It was such a natural, intuitive movement, a reflex to seeing that subtle distress on her face. And it worked. Annie let her head fall against his arm, her eyes glittering as the lights of downtown Jasper came into view.
The road was the busiest I’d seen it. Even in 2023, the Midsummer Faire was something that no one in Jasper missed. But in 1951, it wasn’t just an annual event, it was the one-year anniversary of Nathaniel Rutherford’s murder.
Three police cars were parked in front of the diner when we neared the white tent, and I clenched my fingers into a fist. Over Annie’s head, I could feel Eamon give me an appraising look. The whole town was probably talking about seeing me in the back of Caleb Rutherford’s police car, and they’d have their own theories about why. It seemed like Caleb had kept his suspicion of Eamon quiet.
The tent erected over the bridge looked like the portal to another world, a blush-hued glow spilling from beneath its roof. Strands of glowing string lights stretched across the street outside, taking on the appearance of fireflies.
As soon as Eamon turned off the engine, I could hear the music—bluegrass. It was a timeless sound I could feel at home in. For a split second, the divide between the Jasper I knew and the one I’d fallen into felt almost nonexistent.
“You sure about this?” Eamon still had his hand on the keys, ready to start the truck back up and turn around.
“No,” I answered.
I got out anyway, waiting for Annie to hop out behind me before I shut the door. Eamon was at her side a moment later, and she stepped into the street, sticking close to his side. His hand floated into the air between us, and I drew in a deep breath before I took it, goosebumps racing over my entire body when his fingers folded between mine.
I swallowed hard when his grip tightened, pressing the wedding ring I’d put on between our fingers. He went still, lifting our hands between us, and then he turned mine over until he saw it. The small gold band gleamed in the soft light. He stared at it, a gentle summer breeze catching the collar of his shirt.
I hoped he wasn’t hurt, but he didn’t betray whatever it was he was thinking.
The light from the tent framed the mouth of the river bridge, and we walked toward it, our three shadows moving side by side. Across the water, the white glow of the church sat nestled in the trees. It was nearly dark, but it all looked the same. The small parking lot that was half gravel and half grass. The crude fences of the churchyard, though they were narrower. They hadn’t moved them to expand the cemetery yet, and I found myself searching the distant green hill for the white headstones of the Farrows.
I forced myself to smile as we ducked inside, swallowed up by the sound of voices and the quick-step melody of a song. The flowers we’d brought from the farm were woven into long garlands that were draped from each corner of the tent to the next, a cascade of golds and pinks that cast a rose-colored haze around us. Beneath them, the stage propped up a four-piece band consisting of a fiddle, mandolin, banjo, and steel guitar.
I ignored the feeling of eyes on us as Eamon pulled me through the crowd.
“Hey, June!” A woman about my age with copper-red hair squeezed my shoulder as I passed, giving me what appeared to be a genuine smile.
“Hey!” The response was automatic as I tried to place her face. Hers was one I definitely knew, painted in the background of some memory that hadn’t unfurled yet.
She waved, chasing a little boy toward the stage, and then she was gone, replaced by a dozen other faces.
When we spotted Margaret on the other side of the dance floor, Eamon let me go, and I was keenly aware when the warmth of him pulled away from me. He watched me until I made it to her, Annie on my heels, and then two men were drawing him into conversation.
Margaret’s bright eyes were sparkling over rouged cheeks, and her hair was pinned up, making her look several years older. The sleeves of her soft pink dress whisked at her shoulders, and a simple silver necklace with a small pendant hung around her neck.
She pulled me toward her, bouncing on her toes like she could hardly contain herself. “Was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
“You look beautiful.” I smiled, taking her in.
Her grin doubled in size. “Thank you.”
She scooped Annie up, setting her on her hip, and Annie’s hands immediately went to the sparkling pin in Margaret’s hair. But Margaret’s eyes were drifting across the dance floor, watching a young man with a crate of glasses in his arms.
He was a hired hand at the flower farm, the one I’d seen the day I’d spent at Esther’s. Margaret’s gaze followed him as he passed, and when he looked at her, her cheeks flushed a deeper red.
“And who is that?” I asked, giving her a knowing look.
“Just a boy.”
“Does he have a name?”
She glanced over her shoulder to Esther, as if to be sure she wasn’t listening. “Malachi.”
“Malachi Rhodes?” The name leapt from my mouth.
Margaret’s eyes widened, brows coming together. “How do you know that?”
My lips parted, but it took a moment before I could make myself speak. “I heard someone say his name at the farm.”
I still wasn’t sure about the rules of interference. I was treading lightly, trying to make the fewest ripples possible, like Esther had said, and I had thought less about it with Eamon and Annie because they didn’t exist in my world. But Malachi and Gran had been close friends my entire life, so close that she’d insisted he play fiddle at her burial. I’d always wondered if there had ever been something between them. I’d even gone so far as to wonder if he may have been my mother’s father and my grandfather.
Margaret’s curiosity died with my less-than-interesting answer, and she swayed from side to side, rocking Annie in her arms. The music changed, and the crowd around the stage shifted shape, dispersing long enough for men with glasses of beer and women on their arms to weave along the edge of the dance floor. There were children chasing one another, and a group of a few black women in A-line dresses smoking cigarettes just outside. A table was stacked with homemade desserts on pedestal stands.
My eyes found Eamon across the tent. He stood shoulder to shoulder with two other men, listening as one of them talked, a bottle of beer in one hand. The man’s red face was turned toward the lights, but Eamon’s was still draped in shadow.
“Who is that Eamon’s talking to?” I said, leaning closer to Margaret.
She lifted up onto her toes to see. “Oh, that’s Frank Crawley.”
Crawley. It took me a moment to remember. Frank Crawley was mentioned in the newspaper articles about the murder. That’s where Nathaniel had been headed the night he died.
“He lives at the end of Hayward Gap. Another tobacco farm down the road from you,” Margaret said.
“The Crawley barn,” I murmured, looking at her.
“What?”
Annie slid down from Margaret’s hip, pulling at her hand.
“That’s on our road?” I asked.
Margaret looked confused. “Yeah. Why?”
“No reason,” I lied. “Just trying to place everyone.”
I watched Eamon, studying the way he stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his reserved expression contorted by the dim light. He’d left the Faire early that night when Percy Lyle came to tell him that Callie had gotten out of the paddock. He’d gone home. If the Crawleys lived at the end of our road and Nathaniel was headed there, there was every reason to believe that he and Eamon could have crossed paths.