“Good effort, Britt.” He needled her deliberately.
“It was better than good. I’d—”pant pant—“call my effort valiant.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” He shot her an affectionate smile that lifted her spirits and made her forgive him for beating her.
Yesterday at the funeral he’d looked bleak and lost. Seeing him like that had left her feeling equally lost and almost desperate to help him through the hard knock of Frank’s sudden death. Zander had suffered too many hard knocks already.
Not today—and maybe not for a long time—but eventually,Zanderwouldreturn to his full self. She refused to have it any other way.
It was critically important to Britt that Zander Ford find happiness.
The woman at the front office of Forest Lawn Cemetery in Enumclaw had given them a map. She’d drawn lines in blue pen illustrating the route to the grave of Frank Joseph Pierce, which she’d marked with an X.
Zander came to a stop. “Here,” he said.
Britt halted beside him in the heartbreaking portion of the cemetery named Baby Land. Kneeling, she cleared an infringing grass root from one corner of the small headstone.
FRANK JOSEPH PIERCE
BELOVED SON
2/2/1955–8/20/1956
Before this, they’d visited Enumclaw’s library to hunt for information. They’d decided not to search for Frank Pierce, seeing as how Zander’s uncle couldn’t very well have remained in Enumclaw after pilfering the name of one of its residents. If their Frank was to be found in Enumclaw, he’d no doubt be found before he’d switched identities, under the name James Ross.
A friendly librarian had helped them search 1950s newspapers and city directories, but they’d come up empty. If James Ross had ever lived in this town, he’d left no discernible trace.
The sounds of nature wrapped around them as they paid their respects to a boy whose short life had ended abruptly in tragedy.
It was creepy here. But then, Britt had always found cemeteries creepy. She usually only visited the one outside Merryweather with her family on Memorial Day, to leave flowers on the grave of her Grandfather Bradford, who’d died before her birth.
Cemeteries reminded her—uncomfortably so—of her own mortality. Everywhere she looked, graves. Hundreds upon hundreds of graves. Corpses lying under the ground in different stages of decomposition.
Because of her faith, she knew she was supposed to look forward to heaven with anticipation. Or at the very least, have reached a truce with the idea of death. Instead, she’d drifted further and further from a truce since early last summer when she, like baby Frank here, had gained experience with drowning—
Don’t think about it, Britt.
She hated thinking about it. In fact, she worked hardnotto think about it whenever the memories came. But sometimes, like now, the memories overpowered her resolve, the same way the swollen river had overpowered her mastery of her kayak when it had swept her fast around the outside of a bend.
By the time she’d caught sight of the submerged tree, there’d been no avoiding it. The current rammed her kayak sideways against it. When she tried to yank herself free, she lost her balance and pitched into the rapids. The kayak flipped and surged against the embankment. The tremendous force of the water thrust her body beneath the river’s surface and against the strainer, the tree’s underwater branches.
She wasn’t a novice. She’d acquired a great deal of experience with Class II+ rapids. She’d paddled that stretch of river numerous times. But recent rain combined with the newly fallen tree had conspired against her, and before she’d had a chance to process what was happening, she found herself trapped and looking death in its murky, cold, watery face.
The river pressed against her with crushing force. Panic and the need for air clawed her brain.
Blindly, she groped for her kayak. She could only feel its smooth body. Nothing to grab on to. Terrified, she reached out farther, then farther. Her fingers curved around the edge of the cockpit. Marshaling all her strength, she pulled as hard as she could, freeingthe bow from the bank. The kayak swung out and began to tug downstream through a narrow opening in the branches.
She pushed off desperately against the branch beneath her feet and the kayak towed her into open water. She’d come up wheezing, injured badly—
Andreally. That was enough of that. Time to abort her charming little walk down memory lane.
She made a production out of retying both her shoelaces.
Zander didn’t know what had happened to her that day because she’d opted not to tell him. She hadn’t wanted to ruin even one of his days overseas. And she definitely hadn’t wanted to risk the possibility—if one of her sisters had called him from her hospital room—that Zander might cut short his trip and return home. She’d wanted him home. But on his own terms. She refused to be the one responsible for forcing him to end his trip of a lifetime.
She hadn’t remained silent about her accident for his sake alone, however. She’d also remained silent for her own sake.
Independence and adventurousness were two of the qualities she knew Zander appreciated most about her. She hadn’t wanted him to think less of her. Nor had she wanted him, who’d always cautioned her to be more careful, to know just how careless she’d been and just how badly she’d screwed up. It was humiliating.
