Not Quite Fixed Read online

  “It’s okay. I can’t use the trunk anyway because it leaks.”

  “I could fix that for you,” she says, quick as a whip. It’s becoming clear why she’s done so well for herself, above and beyond the lack of competition. To quote one of the best movies of all time, Glory Jean could sell a ketchup popsicle to a woman in white gloves.

  “I don’t have time this morning. Have to get over to open the library. But I’ll bring it back and let you do that, because it would be nice to be able to toss something back there without it smelling like mildew when it comes out.”

  Glory Jean peers at me, her head cocked to one side. “Take you five minutes to walk to the library from here. Not that you need the exercise, I’m just saying.”

  There’s no response for that. She’s right, and so I find myself agreeing to leave my car so that she can check the tire, repair it if possible, and fix the leak in my trunk while she’s at it. I fully expect at least half a dozen other items to appear on the list of repairs by the time she calls me in an hour or so. To be fair, I honestly can’t remember when I last had the car in for something other than an oil change. And that was before I moved home.

  Strange, how I’ve started to refer to Heron Creek as ‘home’ even in my own mind. There’s no other way to describe it, though, a thought that is reaffirmed as I stroll through the streets, waking up with the dawn. Maybe there never was.

  The store owners are all shuffling along the sidewalks, unlocking doors and opening blinds. The oldies have already found their way to Westies or to the diner, the old men jawing about business and the women swapping gossip as curls of steam float off their coffees.

  The morning is cold, with my breath wandering in front of me and my fingers stiff inside my coat pockets. It’s bracing, and does a better job waking me up than my own cup of coffee, but that doesn’t stop me from stepping inside Westies for another on my way to the library. There’s no reason to be early for work. I’d hate to be responsible for giving Mr. Freedman a heart attack.

  It’s early enough that the place isn’t as crowded as usual. There are the sisters, Dorothy and Laurel; their neighbor; the women who work at the local government office…and Leo Boone, red-cheeked and sweaty. Fresh from a run.

  Our eyes meet as he lingers at the end of the counter waiting for his drink. My mouth feels dry, my knees weak, but my feet are begging me to turn around and run. I’m not ready to face him. The clawing, horrified feeling in my chest promises that underneath everything else that went down between us, I’m still mortified at having thrown myself at him like a drunk sorority girl.

  Or maybe the mortification is over being turned down after said throwing. I’m still not sure.

  I’ve seen the ghost of his father twice, and Harlan’s been hanging around Trent, besides. Has Leo seen him, too? If he had, would he tell me?

  A month ago, the answer would have been yes. Now? I hope he would realize that he can come to me with something like that, that my self-imposed Leo ban can be lifted in times of personal crisis, but who knows. He’s not big on reaching out, and since I basically told him to leave me alone for the time being, that likely goes double.

  Truth is, I’m not sure of anything when it comes to Leo anymore, and that terrifies me.

  “Honey? You want your usual?”

  The question snaps my head around, which is when I realize I’ve been staring at Leo for heaven knows how long. Cripes. I’ve got about as much subtlety as a bullfrog looking for a lady on a summer night.

  Ms. Belle’s expression can only be described as amused with a side of irritation, the latter likely because there are now three people in line behind me. It’s her busy time of day. Not even potential gossip over moony looks is enough to give her pause, apparently.

  “Sorry, Ms. Belle. Yes, please. Extra hot, and a blueberry muffin.”

  “You got it, honey.”

  There’s nowhere to go but down the counter, out of the way and toward Leo. He’s still waiting for his drink. The look on his face makes me wonder whether he’s going to stand his ground or bolt without it, but in the end, he gives me a tight smile.

  “Graciela.”

  “Leo.”

  God, this is awkward. If a person could die of social discomfort, I’d have one foot in the grave. Perpetually. But this is even worse than my typical state of affairs.

  Sweat appears in my armpits and I regret asking for the extra heat in my coffee.

  “Good run?” I blurt, because not talking is worse than strained conversation. I think.

  “Fine. Little cold.”

  The clock on the wall catches my attention. “You’re out early.”

  Leo always grumbled about having to run early when I wanted to get one in before work. Without a nine-to-five, he preferred the afternoon or early evening for workouts, or late morning on the weekends.

  “I have some things to get done today. Besides, I guess I got used to it.” His blue eyes land on my face, catching my gaze and refusing to let go. It feels so different from last night with Knox, when I found myself staring back out of curiosity and, sure, a bit of lust.

  This is like a magnet. A pull that’s at once familiar and new, and one that isn’t going to settle for casual. Ever.

  “Leo? Here you go, sweetheart.” Belle hands over Leo’s drink.

  A black coffee with room for cream, if I know him. And I do.

  “See you later, Graciela,” he murmurs, breaking the connection between us as he grabs his drink and shuffles toward the door. He leaves without dumping in his cream, and I take the smallest amount of satisfaction from the proof that seeing me threw him off, too.

  “Special man, that one,” Belle remarks.

  I glance over and see that she’s followed my gaze, which has tracked Leo all the way out to the street. There’s no mischief in her eyes, even if they do crinkle around the edges. They’re serious and thoughtful, with maybe the slightest bit of reproach.

  “He is,” I agree. “More than he knows.”

  “That’s for sure. Folks around here don’t see him the way they should. They see the boy, running around and causing trouble, playing his guitar on the street.” She tips her head. “They don’t see the man. Not yet. But he’s in there.”

  “I see both.”

  “I know you do, sweetheart. That’s why I’m still standing over here and not over the counter slapping you silly. Here’s your coffee.”

  She hands me my cup and goes back to the register, leaving me the somewhat shocked recipient of an open threat of violence from one of the most soft-spoken, gentle women in town. It’s clear that she’s said her piece and isn’t coming back to answer questions, though, so I take my coffee and slink out into the morning like a scolded teenager.

  Which, let’s face it, is how most of the adults in town seem intent on treating me. Maybe Ms. Belle wasn’t only talking about Leo. Maybe she thinks it’s only a matter of time before people in Heron Creek stop seeing the Graciela Harper who pulled naughty tricks as a preteen and start taking me seriously as an adult, ghosts or not.

  For what it’s worth, I hope she’s right.

  The library is dark and quiet when I arrive. We don’t open for nearly an hour and Mr. Freedman isn’t in yet—not a surprise, since he typically rolls in after I do. I doubt I’ve been to work this early since I started, but I expected to wait at the garage for Glory Jean to fix my tire. Then I figured I’d stay at Westies, but I didn’t much feel like it after Belle’s “pep talk.”

  The emptiness makes me jumpy even after I switch on the lights. Finishing my coffee helps increase my comfort level, as does getting settled in the archive room instead of out at my desk. It’s a small, enclosed space and I can put my back to a wall. I take a moment to acknowledge that I never used to be this paranoid, then to forgive myself because after everything that’s happened lately, it would be pretty stupid of me not to assume something scary might happen. Or at least try to mentally prepare for it.

  Besides, I didn’t
just come in here because it feels more secure. I figure since I’m up and at work early, I could use the time to try to find out more about Harlan Boone’s death. I haven’t done it before now because of my friendship with Leo. He never wanted to talk about his father and it felt like a betrayal of his trust to go behind his back and find out on my own. I figured he would tell me what happened when he was ready, but now…well, we’re not talking, and if Harlan is going to keep popping up, I need to figure out why.

  My own memories of Leo’s dad are warm and edged with longing. When I was a kid, I used to look up to him as the sort of father I wanted but could never have—and I was torn between being jealous and wishing Leo would invite me over more often. He almost never did; as an adult looking back, I have to wonder if he was ashamed of their family’s poor circumstances.

  Then again, Leo and I were public enemies but secret cohorts. It wasn’t as though Will, Amelia, Mel, and I ever invited him around, either.

  But Harlan had always been kind to me. One memory in particular stands out. He found me holding back tears of pain one afternoon, my bike on its side and chunks of gravel stuck in the oozing scrapes on my knees. He grabbed a first aid kit from his truck and patiently cleaned my wounds with alcohol pads, spinning a wild story about unicorns that swam in the river to distract me from the pain.

  It’s the clearest memory I have of him, but there are others. They all involve kind words and a grownup man who always managed to seem genuinely interested in the thoughts and feelings of a child. I hate that something bad happened to him, and if someone did this to him, I honestly wish I could remain ignorant of the details. At the same time, I want to help him if he needs it.

  So I shake off the lingering guilt and the creeping dread, opening the drawer of local newspaper files. There are archived editions of the Creek Sun online, but I’m not sure how far back they go, and there’s also something delightful about being able to thumb through actual history instead of scrolling.

  Amelia would roll her eyes and say I was born in the wrong century, or at least the wrong decade. Most of the time I agree with that assessment. Especially given how much I enjoy living in a town where food delivery and Wi-Fi is at a minimum and face-to-face interactions are the norm. My mother, by all accounts, hated it. I didn’t expect to love it. And yet, I do.

  Of course, it has its downside. I’m glad Beau’s in Washington, and I don’t have to run into him and Lucy. I’m not ready for that. And the pain of seeing Leo and treating him like a mere acquaintance…

  I push that thought out of my head and check the clock. With the library opening in less than an hour, I need help to find the right section of the archive drawer, and the magic of Google returns my query within seconds—Harlan Boone died almost three years ago.

  I close the laptop and return to the cabinets that hold the back issues of the Sun.

  The newspapers in the file drawers go back at least fifty years. The realization surprises me, and I riffle through to the date on the clipping someone left on my desk a few weeks ago—an article about my mother being found by Clete Raynard in the woods.

  Clete, who is still missing.

  The issue is there, and intact. The story is waiting for me in bold type, right on the front page.

  In some ways, the finding makes me feel better to know the clippings weren’t stolen from the library. It means no one was lurking in this room unbeknownst to me, nefariously clipping old newspapers and finding ways to leave them on my desk. Not that it makes much of a difference. Whoever left the clipping was still here long enough to accomplish their purpose.

  On the other hand, this means the mystery person got it from somewhere else. A private stash of old newspapers? The alternative is that they clipped the article at the time it was published and kept it for some reason.

  Either is possible, and both explanations seem to point to my previous assumption—the person who wanted me to know about my mother and Clete has lived in Heron Creek for some time. I’m not sure where a stranger to the place would have gotten old issues if not from the library.

  I recall the conversation I had with Belle while Mel was in labor. She had insinuated that not many people in town had known my mother terribly well, and that Felicia had seemed to prefer it that way. The information made me sad, for some reason, but it didn’t contradict any of my own observations about my mother.

  But my mother had liked Clete.

  Also not a surprise. Not really.

  A sigh escapes me as I slam that drawer closed—literally and figuratively, at least for the time being—and return to the original trajectory of my search. I find the issue that contains Harlan Boone’s obituary with little trouble, but there’s nothing unexpected there. He died in an accident, survived by a bunch of kids, his wife, and a brother down in Savannah. Service information. Etc.

  But there’s also a full article in the paper from the day after he died. The headline reads “Local Plumber Dies on the Job; ‘Accident’ Being Investigated By Police.”

  Well, that certainly catches my attention.

  An accident is one thing, but if someone murdered Harlan, or arranged his death, it could explain why he’s back now. And it could give me a clue into Leo’s avoidance when it comes to the topic of family.

  I pull out the paper and sit back down at the table, absentmindedly covering my hands with a pair of document gloves to avoid ink smears. While I may appreciate the old way of doing things, I don’t want to spend all day finding black smudges all over myself and my things.

  The article sucks me in completely, the archive room and the rest of the library fading to darkness around the black and white words.

  Questions surround the tragic and untimely death of local handyman Harlan Boone, who passed away at an empty house he was rehabbing with his son, Leo Boone, also of Heron Creek. The two were working together at the home on Folly Island when the son, according to the statement he later made, returned to gather some tools he had left there earlier in the day. That’s when he found his father drowned in a water feature they were building at the rear of the property.

  Harlan Boone had a head injury indicative of a fall. Initially, it was presumed that he had slipped and fallen into the water, hitting his head and knocking himself unconscious in the process.

  I have to stop reading for a minute. The words are blurry, and it takes me a second to realize it’s because my eyes are full of tears—for Harlan, for Leo, for their whole family, I guess. But mostly for my friend.

  It’s horrible to lose a beloved father years too early, but to find him yourself?

  I know something about the shock, the disbelief, and the images that refuse to settle in the dark, unreachable parts of your memory. But as complicated as my relationship was with Frank Fournier, he wasn’t my father in the truest sense of the word. I barely knew him, and I didn’t love him.

  Leo? He adored his father, for good reason. And it sounds from the article as if their friendship had only grown as he stepped into adulthood.

  I didn’t know they’d started a business together, but Lindsay had mentioned that Leo was interested in flipping houses. All the same, I’m not surprised. He’s always preferred the type of work that makes a person sweat—and requires a physical connection—to the kind of job where the results can’t easily be seen and touched.

  That’s the sort of boy he was, and the sort of man he is. It would have struck me as strange to have come back to Heron Creek to find Leo Boone working a full-time job as a teller at the bank. Far stranger than to find him drifting, though, and I’ve been curious about the reason for his lack of focus.

  In my heart of hearts, I know his father’s death must be the reason he seems lost as far as a career and a future go. He’d had a plan—one that would have suited him well—only to have it ripped out from under him in the cruelest possible way.

  No wonder he’s struggling to land on a new path. Or to find his way back to the old one.

  Three years isn’t such a lon
g time to come to terms with those types of memories. Destroyed dreams and plans.

  Hell, I’m not sure ten years would do it.

  Not only that, but Leo and Harlan’s plans took Harlan to the place where he died. That alone could be the reason his family turned their backs on him. Grief clouds the truth, and it makes people lash out when they should be pulling together. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.

  With a deep breath, I turn back to finish the article, though the promise of details isn’t as alluring as it was at the outset. I’ve got enough nightmares of my own without borrowing other people’s.

  The initial conclusion has been called into question by Officer Raynard, who stated that the head injury could just as easily have been inflicted by a third party before Mr. Boone’s body was thrown into the pond. Leo Boone is being questioned, as are two additional contractors who had access to the house in recent weeks. We will follow up when there is news regarding this matter.

  My heart stops twice—first at the mention of an Officer Raynard. Was the officer somehow related to Clete?

  I had plenty of run-ins with the police here in Heron Creek as a child and then as a teenager. I don’t remember him being one of the cops who chased me down on a regular basis, and he doesn’t work on the force now. But it strikes me that the article didn’t ID him as a Heron Creek officer. He could have worked over on Folly Island, where the incident occurred.

  The knowledge that they questioned Leo is too hard to analyze for long, and only fuels my suspicion that the circumstances of his father’s death could be behind their family rift.

  I put the paper away and turn around to grab my laptop—and stop dead in my tracks at the sight of Harlan Boone’s ghost. Speak of the devil.

  His black hair is tousled and too long, the way I remember him wearing it. His bright blue eyes are as kind as ever and their familiarity pierces my heart. They’re Leo’s eyes, and knowing what I now know, the connection between them claws at my ability to breathe.