Before, pt 2
Chapter 21, Part 2
Previously in Garden of Little Peace:
As Hurricane Fianna inches closer to North Carolina, the murder investigation in Ravina Springs continues in the background. Around Brennan and Win, friendships strengthen, old wounds show signs of healing, and relationships start moving in unexpected directions.
Chapter 21 turned the clock back to Thursday morning, the day after Fletcher’s arrival in Ravina Springs.
Alone for the first time since landing in North Carolina, Fletcher finally has space to confront the grief he's been trying to outrun. A quiet walk through town becomes an explosive reckoning with Leah's death, the child he never knew, and the future stolen from them.
Along the way, he catches a glimpse of CeCe that doesn't match the charming face she shows the world, finds himself drawn once again toward Brennan and her bookstore, and begins to see Ravina Springs through fresh eyes.
Thursday
By noon, Fletcher realized this idleness would drive him to madness.
He spent an hour wandering through the garden and another through the house, pulling books from Winston’s expansive library shelves—nearly as extensive as the bookstore nearby—killing time until Winston arrived for lunch. The books were interesting and varied, but his mind wouldn’t focus. He’d already walked the entire downtown.
Eventually, he found himself standing on the back porch looking across the garden toward the rear wall of the bookshop without quite realizing he’d moved there. But he kept himself from walking across the garden. Brennan had more pressing things to do than entertain him.
He wasn’t built to drift along like this. He needed a purpose. A lead. Something that might explain why Leah had sent him here to begin with.
Leah, help me. The thought came unbidden.
But Leah was gone, and she would not answer.
Brennan had noticed something off about CeCe last night. He had noticed something off about her this morning.
But maybe CeCe was exactly what she appeared to be. Maybe she was one of those people so determined to be liked that every smile felt rehearsed. Still, Fletcher’s instincts kept catching on her like a burr.
It took Fletcher a second to realize where his thoughts had gone. They came so naturally to him he didn’t realize he had begun weighing evidence, turning over his impressions, building his case.
“Dammit.” The word slipped out into the empty garden. That wasn’t why he was here.
The crunch of tires on the gravel drive announced Winston’s arrival even before he stepped onto the porch, a black canvas messenger bag hanging against his hip.
“Hello. Ready for lunch?”
Fletcher eyed the bag’s bright blue leather trim. “Is that the same bag you used to haul around Cavan?”
Win glanced down at the bag, stuffed full of papers. “Yes. Why?”
“You never thought to replace it?”
Winston looked mildly offended as he patted the bag fondly. “Whatever for? It has plenty of life left.”
Fletcher felt the corners of his mouth twitch. “It’s only been twenty years.”
Win shrugged. “Good things last. Come on. Let’s get lunch.” He dropped the bag onto the dining room table as they headed for the door. “I thought I’d introduce you to the Ravina Diner.”
Fletcher stopped short. “Too late.”
Win caught the undertone in his voice and laughed. “Do you have room for lunch, then?”
Fletcher winced. “Something light. Maybe.”
“I’ve got the place, then. A little Thai spot in Holly Springs.”
They left Ravina on a four-lane highway that quickly widened to six. Every new lane filled almost as quickly as it appeared. Old storefronts and shaded streets gave way to chain restaurants, shopping centers, and sprawling townhome developments built cheek-to-jowl. Young trees sprang up everywhere, as though someone had planted an entire forest overnight.
Win drove with one hand on the wheel of his old Volvo, relaxed. He glanced over at his friend.
“You never did explain your late arrival yesterday.”
Fletcher studied the landscape rolling past the window. Unlike downtown, nothing here distinguished the passing scenery from a hundred other American towns. He didn’t know how to answer Win; the truth would require too much explaining.
A crane swung above a half-finished building in the distance.
Instead of answering, he asked “How much of this is new?”
Win seemed to recognize the dodge, but let the deflection pass. “Most of it. When Bren was a girl, Holly Springs had maybe three thousand people. Now it’s pushing sixty. And it’s still growing.”
“Sixty thousand?” Fletcher remembered the modest building boom in Cavan when he was a boy. New estates had appeared at the edges of town. A few thousand extra residents had seemed remarkable at the time. He couldn’t imagine a place growing twentyfold across a few decades. “But…why?”
Win shrugged. “Jobs. Lower taxes. Better schools. Pick a reason.”
The car’s tires hummed against the pavement. Win drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, not willing to let his question go.
Fletcher glanced his way, caught his expectant look. “Yeah, okay. I needed a few hours to...” The words stalled. “I don’t know. Get my balance this side of the Atlantic.”
It sounded inadequate even to him, but it was the best he could do.
Win finally nodded. “Fair enough.” He looked back toward the road. “Do you have any clearer idea what you're hoping to find here?”
Fletcher settled back against the leather. “No, but it’s been less than forty-eight hours. I can’t expect miracles, I suppose.” He gave a short chuckle. “Have I worn out my welcome already?”
Win shook his head. “You have an open invitation to stay as long as you like. It’s not as though I’m short on room.”
Fletcher turned his head toward the window. “I need more time with Brennan…” he muttered.
The engine note softened.
“She may be the key,” Fletcher continued, “to understanding why Leah sent me here.”
A moment later it rose again.
“Maybe,” Win said.
The restaurant occupied a narrow storefront between an insurance office and a financial advisor, fronting a sea of townhomes. Nothing about it suggested exceptional food.
The moment they stepped inside, though, the aroma made Fletcher rethink his original opinion. A petite woman behind the counter brightened. “Mr. Win!” She followed the welcome with a rapid stream of words Fletcher didn’t understand, aimed toward the kitchen.
Another woman appeared from the back, smiled at Winston, and waved them toward the mostly empty dining room. “Want the usual, Mr. Win?”
“Please.” Win nodded toward Fletcher. “And bring my friend something light.”
“Okay, good. Thank you!” She disappeared.
“No one uses menus here?” Fletcher asked.
“I can have them bring you one.” Win smiled. “But then you only get what’s on it.”
Within minutes, their small table was brimming with food. A deep bowl landed in front of him. Golden broth glowed beneath tangled noodles. Bright cilantro, sliced shallots, and a wedge of lime added sharp bursts of color. Crisp fried noodles crowned the top like kindling scattered over a fire.
The curry carried enough warmth to feel familiar, but little else about it matched his expectations. The noodles yielded easily, while the crisp ones scattered across the top added crunch.
Across the table, Winston watched with entirely too much interest.
Fletcher sat back. “Okay. It’s good.”
“I told you.”
Fletcher reached for his water. “I’ve been unfair to Billy. I sometimes forget John and I didn’t like you at first.”
“I can’t help that you found me intimidating. Or that Billy does.”
Fletcher snorted.
Win took another bite of his food. “Speaking of Billy...”
Fletcher didn’t look up immediately. Something in Win’s tone made the hair on the back of his neck raise up. “Yeah?”
“I owe you an apology for last night.”
Fletcher set down his fork. “For what?”
“Sending Brennan with you.”
“I thought this was about Billy.”
“Yes, well.” Win wiped his hands on his napkin. “Billy wasn’t thrilled about it.”
Fletcher frowned. “He seemed okay last night.”
Win took a sip of his water. “ Well, he’s overly protective of Brennan. Annoying, really.”
Fletcher gazed across the table at his friend. Whatever game Win was playing, Billy wasn’t the point of it. “I see. Thanks for telling me. Is Merritt better today?”
Win looked like a man who’d cast a line into deep water and reeled it back empty. His answer came a little too late.
“Yeah. Much.”
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Prologue: One for the road · Chapter 1: The kept knife · Chapter 2: The weight of silence · Chapter 3: What remains · Chapter 4: Where none can follow · Chapter 5: The only question · Chapter 6: Twice gone · Chapter 7: Worlds collide · Chapter 8: No more waiting · Chapter 9: After after · Chapter 10: The dangerous ones · Chapter 11: The witching hour · Chapter 12: Bright as a pin · Chapter 13: Wet clay · Chapter 14: The wrong answer · Chapter 15 pt 1: On solid ground ·Chapter 15 pt 2: On solid ground ·Chapter 16: Into darkness ·Chapter 17:The walls come down ·Chapter 18:The long way round ·Chapter 19 pt 1: The breaking point · Chapter 19 pt 2: The breaking point · Chapter 20 pt 1: The calm · Chapter 20 pt 2: The calm · Chapter 21 pt 1: Before ···
I have hit a snag. Maybe two.
First (not a snag), the description of the Thai restaurant dropped me right in the room. Great work there. I could really perceive the crackle of the noodles and the warmth of the broth accented with the colored ingredients.
Second, a snag. The reason that sprawling development is boring and colorless is that it is . . . boring and colorless. I understand that completely. Set against the more natural integrity of Ireland (or even Western NC) it is a stark contrast of mass over nature. I can't believe I am saying it, but the colorless sprawl might need to be highlighted, either in direct portrayal or in contrast. It really is colorless sprawl of gray and slate and butter-tones. A new traffic light every month. A million gray colorless cars (Henry Ford would laugh). The people all wear the same clothes and carry the same phones and drive the same cars and the mailboxes have matching colors and when there is a humanitarian tragedy in the world we all pretend to care deeply for about three days before there is another one and our interest moves on.
There is a kind of hollow sterile yet insidious quality to the sprawl that might be captured better here. Marshall's at one end, Target at the other. DSW in between. And Chipotle. A kind of architectural breast implant. Maybe bigger but not in any way better unless you think sprawl somehow has value. It certainly doesn't make more milk.
Third, a snag. This is the big one. It is probably a product of my limited intellect. In the closing words of this chapter. five people are mentioned: Win, Merritt, Fletcher, Brennan and . . . expletive . . . I forgot the last one! Earlier there was also CeCe. I cannot tell you a single thing about what any of these people look like or how they "sound". I remember the blue bag and the golden broth and the green lime. But the people, no.
Now maybe that's the point. Maybe it is a kind of soap opera where each person says something and then the other person says something then the third person asks if the first person remembers what the fourth person said a week ago. I don't know.
I lost the trail. I can remember the names because they are distinctive (wonderful!). I am having trouble seeing them in my mind other than the quick passages of what they say.
It might just be me. Or it might not.