From the corner of my vision I could see Mason eyeing the empty bins and the accordion file that was now lying limp on the table. He was behind me a few seconds later, arms crossed over his chest. The expression on his face was almost angry, but I didn’t know what he had to be mad about. I was the one losing my mind.
I traded the casserole dish for an untouched blueberry pie and fished two spoons from the crock beside the stove. I didn’t bother grabbing bowls, heading back to the table.
“You need to talk to me. I’m worried about you,” he said.
“You’re worried?” I muttered, taking a seat. I set the pie between us, handing him a spoon.
“Yes. I’m worried. You’ve been off for a while. And now I find you shut up in the house with this shit everywhere?”
I smiled bitterly. “You think I’m losing it.”
“I don’t know what’s going on. That’s why I want you to talk to me.”
I shoved the spoon into the pie, eating straight out of the pan. I’d known it would come to this eventually. Mason knew me too well. I couldn’t hide from him.
“You can trust me, June. You know that.”
I did know. There wasn’t anything I could say that would push Mason away. In fact, I’d tried. We’d made an agreement years ago that he’d be the first person I called when it started, but the moment I told him, the moment I said it out loud, it would all be true. That would make it real.
I dropped the spoon onto the table, pressing my hands to my face again. There was no point in lying anymore. I knew that. But it was just so hard to say.
I drew in a deep breath and stood, going to the shelf on the far wall for the whiskey decanter. “Sit down.” I took two of the etched lowball glasses from the hutch, setting them onto the table.
“If you’re trying to scare me, it’s working.”
“Please just sit down.” I was exhausted now.
Mason was already pouring the whiskey when I took the chair across from him, and when he picked up his glass, I followed. I took it in one swallow, wincing as the burn traveled down my throat. The smoky smell of it filled the air around us, and as soon as I set down the glass, Mason refilled it.
“It’s happening,” I said.
My voice was so quiet that I wasn’t completely sure I’d spoken the words. But Mason’s face changed, his eyes jumping back and forth on mine. His grip tightened on his glass.
“It’s been happening,” I breathed. “For about a year now.” All at once, it became definitive. Conclusive.
“A year.”
I nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why do you think?” I smirked, tears biting the back of my throat.
“Okay.” Mason’s tone had completely changed now.
I could see it in his eyes. He’d shifted gears to damage control, and I wasn’t entirely sure I didn’t need it. I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him that there was nothing he could do to make this okay. He was a man who needed to feel like he was fixing things. Always finding the loose knots in people and tightening them up before they could unravel. I wasn’t going to take that away from him.
“Well, what do you mean it’s happening. What’s happening exactly?”
“I’m seeing things. Hearing things. Getting mixed up about what’s real.”
“What kinds of things?”
“I don’t know.” I flung a hand in the air between us. “Everything!”
Mason looked at me a long time before he picked up his glass and drank. I was glad I couldn’t hear what he was thinking. Besides Birdie, he was the only person I had in the world, and that filled me with a tremendous amount of guilt.
“Have you made an appointment with Dr. Jennings?” he asked.
“Yes. I’ve been going every month.”
“Well, I’d like to go with you next time. Talk to him about what kind of plans we need to make.”
“It doesn’t have to be we,” I whispered.
He waited for me to look at him, and when he spoke, he didn’t hesitate on the words. “It’s always been we.”
An acute pain bloomed inside of me, unfurling beneath my skin. This was exactly what I didn’t want, and it was also maybe my only option. The truth was, if the roles were reversed, I’d do the same for him.
“It’s one thing to say you’ll be there every step of the way when you’re an eighteen-year-old idiot who doesn’t know anything about life. It’s another to be us, now.”
“Have things really changed that much?” He was trying to make me laugh, but I couldn’t feel any warmth inside of me.
“Don’t you . . .” I turned the glass on the table. “Don’t you want something more? A family? A different life outside of the farm and Jasper?” It had been years since I’d asked him that question.
Mason shrugged. “Maybe one day. That’s not what I want now, though.”
I caught a tear at the corner of my eye before it could fall.
“Maybe I’m still waiting for you to suddenly realize you’re in love with me.”
I did laugh then, because it was tragically funny and sadly, somewhat true. I could imagine a life where we were together, married, maybe even with children. But that life could only belong to a June who wasn’t born a Farrow. And I’d somehow managed to keep my heart from getting broken by Mason Caldwell. He’d managed to do the same with me.
“Have you told Birdie?”
I shook my head. “I will. Soon.”
It was all settling. Not just what I’d told him, but what it meant. This was the beginning of the end, and even if we’d known it was coming our whole lives, it was still terrifying.
“And what’s going on in there?” He gestured to the sitting room. “Really.”
“You don’t want to know,” I muttered.
His eyebrows raised again.
I sighed, getting to my feet, and walked around the corner of the wall. I took the photograph Gran had sent me from the mantel of the fireplace and the one of my mother from the table. When I came back into the kitchen, Mason’s glass was empty for the second time. I set the picture from 1911 down in front of him, sinking back into my chair.
“I was opening a stack of mail yesterday and there was an envelope from Gran. It was posted a few days before she died, and this was the only thing inside.”
He studied the faces in the photograph before flipping it over and reading the name. “Who is that?”
“Nathaniel Rutherford,” I said, watching his eyes widen.
“The guy who—”
“Was murdered,” I said. “Yes. And that woman is his wife.”
I placed the second photo beside it, and he leaned in closer. “Okay, so it’s the same woman. What of it?”
I set a finger on the one of my mother. “Only, it can’t be. That’s my mother, Susanna.”
He looked confused now, trying to track.
I reached across the table, turning the first photo over so he could read the inscription on the back. “This was taken in 1911. This one”—I pointed to the other photo—“was sometime in the eighties.”