Where Darkness Blooms, page 11
Eleanor’s grandmother stood at the door, a load of towels fresh from the dryer tucked under one arm.
She was positive Susannah remembered that day by the way she looked at Whitney now. There wasn’t contempt, or even the whisper of a smirk. She looked utterly, hopelessly broken, like the past six months had shattered something within her and she hadn’t been able to find all the pieces again.
She looked like how Whitney felt on the inside.
“I’m so sorry I never reached out,” Susannah said, her voice breaking. “I should have.”
Whitney shook her head. “No, I could have, too.”
They looked at each other for a long moment. All the words Whitney had wanted to say were clotted in her throat.
She’d wanted to apologize for not visiting Susannah after Eleanor died. That she’d never called when she’d heard Susannah had moved into the Nursing Care Center a few months ago. That she’d loved Susannah’s granddaughter with the kind of ferocity that made her whisper to weather vanes in the middle of the night. That she still loved her. Her chest tightened, but the words wouldn’t come out.
Instead, it was Jude who saved her again. “Hi, Ms. Craft. I’m Jude.”
“Whitney’s sister,” Susannah said. She smiled, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “Eleanor talked about you, too.”
Whitney’s eyes fluttered. It was a kind thing to say to her sister, but Eleanor talking about Jude? Impossible. They didn’t even know each other. In fact, Jude hadn’t even realized that Whitney had been dating Eleanor until right before she’d died.
Ms. Craft’s assertion seemed to catch Jude off guard, too. “She … she did?” Jude said.
“Well, in so many words,” she replied. Her smile faded as she looked back at her paint-spattered canvas. “I can never get the wind quite right in these.”
Whitney frowned. “The wind?”
“I can’t seem to capture it,” Susannah said, sweeping her hand over the canvas. “Whenever I paint, it’s the flowers or the cornfields that are moving. It’s never the wind. There’s always been something about Bishop that no one can explain.” She sighed. “Not even with paint.”
Whitney’s pulse rocketed. “Out of all the strange things here, why the wind, though?” she asked slowly.
“Your sister knows.” Susannah focused her steel blue eyes on Jude. “You can feel it, can’t you, Jude?”
Beside her, Jude froze. Her eyes grew wide. “I … I don’t—”
“Eleanor could, too. Ever since she was a toddler. Whenever that wind kicked up, she would scream like a banshee. She’d scream so hard that her skin would turn as purple as a thunderstorm. At first I thought, you know, it was some sort of trauma from her father leaving her here with me, but when she got older, she told me what was really bothering her.” Susannah leaned in and whispered, “The wind traps us here.”
A chill coursed down Whitney’s spine. She thought of the weather vane in the clearing, the milky green rust settling over the crooked rooster like a layer of film. The way it groaned under the strain of the relentless wind.
The way the wind always seemed to start up as Whitney approached the edge of town.
She closed her eyes, trying to pull her previous conversations with Eleanor to the forefront of her mind. She couldn’t remember Eleanor saying anything about the wind. Had Whitney told her about Jude?
My sister’s afraid of pretty much everything. She’d laughed into the soft spot near Eleanor’s collarbone that last night at the bonfire. Even the wind.
Whitney’s eyes snapped open. “That can’t … but there has to be a way out. It’s just wind, right? Why stay here?”
Susannah let out a sharp laugh. “Like any of us had a choice. Think about it. When was the last time a woman willingly left this place? Moved away? We can’t even get close to the border without the wind pushing us back and punishing us all.”
As if on cue, a gust of wind battered the windows, rattling the panes, making all three of them jump. “We can’t even talk about it,” Susannah whispered. “So how are we supposed to leave?”
The wind picked up. The lamp beside them flickered. From the next table over, a man with thick eyebrows yelled, “Stop it with that nonsense, Susannah! You’ll scare those kids.” He let out a grumble before going back to his painting.
But instead of yelling back, Susannah rolled her eyes. “Shut it, Frank.” She sighed heavily. “The thing is, there just aren’t many women left here who remember. Who know.”
Whitney glanced around the dimly lit room. It was true; there was only one other woman in the room, and she was fast asleep pressed up against the corner of the coffee-stained couch. All the other people slapping paint on canvases seemed to be men.
Whitney sat back in her chair, suddenly dizzy. She had always known that there were a lot of accidents in Bishop. A lot of random deaths. But until she really looked around this room, let her surroundings soak in, she hadn’t realized just how many of them involved women. How many of them never made it to the Nursing Care Center at all.
The wind roared outside, slapping the windows until they groaned. In a matter of minutes, the sky had turned the color of asphalt, the purple underbelly of storm clouds hovering over the swaying sunflowers and distant cornfields.
Whitney looked over at Jude. Her sister’s face was lit with the glow of her phone as she frantically tapped the screen. “I’ve gotta go,” she said, snapping her head up to glance at Whitney.
“But it’s going to storm.”
Jude just shook her head, shoving her phone in her pocket. “I’ve got to go. See you at home?”
Before Whitney could open her mouth to answer, Jude had already waved an awkward goodbye to Susannah and bolted out the door.
Raindrops began to freckle the windows. The ancient, dusty lamps around the room flickered in unison, like some kind of unheard symphony. Maybe Jude couldn’t handle the messed-up energy of this place. Maybe the wind trying to force itself through the cracks and crevices of this place was her breaking point. It was too much to think about.
Whitney got up to leave. “I should go—”
“Wait.”
Susannah’s voice was so soft that it felt like a breeze against her skin. But the way she looked at Whitney was steady and impenetrable. “I have something for you.”
Whitney swallowed. “What is it?”
“Something of Eleanor’s. One of the last things she said to me was to make sure you got it … if anything ever happened to her.”
If anything ever happened to her …
Whitney pulled in a breath. Eleanor had been worried she was in danger.
Susannah’s face crumpled. “I think it’s past time that you see it.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jude stepped out of the Nursing Care Center and into the rain.
Downtown was mostly empty, except for a man holding his toddler’s hand as they wove around puddles that had started to form. The wind prickled at her skin, rustling the hair on her arms as she crossed Main Street. It had always rubbed her skin raw, especially at the start of a storm. She’d never thought too much about it; Jude had always been sensitive to everything. The pollen that blanketed Bishop like a golden snow every spring made her eyes sting. She couldn’t stand the scent of ketchup fresh from the bottle. She had to cup her palms over her eyes during horror movies.
But what Susannah had said stuck with her.
You can feel it, can’t you, Jude?
As soon as Susannah had said those words, Jude knew exactly what she was talking about. It was the erratic pressure changes in the air that thrummed through Jude’s veins like her own heartbeat. It was the way the wind moved—deliberately, intentionally—that made her skin crawl. It was how, if she just listened a little bit closer, she knew there was a message waiting for her in the tendrils of the breeze.
That was the it Susannah meant. Jude wasn’t quite sure what it was, though.
Eleanor’s grandmother had said something else. The wind traps us here.
Something about those words hung heavy in Jude’s chest. There was a weight to them, a truth, she couldn’t deny. What Jude couldn’t figure out was why.
She sidestepped a puddle and pulled open the door to Bishop’s lone bakery, Butter. Instantly, the scent of burnt coffee flooded her nostrils. She was late. She hurried past the delicate glass displays filled with glossy donuts and crumble-crusted pies to a table near the window.
“I thought you might be standing me up,” Bennett said, getting up to greet her as she approached.
Jude stiffened as he wrapped an arm around her back. And then she let herself soften. “I wouldn’t stand you up,” she said into Bennett’s damp T-shirt.
He looked down at her and smiled. “I was really hoping you wouldn’t.”
Jude let out a breath as she sat at the candy-colored table across from him. Why did he have to be this nice right now? Why did he have to look like that? Why did he have to smell like rainwater and pine needles and longing?
Jude shook her head. “So, um, did you bring Whitney’s stuff with you?”
“Got it right here.” Bennett shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag. He pushed it across the table until his fingertips grazed Jude’s wrist. “Here.”
Jude lifted the bag up to the hanging lantern above them. A single gold hoop shone in the light. “Where’s the bracelet?”
Bennett frowned. “What bracelet?”
“The one that was on her wrist. You know, I handed it to you at the hospital before you took her in.”
“You didn’t hand it to me? I’ve never had it,” Bennett said, his frown deepening. “Is it possible you have it at home?”
Now it was Jude who frowned. “I was pretty sure—”
“I really don’t think so,” Bennett said quickly, cutting off her thought. “Promise I haven’t seen it.”
Jude gnawed her lip. She remembered it so clearly—how Whitney’s arm had dangled limply against her thigh in the back of the truck. How the tarnished charms had clinked together as the tires rumbled over the gravel. Jude could almost feel the weight of the bracelet as she’d unclipped it, how her hand cupped over Bennett’s as she’d placed it in his palm.
“You okay?” Bennett asked. He ran his thumb around the rim of his empty coffee mug. “Your texts sounded like you wanted to talk about something?”
Those texts she’d exchanged with Bennett earlier seemed like a lifetime ago. Had she sounded worried about something then? She’d tried to come off smooth as lake water, unemotional. Like she wasn’t trying to pry information out of him. Like she didn’t actually care if Bennett showed up to Butter to talk to her. Apparently it hadn’t worked.
Jude opened her mouth to respond, but a waiter swept into the small space beside them. He set a bubblegum pink plate on the table, along with two spoons. “Enjoy,” he said flatly before disappearing.
Her heart hitched as she stared at the buttery yellow dessert in front of her, the powdered sugar layered like a cotton sheet over the top. A lemon bar.
He’d remembered.
Two summers ago, in the middle of July, Bennett had asked Jude to meet him in the sunflower fields. She’d come—because she always came—when Bennett asked her to. When she’d stepped from the clearing into the thicket of flowers, it had felt like she was slipping through a portal into a different world. Suddenly, the sunflowers weren’t so scary. Instead of hovering over her like a storm, they hugged her close as she wove through the field. Their velvety petals kissed her skin, whispered the way forward.
She saw the stone gray of his T-shirt before the rest of him took shape in front of her. He materialized in pieces—T-shirt, black sneakers, sun-kissed forearms, hay-bale hair swept across his forehead, freckled nose, and sunburnt lips twisted in a mischievous smile.
Jude had been in love, even though she had never asked for it.
Bennett had spread out the old gingham picnic blanket from his uncle’s storm cellar, the frayed edges curling up against flower stems in every direction. This is for you, Bennett had said, sinking onto the blanket. And this, too.
A lemon bar, glistening on a paper plate in the summer sun.
They’d shared the dessert with a single plastic fork, silence settling between them. When they’d finished, Bennett had looked at Jude with such a softness in his eyes that it made her want to cry. You have something here, he’d whispered just before kissing the powdered sugar dusting her upper lip.
We have something here, Jude had thought as they’d sunk into the parched soil together, a chorus of sunflowers pretending to look the other way.
But fate had other plans, and Bennett met Delilah two weeks later.
And now, a single lemon bar sat on a plate between them in this glossy little bakery. But it was so much more than that.
Jude broke right there at that candy-colored table. She pressed her hands to her eyes. “Bennett,” she breathed.
There was a long pause. When she slid her palms from her eyes, Bennett was looking at her with the same softness that had cracked open her heart in the sunflower field. “I thought … I was trying to do something nice. I’m sorry,” he said quietly. His thumb paused on the rim of his coffee mug.
“It’s not that,” Jude said, her voice wavering. “It’s just … this is so hard for me, Bennett.” She lifted her eyes to his. “Don’t you see that? Do you even care?”
“Jude,” he said in one breath. His shoulders slumped. “Of course I care.”
“Do you ever think about that night?” she whispered. As soon as the words left her lips, she regretted them. They’d been lingering at the edge of her tongue for two years. They’d threatened to jump ship hundreds of times since the night Bennett had met Delilah, the night their mothers vanished and everything—everything—had changed. But Jude had always sewn them up tight. If she was honest, she was afraid of Bennett’s answer. And more importantly, she’d never wanted to hurt Delilah.
But they’d finally escaped.
Outside, the light drizzle had ramped up into a full-blown storm. It pelted the window beside them, creating a low, melancholy hum that echoed the misery Jude felt as she looked at Bennett from across the untouched lemon bar.
Bennett leaned forward, and his warm hands cupped hers. Jude closed her eyes as she let the feeling of his skin against hers settle into her bones. “Jude, I care about you. I always have.”
She opened her eyes, and despite herself, a tear rolled down her cheek. “Then why?” she whispered.
Bennett swallowed, and the muscles in his jaw clenched. “I can’t explain it.”
Another tear. Damn it. “Just … please. Help me understand so I can just … let this thing go. Please.” Jude hated begging. She hated that she had to try to convince people to care as much about something as she did. But she couldn’t deal with this anymore, and this conversation was the only way she could see out of this mess.
Jude blinked, and a rush of tears streamed down her cheeks. “Please just let go,” she whispered. She wasn’t even sure who she was talking to anymore.
But instead of letting go, Bennett held on tighter. He leaned in so close that his shirt grazed the powdered sugar of the lemon bar. “I wish I could tell you,” he whispered. He was so close that Jude could smell the mint on his tongue. “But I literally can’t. It’s … it’s not so easy to explain. But I want you to know that it would have been you. It’s always been you.”
And before Jude could understand what was happening, Bennett’s lips were on hers, soft and warm and sunburnt, just like they had been two years ago. He kissed her like he meant it. Like they had never stopped.
When the shock had started to fade, and Jude had the sense to figure out what had just happened, she pulled away. Her eyes fluttered open.
But Bennett was no longer looking at her. He stared out the window, eyes wide.
Delilah stood in the pool of light spilling from inside the bakery, cheeks flushed, hair soaked with rainwater. She carried a drenched cloth tote from Rose and Rain over her shoulder. Her other hand was pressed over her mouth.
And she was looking directly at Jude.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The house at the end of Old Fairview Lane was full of ghosts. Delilah was convinced of it.
The ghosts of their mothers haunted every surface of the old home. They watched the girls from their knickknacks and towers of books and unfinished art projects that stared at them from the back of the room. Then there were the other ghosts.
There were the ghosts of the things they’d all refused to look at. The spectral things that hung in the air among the four of them, threatening to tear them apart. The things that had been hidden in plain sight all along.
Delilah hadn’t realized what she was looking at. The light from the bakery and the raindrops clinging to the glass had distorted things, so at first it seemed like Jude and Bennett were a single person, a blur of long dark hair and sun-drenched skin. And then she’d blinked, and her whole world became as sharp as a lie.
Even now, a whole day later, Delilah felt as though she’d left part of herself back on Main Street. Maybe she was a ghost now, too.
She lay in her bed early the next morning, not certain if she’d ever slept. The rain had lashed at the house all night, making the roof groan and windowpane behind her dresser rattle. At some point, the girls had come home, one after another, but only one knocked on her closed door. She hadn’t answered it. Her phone had buzzed throughout the night, too. Urgent messages from both Bennett and Jude flitted across the screen in a panicked parade.
It’s not what it looked like, Bennett said.
Can we talk? Jude texted.
