“I didn’t almost kiss you,” he mutters.
“Really? So you didn’t fall into some sort of love trance and finger comb my hair and then touch my mouth and lean in for a kiss?”
When I hear an audible snicker from up ahead, I realize the Spencers are not as out of earshot as I thought.
“It wasn’t a love trance,” he argues. “It was a music trance.”
“A music trance,” I echo dubiously.
“Yeah. I was hearing music in my head. It was your hair maybe. I don’t know. I had an idea for a song and got lost in thought.” He gives me a sidelong look. “I wasn’t going to kiss you.”
“Uh-huh. If you say so.”
Grumbling irritably, he walks faster and is soon outpacing the Spencers.
Little Spencer slows, waiting for me to catch up. As we fall into step with each other, he murmurs, “Oh, that boy was absolutely going to kiss you.”
I feel vindicated. “Right?”
It’s another ten minutes before we reach the top of the bluff and five more before Big Spencer calls out, “Over here.”
The tree is more impressive than I expected. It’s a lone pine but not some scrawny one. The trunk is massive, gnarled with age, and the high branches stretch wide and uneven, casting pockets of shade all over the tall grass. At the base, wildflowers push up through the dirt, and one of the tree’s lower limbs juts out low enough that it creates a natural bench you can actually sit on.
“Wow, this is beautiful,” I marvel.
“Right?” Little Spencer beams. “You can totally picture Darlie and Raymond coming out here and boning, can’t you?”
“I mean, I wasn’t picturing them boning, but…sure.”
I approach the tree, breathing in the scent of pine needles and earth. I half expect to find initials carved into the trunk, a romantic heart withDGandRLscratched inside it, but there’s nothing but jagged, flaky stretches of bark.
“So Raymond lived up there?” I peer at the slope in the distance, trying to make out the Loughlin house through the pines. You can see the enormous property if you’re on the water but not from here.
“Yep,” Big Spencer confirms. “And according to legend, he snuck out every night to meet Darlie here.”
“To bone,” pipes up Little Spencer.
“What legend is this?” Wyatt sounds exasperated. “Like, is there any actual proof they met at this tree? For all you know, this is just a random tree that got dragged into this story against its will.”
“We read it in interviews,” Little Spencer says defensively. “Members of the Loughlin family have spoken about it over the years.”
“Okay, and what proof did they offer?” Wyatt challenges. “Other than hearing it in stories passed from generation to generation?”
“Oh, so you’re discounting oral history?” Little Spencer shoots back. “You’d make a terrible historian. Who wants a granola bar?”
I blink at the sudden topic change. “Ah, no thanks. I’m good.”
“Same,” Wyatt says.
“Suit yourself.” Little Spencer digs into his fanny pack, glancing at Big Spencer. “Chocolate chip or chewy oats, babe?”
As the Spencers sit on the branch bench and munch on their granola bars, I wander off, phone in hand. Might as well capture some pictures of the view while we’re up here. Wyatt comes up beside me asI’m framing a shot of the lake.
“You feeling better about this murder hike?” I ask him.
“Yeah,” he says grudgingly. “They seem harmless.”
“Told you.”
