The Singing River (4 page)

Grabbing the bottle of shampoo, I scrubbed my hair. “And that has something to do with me?”

“He’s studying the Singing River legend.”

I paused, letting the soapy water sluice down my body, my eyes on the stained shower wall. I’d been five years old, sitting on my grandfather’s knee, when I’d first heard the story of the Pascagoula River. My papaw had loved telling stories. He’d sit on his couch, a glass of milk and cornbread in one hand, the other patting his knee. He’d smelled like Old Spice and hair grease, and I’d been fascinated by his stories. The Singing River had affected me more than most.

Mom was encouraged by my silence, and she tapped the door.
 
“I told him you’d love to ride down there with him, maybe do a little investigating.”

I shut the water off and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around my chest before pulling open the bathroom door. It put me face to face with Mom.

“Really?” I asked. “So he’s a historian?”

Mom grinned. “An amateur one. He’s a journalist for a living.”

Excitement thrummed through my veins.

“You leave Sunday for a few days on the river,” Mom added.

My spirits fell.

“But work ...”

Mom exhaled, a stream of smoke rising from her lips. “Call Frieda and adjust your schedule. It’s only for a couple of days. He’ll be making several trips this summer.”

I pulled the Saints T-shirt over my head and let the towel fall to the floor.

Mom glared at it. “You won’t make a tidy housekeeper one day.”

“I’m testing a new theory,” I replied.

Mom’s brows rose. “You tryin’ to see if clothes will grow legs and walk to the laundry?”

I donned the underwear and draped an arm over Mom’s shoulder, avoiding the smoke from the cigarette in her fingers. “I’m waiting to see how long it’ll take you to pick them up for me.”

Mom bent and grabbed my towel, using it to pop me on my rear.

“Insolent child!” Her lips twitched. “I didn’t send you to school to learn sass.”

I winked at her. “Didn’t you know? I’m majoring in smartassery in the fall.”

Mom groaned. “Get!” she ordered.

I grinned all the way to the kitchen where Mr. Nelson’s tomatoes and a pack of bacon waited.

Chapter 6

River

Roman slept curled in the fetal position, his arms hugging a pillow, his teeth grinding, and his fists clenched.

I stood in the open doorway of his bedroom and watched him, my car keys dangling from my fingertips.

“Haven,” I whispered.

There had been no reason to return to the dairy bar after I’d dumped Roman on his bed, no reason whatsoever to seek out the sandy-haired waitress who worked there. Nevertheless, the compulsion to return had been strong, her green eyes having chased me home. The girl hadn’t been overly remarkable. Wavy hair, a heart-shaped face, and a spattering of freckles. She’d been lanky and tan, the muscles in her arms and legs the kind that came from hard work rather than idleness. She’d not had an easy life. Despite that, there’d been compassion in her eyes when she looked at Roman, and it was a dying emotion. People pitied, but they didn’t feel compassion.

Leaning against the wall, I whispered, “Haven.”

The desire to thank the girl had far outweighed common sense.

“You can go away. I’m fine.”

Roman’s weary voice broke through my reverie, bringing my attention back to the bed. He sat up, releasing the pillow, the palm of his hand going to his eyes.

I glared at him. “What the hell did you take?”

Roman groaned. “Don’t! I had a low moment. Don’t tell me you haven’t had them.”

Pushing away from the wall, I approached him carefully, my teeth clenched. “Low moments, Roman. Not stupid ones.”

My brother dropped his hands. “So I’m stupid?” he asked.

Anger swept over me, effectively replacing the fear I’d felt earlier. I grabbed Roman’s polo shirt, surprising him. His eyes widened as I lifted him toward me.

“Do you want to kill yourself? Is that it?” I growled. “Do you care so little about yourself? So little about your family?”

Roman pulled at my hands. “Don’t make this about the family. Don’t you
dare
make this about the family. This is about me.”

I dropped him, taking some satisfaction in the way he fell—all knees, elbows, and cursing—onto the floor.

“How bad off are you really, Roman? What have you gotten yourself into while I was gone?”

He pulled his shirt over his head and threw it at me. “Go worry about someone else, River.”

I froze.

“That’s just it, brother,” I said, my words slow and deliberate. “Who else am I supposed to worry about? You’re it. You’re all the true family I have left.”

Roman’s eyes met mine, and I saw anguish there. My brother had fought depression for years, even before our father died, but I’d never seen him this low.
This
low terrified me.

I nodded, not once stopping to think as I threw him a hard look, storming past him to tear at his dresser.

Roman jumped out of bed. “What the hell are you doing?”

I pulled the top drawer out, jerking it completely free of the frame before dumping it. Roman tugged on my shirt, but I shoved him away and rifled through his clothes, leaning to look into the empty space in the dresser before pulling out another drawer.

“What are you hiding, Roman?” I asked.

The second drawer proved clean, and I pulled out a third.

Roman hit the wall with his fist. It left a small dent in the wood but didn’t leave a hole. Old houses were so much sturdier than the newer sheet rock.

“What the fuck!” Roman cried. “Just get out of my room!”

I kept rummaging, pulling at every drawer until all of them were empty, and then I moved to his bed, shoving the mattress aside.

Roman’s arm went around my neck, and he pulled me backward before slamming me against his bedroom wall. I didn’t flinch.

My gaze met his, his face only an inch below mine. “What are you hiding, Roman?”

My brother stared at me, his lips pressed together, his breathing hard. Roman was hard to read, his face always blank unless he was trying to be charming or witty.

He leaned into me, his arm pressing against my collar bone. “My room,
my
life
.
”

I hooked my foot around the back of his leg, putting enough pressure to make him stumble. He was too close to me for it to be very effective, but it caught him off guard. I shoved him, sending him sprawling before kicking his mattress completely off of the bed. Nothing.

Roman stood, his face a mask of rage. Whatever he’d taken earlier was still effecting him; not as much, but it was there. He came at me, and I punched him.

I saw the blood before I saw his face, the shock in his wide eyes.

He grabbed his nose. “You bastard!”

I backed him into the wall, my eyes on his. “We are not our lives, Roman.”

Roman laughed, the sound harsh. “Spoken by a blue blood. Wow, you’re a liar.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

Roman looked away from me. “I don’t know. Something.”

I pushed him into the wall before letting go and backing away from him. “This isn’t the way to get
something
. Despite all of my blue-blooded talk about heritage, tradition, and responsibility, you are still more important than all of that. Who we are isn’t the way we live.”

I left him standing there, staring after me as I walked from his room. I was on the stairs, my hand on the bannister before I stopped, my eyes closing. I didn’t cry. Braydens never cried.

“He isn’t keeping anything in his room.”

The voice startled me, and I gripped the bannister to keep from jumping.

Marissa moved around me, her heels clicking on the hardwood floors. “I’ve searched it on several occasions,” she admitted.

I followed her down the stairs into the foyer.

“But you knew he was doing something?” I asked.

She looked at me helplessly. “He’s doing a lot of things, River. I don’t have any idea where to begin with him.”

I glanced up the stairs. “Getting him to the doctor for the broken nose I just gave him might be a good start.”

She sighed. “Beating the mess out of him won’t help.”

I thought about Marissa’s habit of throwing ceramics and grinned. “No, but it makes me feel better.”

Marissa threw me a look. “I know losing your father the way we lost him is hard, but I ...” she paused, her eyes traveling the hall.

The foyer was a large space with three oriental rugs covering gleaming wood. A portrait of Graham Brayden, one of our family’s forefathers, hung above a white fireplace. Several over-stuffed leather chairs leaned against the stairs.

Marissa sat carefully on the edge of one of the seats, the soft pink high-lo dress she wore skimming her ankles in the back. “I don’t know how to make it better for you two.” She stared at her hands. “And the things Roman does ...” she looked at me, “Rick called from the police department and told me about the incident today. If we didn’t have friends there, Roman would already be behind bars. You know that, right? Eventually, our luck’s going to run out.”

There wasn’t anything I could say, so I said nothing.

Marissa stood. “Uncle Marley is in town. Janelle Houston called and told me. He’s off on one of his mad scheme adventures again, something about the Pascagoula River and a legend.” She shook her head. “Anyway, he’s going to camp there a few days, and then stay with us for the summer. Might as well expect him for supper tonight.”

I smiled. “Old Marley,” I muttered fondly. “My childhood is full of adventures with him.”

Marissa’s lips twitched. “Some good, some bad,” she added.

I glanced at the stairs, and a thought struck me.

“I’m going with him,” I said.

Startled, Marissa looked up. “What? To the river?”

I nodded. “I’m taking Roman with me.”

My stepmother’s expression changed, sharpened. “I don’t know—”

“It might help,” I interrupted.

She waved her hands. “But summer school?”

“To hell with it,” I growled. “He’ll either have to repeat his senior year or make up the classes when we get back. At this point, it’s the least of his concerns.”

Marissa’s gaze moved over my face. “I’ll talk to the school. You realize he’s not going to want to go.”

“I’ll get him there,” I swore.

Marissa moved away from me, stopping at a table to pick up an expensive-looking pink purse she held carefully in her small hands. “I have a tea party I’m supposed to attend, a fundraiser for the Belles, but I’ll be back later. Let me know if Roman needs to go to the doctor.”

I didn’t reply, and she didn’t expect me to. I wasn’t her ward anymore. I’d quit being her responsibility the moment I’d moved to Cambridge for school.

Marissa left, the front door clicking closed behind her, leaving the house in silence. I hated this house. I’d loved it once, loved the old Southern charm, its secret nooks and crannies. Adored its Magnolia-filled backyard and rose-choked gardens. But now, all I saw was death, grief, and violence.

A room to the side of the foyer beckoned me, its closed door a challenge. I tried to ignore it. I knew what I’d see if I opened it. My father’s study was empty now, full of ghostly laughter and dust-covered books. No one entered it; not even the maid. Too many memories rested there.

Somehow, I found myself moving toward the door, my hand going to the wood, my forehead resting next to my palm. Braydens didn’t cry.