The Unmaking of June Farrow(40)

Margaret’s lips pursed defiantly, but she obeyed, giving me one last look before she headed to the back door. The screen slammed behind her.

Esther’s fair eyes sharpened on me. “Be careful. Best not to let her get too attached before you leave for good.”

I watched Margaret’s shape grow smaller through the window before she disappeared behind the fence.

“Eamon’s not the only one who was left with a broken heart. Understand?”

I didn’t know if she was talking only about Margaret or if she was including herself in that statement. If she did have some kind of affection for me, then she was good at hiding it. I’d felt little, if any, tenderness from her since I walked through the door.

If what they said was true, I couldn’t blame her. There were years of history between us, and it had ended with betrayal. Even if she was the only one who remembered it.

“You’ll have to give me those clothes. Anything else you brought with you that shouldn’t be here?” she asked.

I shook my head. I’d left everything in the truck.

Satisfied, Esther nodded. “Don’t take off that locket. Not even to sleep. You never know when that door will turn up.”

I picked it up, closing my fingers around it. “You still haven’t told me anything about why I left,” I said.

She sighed. “I think that’s a conversation best had with Eamon.” She finally fell quiet, leaning onto the counter with both hands as she reluctantly met my eyes.

I stared at her, waiting for whatever she wasn’t saying.

“That June is gone. Wherever she is, she’s years ahead of you now. The question is, honey, what are you doing here?”





Twelve


The drive from our farm to Eamon’s was only a few minutes, but in that time, I’d managed to run through a hundred different scenarios in my head.

I’d been gone from my own timeline in 2023 for more than twenty-four hours now. It wouldn’t have taken long for someone to come along and find the Bronco, door open and engine running on the side of the road. When I was nowhere to be found, they’d call the sheriff.

Minutes later, Birdie’s phone would ring. Then Mason’s. They’d be asked when they last saw me. If they knew where I was headed or if they had any clue where I could be. Mason would be terrified. He was probably out combing that field for me right now. Walking the riverbank and calling my name out into the woods. But Birdie . . . Birdie would know exactly where I was.

There was no way for me to be sure just how much she knew, and now I regretted storming out of the house instead of pressing her. If I had, would I have still walked through that door? I didn’t know. It made sense that Gran had trusted her oldest friend with the truth about our family, but why hadn’t she told me?

The bigger problem was how I would explain myself when I got back. What kind of excuse could I give for leaving my truck in the middle of the road and just disappearing? Would I ever be able to tell Mason the truth? Would he even believe me?

My hands nervously smoothed the soft fabric of the dress Esther had given me as she turned onto Hayward Gap Road. I broke out in a sweat when I saw Eamon walking the edge of the tobacco fields. We pulled into the drive, and he glanced up for only a moment, but I could see the set of his shoulders change. The look in his eyes hardened before he climbed the back steps to the house.

My hand searched beneath my shirt until I found the locket watch. The metal was warmed by my skin, the small clasp familiar to my fingers. I was already scanning the fields, looking for any sign of that faded red paint that covered the door. But there was nothing. No sign of that glint of sunlight on the bronze knob or hinges amid the green.

The engine cut off, and Esther let out what sounded like an exhausted breath. “Let me talk to him first.”

“I told you he doesn’t want me here.”

“Yes, well, want and need are two different things.”

She was opening the door and climbing out a moment later. I watched from the passenger seat as she walked up to the porch and disappeared inside the house. It was beautiful against the fields and the hills that gave way to that perfect view of the mountains in the distance.

Here, in 1951, it was a modest but working farm, its roof the shelter to a family. My family. Everything about it was tranquil and serene, but in my mind, I could still see the broken skeleton that existed in my time. The heaviness of it had settled in my bones, as if I could feel the precarious weight of those bowed, sagging beams that wanted so badly to come crashing down on the earth. It was a place that wanted to take its last breaths. The mare behind the fence paced its length, head shaking and mane flipping as it watched me with that one glistening black eye. The farm was quiet except for the stamp of her feet and the soft tinkle of what sounded like wind chimes.

Slowly, my gaze moved to the porch, skipping over the rafters until I saw them. The sunlight sparkled as it glinted off a string of silver rods suspended from a wooden frame. My hand found the handle of the truck’s door and I opened it, feet touching the dirt as I stared.

That tingling at the nape of my neck was back. It was the same sound I’d heard in the kitchen that day. The one that had split my head open with its ringing. And that wasn’t the only time I’d heard it, either.

I was only beginning to work out how the things I’d written in my notebook connected to this place. I could hear the wind chimes just as clearly now as I had when I was in our house on Bishop Street. That moment had been real, but when had it taken place?