Six weeks earlier...
Denson, Virginia
THE LANE LEADING
to the property was overgrown, the low-hanging limbs scratching the top of my truck. The screeches of the branches reminded me of a horror film, calling forth visions of claws scraping over bare metal and working wonders on my already frayed nerves.
To someone seeing the place for the first time, the lane would probably be beautiful. Wisteria-laden branches formed a canopy of sorts that was highlighted by fragrant honeysuckle. I remembered that smell, used to love it. Now it's a sickly sweet reminder of the past, remembered pain wafting through the truck's windows on the breeze.
This is bullshit. I should have just refused the job.
What would Gran have done if I had? She was eighty freaking years old and weighed less than a hundred pounds.
I gave Spencer pure hell when he told me he'd double-booked jobs just to get her off his back.
We had never done simultaneous jobs. Ever. Brant and I always worked together on builds, and Spencer's creative scheduling meant we'd be working separately. I was not happy with the situation and made sure he knew it.
His excuse?
"It's Gran, Clay. How would you have handled it? You would have done the same thing I did and we both know it. Gran always gets her way."
Much as I'd wanted to argue, I couldn't. He was right.
She was determined and there was no reasoning with her.
I'd even tried to call her to reason with her, convince her to use another company or reconsider the project altogether. That had gone about as well as one would expect.
She'd chided me for asking how she was doing, claiming the tone of my voice when I asked made her feel like I expected to hear stories of arthritic joints and liver spots when she was perfectly fine. Her oft-used mantra was 'any day spent on this side of the dirt is a good damn day'.
Before I could even begin my gentle prodding she'd cut me off saying she was on her way out to the beach with her friends. My whole body had shuddered when she said, "We're going to soak up some sun and try not to get sand in our wrinkles. I can't be late because it's my turn to bring the booze and Edna gets pissy if she has to wait. Last week at poker night, we ran out of vodka and she raided Betty's cabinets. The dumbass drank two bottles of vanilla extract before she realized it was the non-alcoholic imitation stuff." She clicked her tongue ruefully.
I was still cringing when she made a kissing sound and hung up.
Typical Gran, strategically avoiding the issue.
Which landed me smack in the middle of my own personal hell.
Denson.
Without even the consolation of having my regular build crew or partner to soften the overwhelming sense of isolation.
Brant was off to Charleston to handle an enormous project on his own, taking our usual crews with him. The plan was to check in with one another often, reserving time for at least one strategy session a week using whatever means necessary whether it be Facetime, Skype, or — gasp — an actual fucking phone call. Aside from needing to keep appraised of each other's progress, we also had to put in time designing upcoming jobs, which would probably end up being a never ending string of emails and file shares until we both signed off on them.
It was going to be a long ass summer.
I grunted in annoyance at the mere thought of it, a death grip on the steering wheel.
Dammit, I'd rather be any-fucking-where else than here.
I finally emerged from the lane onto the freshly cleared driveway, keeping my eyes trained on anything except the dilapidated house to my right. Not the best strategy given that I was left to stare at the lake path, which occupied the far left corner of the property's back yard.
Screwed either way.
I parked alongside the house, keeping it in my peripheral vision as I absently flipped off the air conditioning. I had a sudden chill, goosebumps crawling across my flesh.
I sat there for a beat, forcing myself to shift into business mode so I could look at the place with objectivity.
The past is gone. The damage is done. Focus forward.
When I was moderately sure I could manage, I climbed from my truck and turned an assessing eye on my surroundings. The house had never been completed, twenty years of decay causing it to look haggard and spectral. The porch sloped precariously toward sagging stairs, the weathered roof sloping in the same direction and looking about as welcoming as the wide open jaws of a great white shark.
If there was anything to be recovered from that house, I'd be surprised. But I'd leave it to the salvage crew to decide. I wasn't about to set foot in that place.
I shuffled around the property for a while, checking out the side yard and large field that was once horse pasture. Anything to avoid that lake path.
I checked my watch and frowned. The assistant Spencer hired was supposed to be meeting me here to walk the property and give me the keys to the rental house I'd be staying in for the duration of the build. She wasn't due for half an hour, which gave me no excuse not to finish my inspection before her arrival.
Dammit.
According to Spencer, he'd met her when seeking recommendations for contractors in the area. With our usual crews working in Charleston for the summer with Brant, we were in need of qualified crews for the Denson job. Spencer had decided to inquire with the local property manager and see who they used for maintenance and renovations.
Instead of the realtor who owned the place, he'd found Alison Walker who was filling in while the owner was tending to a sick spouse. She offered to help research the local contractors and Spencer was so impressed with her findings that he offered her the job as part-time assistant on the project.
Apparently, the realty office was slow and she was going out of her mind sitting around there all day so she agreed to split her time between there and the build. I was just relieved he found someone on such short notice.
Though I hadn't met her, Spencer assured me that she would be a more than adequate assistant. She was grossly over-qualified for the job according to her résumé. Though she was currently in Denson temping at the realty office, her actual job was as CMO for a major D.C. marketing firm. The title itself was enough to land her the menial position as my assistant, no references required.
Pair that with the fact that she'd taken a leave of absence to come to the boonies and help out a friend... Spencer was beyond impressed, as was I.
A creaking sound off to my right startled me out of my musings; the sound of a house in its death throes.
I blew out a breath and forced one foot in front of the other until I was at the far left corner of the yard, pushing myself to get the unpleasantness over with before she arrived and found me dawdling there like a chickenshit.
I looked toward the lake path, and just as I anticipated, the memory of my grandmother's last trip here overwhelmed my mind, fighting past the carefully erected barricade that had held it back for so many years.
The most gut-wrenching thing I'd ever witnessed played out before my eyes as if I'd stepped back in time. I could see Gran there on the path, walking back from the lake with a small box of mementos tucked under her thin arm and tears streaming down her face. She'd said goodbye to her daughter, not at that stuffy funeral, or a graveside where the grounds crews were standing idly by waiting to throw dirt on the polished coffin. No, she said goodbye in the place my mother, Rebecca, had loved most. The lake. Gran said she could feel her there that day.
Twenty years later, I could still feel her.
She could be seen in everything; from the buttery yellow petals that lined the path — having fallen from the wildflowers that flanked the walkway on both sides — to the broken cracked earth beneath the aged house.
The sun peeked out from behind a fluffy cumulus cloud and I could feel its warmth on my back, chasing away the chill that had been plaguing me since my arrival. The smell of the honeysuckle growing in huge thatches in the wood line was more pungent than any I'd ever encountered. I could almost taste the tiny droplets of nectar on my tongue, something I hadn't tasted since I was a child. It was a fleeting moment of comfort, gone in an instant and replaced by the bitter twang of regret.
It was my fault. Gran lost her daughter and I lost my mother. All of it... my fault.
She'd been gone nearly twenty years.
Because of me.
Get out of your head, Clay. There's nothing to be gained.
Irritated with myself for losing focus, I swallowed the lump in my throat and strode down the path with heavy steps, as if marching off to war.
I'd barely made it into the clearing when my steps faltered.
The lake was just as I remembered it, large and still with the mountains flanking it on three sides, the lush sentinels reflected in the cool water. The pier showed its age but still stood straight and proud.
Everything was as it had been twenty years ago when Gran made her final trip here.
Except one thing.
The mere sight of that one huge difference was enough to steal the breath from my lungs and cause my chest to tighten painfully.
There at the edge of the water between me and the pier was an enormous willow tree. It had to be at least forty feet tall, with long sweeping branches that nearly touched the ground. It was full and lush.
And impossible.
I just stood there gawking at the damn tree, blinking like a mole as if it were an apparition that would eventually dissolve into thin air.
My heart pounded in my suddenly tight chest and I could hear the rush of blood in my ears.
There's no fucking way.
The last time I was here — the last time anyone was here, for that matter — the tree had been a sapling. A dying sapling that had been split in two, kicked, stomped, and tossed aside like garbage by an asshole kid with emotional problems.
Me.
That day all those years ago, Gran had insisted on bringing several of us with her to the property. She swore she might need help carrying whatever belongings had been left behind, but we all knew she just didn't want to be alone, so we trailed behind her with stoic expressions and counted down the minutes until we could leave.
The entire property had been so cloaked in sadness and despair that none of us could find our voice. We wouldn't have known what to say anyway. Our ages ranged from twelve — like myself — to fourteen. All boys. All clueless as to how to comfort her.
Me being her grandson, the other boys had expected me to know what to do.
All I had to offer was guilt and anger, which I had taken out on the tiny tree my mother and I had planted by the lake.
When Gran found the battered sapling, she'd emitted a choked sob that I could still recall to this day.
It was heartbreaking.
And the sapling had ultimately been left behind, all hope of its survival wiped away by the vicious assault. Gran never said a word about it again. She didn't even act angry, just sad.
That had been the worst of it.
That twelve-year-old version of me had wanted desperately to help, to try to fix it but I didn't know how. I couldn't take it back. All I had known was my own pain. I wasn't equipped to handle everything that had happened.
Looking at the enormous willow twenty years later, I still felt ill-equipped and overwhelmed.
I took a few tentative steps in that direction and stopped. The wind had jostled the low-hanging branches, revealing the scarred trunk. It was split into two distinct segments that resembled the letter y. One half of the tree hung out over the water, the other seemed to be reaching toward the tree line.
I released the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and started to edge closer, studying every nuance, every branch.
"Excuse me. Mr. McGavran?"
Startled, I spun toward the melodic voice.
And froze.
The voice belonged to a woman who stood several yards away, just a few steps into the clearing. Her long dark hair hung loose around her shoulders and stirred slightly in the breeze. Though I couldn't be sure from this distance, I'd have guessed she was a good six inches shorter than my six-foot frame. Her face was partially obscured by the large dark sunglasses she wore, a necessary accessory given the glare of the sun on the lake. Their size and shape reminded me of something Audrey Hepburn wore in a photo I'd once seen. She wore a tailored, feminine shirt and capris with wedge sandals that made her legs look amazing.
Shit. I'm checking her out.
Not a good idea.
She stepped forward with a smile and held out her slender hand. "Sorry to startle you. I'm a little early, I know." She quickly surveyed the area as she closed the distance between us. "I'm Alison Walker, your new assistant. Ali for short."
I returned her smile and slipped her soft hand into my rough one, marveling at the ripple of awareness her touch evoked. "No apology necessary, Ali. It's nice to finally meet you. Please, call me Clay. I'm not much for formality." I released her hand, letting my fingers skim her palm as she pulled away and marveled at the tiny shudder I saw roll through her shoulders.
Interesting.
Fuck. Stop doing that, stupid. So she's hot; it's not like you've never seen a damn woman before.
"Nice to meet you, Clay. I'm informal myself, so that'll work out well for the both of us. After years in an uptight D.C. office full of stuffed shirts and dry humor, the laid back way of life around here has been a welcome change. Well, mostly. Sometimes I do miss the noise of the city," she admitted.
As if to punctuate her statement, the wind died down and everything was eerily still.
I slid my hands into my pockets and slowly swept my gaze across the area, smiling at the coincidence.
Ali was smiling, too. "See what I mean?"
I nodded in the direction of the house. "Trust me, before the summer is over, you'll be sick to death of construction noise. Saws, drills, hammers, the diesel engines in all that heavy equipment... you'll be hearing it in your sleep."