One Frosty Night. Janice Kay Johnson
Bowen’s mouth firmed and her eyes met Olivia’s. “I’ve decided to sell the house.”
Olivia gaped. “Dad hasn’t even been dead two weeks.” Or in the ground for one. They had buried Charles Bowen on the Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend, and today was only Thursday.
“I know what I want to do, Livy. Please don’t argue.”
“But...it’s home.”
Her mother’s face softened. “I know it was. But that doesn’t mean I have to stay in it for the rest of my life.”
“You know it’s too soon to be making decisions that big.”
“I can’t stay there. I won’t.”
The misery that had been balled in Olivia’s chest for three months now—the same three months when she had seen her parents’ marriage failing—intensified into active pain. “Mom, what’s wrong? Please tell me.”
“Nothing’s wrong that you need to know about. I’m a widow now, and I’m ready to downsize. Is that so bad?”
“But...where will you go?”
“I’m considering a house at The Crescent.”
The Crescent was a new and very nice senior citizen housing development. Technically, they were condominiums with the outside maintenance handled by the association. Olivia had been surprised to see anything like that in Crescent Creek, a small town nestled deep in the Cascade Mountain foothills, but the homes seemed to be getting snapped up as fast as they were built. Lloyd Smith, who managed the lumberyard side of the Bowens’ business, had even mentioned that his wife wanted him to take a look at them.
If Mom had suggested the move six months from now, Olivia might have thought it was a good idea. But as it was—the decision had been made purely out of anger, not practicality. Her husband had died before she could leave him, but she was determined to go through with it one way or another.What’s more, it occurred to Olivia that this felt an awful lot like receiving an eviction notice, given that she lived in the family home right now, too.
“Does that mean you intend to sell the business, too?” she asked. The one she’d thrown herself heart and soul into revitalizing?
“I don’t know. I can’t expect you to run it forever.”
“Apparently you have made up your mind.”
“You sound mad.”
“A little taken aback,” she said truthfully. “When do you want me to move out?”
Her mother’s expression changed, showing a hint of shock and some vulnerability. “But...you know it’s going to take time to make decisions about everything we have. I hoped you’d be willing to help.”
This had been a really lousy few months. Mom and Dad suddenly, overnight, refusing to talk to each other. The house seething with everything they wouldn’t say aloud, at least within Olivia’s hearing. Dad’s face, tinted blue. The oxygen tank kept beside the big chair in the den. The slow way he moved, struggling for breath. The shock of Marsha Connelly finding a teenage girl frozen to death in the woods. Dad insisting on going to the funeral despite his fragile health. Mom’s angry absence obvious to anyone paying attention.
And then Olivia waking up in the morning to her mother telling her Dad had died sometime in the night. Mom didn’t know when, because she had been sleeping in the guest bedroom, which meant he’d been alone.
Another funeral, held only eight days later.
Olivia had been hanging on by her fingernails since.
Those same fingernails were biting into her thighs right now. Yes, Mom, I am mad.
“I don’t know what to say.” She sounded a thousand times calmer than she felt. “You’ve hardly spoken to me in weeks. You don’t care about the business. I’m not so sure you care about Dad dying. Now you’re rejecting everything that represents our family and my childhood.” She blew out a breath. “What do you expect me to say? Gee, Mom, that sounds like fun. Let’s dig right in. How about a garage sale? Ooh, I love garage sales.”
Marian Bowen sat so utterly still, she looked like a wax effigy. Only her eyes were alive, with a whole lot more than a hint of shock now. Apparently Olivia had betrayed more of her own pain and anger than she’d realized. In fact, out of the corner of her eyes she could see that other diners had turned to look. And, oh God, the waitress was bearing down on them with a tray holding their entrees. Bad time to jump up and say, “I’m not in the mood for lunch.”
Instead she kept her mouth shut until the waitress had come and gone again, probably wondering why neither woman so much as glanced at her, forget thanking her.
Then she said, “We need to talk about this later,” and reached for her fork. She wasn’t sure she could so much as put a bite in her mouth, but she could pretend.
* * *
BEN HOVIK DIDN’T know what had possessed him to take a long detour by the cemetery.
Until a few weeks ago, he hadn’t given it a thought. Growing up in Crescent Creek, he’d been as oblivious as any child was to the reality of death. Yeah, Grandma Everson was buried there, but he hardly remembered her. However, after the two recent funerals, the cemetery held a grim fascination to him.
He felt good about the first funeral. Not the death, of course, because that still left him stunned. How was it possible that a kid no more than sixteen had been too sick or injured or just plain scared to seek help on a freezing cold night? Why had she wandered so far into the woods, lacking even a coat? Then just lay down and died, like an animal that had lost hope?
And how was it that a girl that age could go missing with, apparently, no one who cared enough to be looking for her? The police had been unable to identify her, despite nationwide interest in her life and death. She was entered in missing persons databases that could be accessed by law enforcement from any agency. A drawing of her face had appeared in newspapers, on Seattle television news and even on the internet. There’d been calls, tips; none led anywhere.
The fact that the community had come together to pay for her burial was the part he did feel good about. It saddened him that she’d become theirs too late, when all they could do for her was give her a headstone, but at least they’d done that much.
Having Charles Bowen die so soon after Jane Doe, that hit hard, too. Ben had gone to his funeral because he’d known Mr. Bowen his whole life and had once loved Olivia Bowen. It had been all he could do to see her grief and not be able to do more than shake her hand at the end of the service and murmur condolences, the same way everyone else was. To see how blindly she looked at him, as if he were a stranger.
That was the moment when he’d given up.
His decision to apply for the job of principal at Crescent Creek High School, a return to his hometown, had awakened the seed of hope that he would see Olivia. That maybe they could reconnect.
The first time he saw her after the gap of years had been like a hard punch to his belly. She was only home on a brief visit that time, but she must have gone into work with her dad, because when Ben walked into the hardware store, Olivia was mixing paint and laughing at something a customer said. And, damn, she was even more beautiful than she’d been when he’d so stupidly broken up with her. At five foot ten, Olivia had gotten her height from her dad. That and her natural grace had made her a star on the girl’s basketball team in their small high school league. She still had the most amazing legs he’d ever seen—long, slim, but strong. And, man, he knew what it felt like to have those legs wrapped around his waist.
Thick, shimmering hair the color of melted caramel was from her mother, as were those hazel eyes, a complex of colors that changed depending on the light or what she was wearing.
He had stood, stupefied, a few feet inside the hardware store, seeing only her. Inevitably, she’d turned and seen him. Her eyes