silent.

Bingo trotted around the gravel walkway behind the pair, happy to have a purpose, abandoning his mistress to the quiet smells of her kitchen.

Julia wiped her hands on a peach-imprinted dish towel and went to the door, watching as Bob Oliver and Eli Donovan disappeared around the corner of the porch.

What a strange morning. Another marble from nowhere, and now a disturbing stranger. Both on Mikey’s birthday.

She reached into her pocket, withdrew the marble and rolled an index finger over the smooth clay. Somewhere in her distant memory, a little boy laughed.

3 (#ulink_7ad32366-1628-56ab-a196-e28eb1286a31)

“What’s past is prologue…”

—William Shakespeare

Peach Orchard Farm