“And that was it then? Together ever since?” she asked.

  “Mostly, yeah.” He dropped the hose and pulled a pocket knife from his jeans, flicked it open and cleaned beneath his thumbnail. He smiled at her. “Sorry. Got some compost lodged under here. We didn’t go straight to happily ever after. River tortured me for about a year. We’d go out then she’d not answer my calls for a couple weeks, refused to say we’re boyfriend and girlfriend ’til we were practically living together.

  “River needs a lot of space and a lot of intimacy at the same time. It’s not always easy to know, but I keep tryin’. I’ll never stop tryin’. I know she’s worried about that, that this sadness, confusion she’s been dealing with will somehow be our end, that I’ll leave, but I never will. I’m telling you, Celeste, I knew the moment I laid eyes on River she was meant for me. When I said ‘’til death do us part,’ I meant it. I still mean it. I’ll never leave unless she makes me, which sometimes scares me. If River wanted me gone, she could make it happen. There’s nothing she can’t do.”

  “Why would she want you gone?”

  He closed the knife, returned it to his pocket. “I don’t know. To be alone, maybe. Trust isn’t easy for River. This life, me and her, and then add Hope… you have to have a lot of faith to love like this. It’s scary. It’s vulnerable. And I feel that too.” He rested his hand on his chest then lifted the hose and rinsed his fingers. “The thought of losing her brings me to my knees. Sometimes I’m afraid she’s just like her name, River—water running through my hands.”

  “What is your sense of how River’s doing right now?” Celeste asked.

  “Oh, God, she’s magic, truly. But I think that magic sometimes only comes outta people who’ve survived horrible things. Maybe it’s a gift from God making up for all that pain. She’s playing here in Baraboo tonight. You should come. She’ll make you bawl your eyes out one minute and dance on a table the next. She’s special, everyone sees it, but this… this thing with her birth parents, it’s been eating at her. Cordelia says it’s like a dragon, that kind of trauma. You find a way when you’re young to chase it into the closet and barricade the door, but it’s been scratchin’ all these years, diggin’ a hole. Eventually it gets out and you have to face it down, slay it once and for all.”

  Luna walked between them and paused, then shook her whole body hard, splattering them both with water.

  “Luna! Go on!” He shoed the dog away. “Sorry about that.”

  “No big deal,” Celeste told him, wiping water from her face. “River mentioned your family lives nearby. Are you close with them?”

  “Oh, yeah. My parents, grandparents, brothers—we all still talk every week. They all live here in Baraboo. My ma calls me every day.” He smiled. “Sometimes that’s a bit much. But I can’t imagine who I’d have become without them. River never had any of that. No mother, no father, no siblings. Just a couple decent social workers and a bunch of foster families until Cordelia and Clay finally took her, but she was thirteen by then, so I think the seeds had been planted or, in her case, no seeds had been planted. One of her songs is like that. She talks about herself as a barren field, too rocky for anyone to bother tilling.”

  Celeste swallowed, massaged her hip, and wished his words didn’t resonate so deeply within her. What would it have been like to grow up as Owen had, with two parents, an extended family, a mom who still called him every day?

  When River emerged from the house she held a freshly washed Hope on her hip, wet curls resting on the collar of her little pink robe.

  “Clean as a whistle,” River announced. “No more playing in the compost pile. Got it?”

  “Ya, Mama.”

  River handed Hope to Owen. “Want to get started on dinner? I’m going to get some paperwork around for Celeste.”

  “You betcha.” He kissed River’s cheek then leaned into Hope and smelled her wet hair. “Ooh, Mama used the tea tree shampoo. Smells good.”

  River turned to Celeste. “Will you stay for dinner? We’d love to have you.”

  Celeste thought of the evening she’d imagined—takeout and a bottle of Scotch at a motel somewhere in town. “Oh, well…”

  “You’ve got to,” Owen insisted. “I’m making braised beef short ribs. River whipped up a strawberry cream cheese pie this morning. Plus, Arnie’s coming over. He’s a hoot.”

  Celeste considered saying no, but knew spending large amounts of time alone with her computer and a bottle of liquor was what her and Jonathan’s therapist called ‘dysregulated behavior.’

  “Okay. Sure,” Celeste agreed.

  “The paperwork I have is in the cabin,” River said. “It helps keep clutter out of the house and… well, I don’t like to look at it. That’s weird, right? It’s just a folder with a few sheets of paper.”

  Celeste followed River across the property to a small log cabin. A little concrete patio covered by a wood arch held two rocking chairs that flanked the front door. For a moment, a man sat in one of the rocking chairs, a pipe balanced on his lip. By the time Celeste and River reached the patio he had dissolved into the air.

  “It’s rustic, much like the house. Owen’s grandparents lived here when they were first married and Owen and I lived here when we built the main house. I say we built it, but it was mostly him and his dad and brothers.”

  “Is Owen’s grandfather dead?” Celeste asked, gazing at the empty chair, still rocking slightly.

  “Yes. He passed a couple years ago,” River said. “Sometimes I still get a whiff of his pipe when I’m over here. It’s strange.”

  River opened the door and Celeste stepped into the cabin. A stone fireplace stood against one wall; a small sofa and a rocking chair faced it.

  “Bathroom in here,” River explained, opening a door.

  A claw-foot tub sat on the wood floor beneath a window, a porcelain pedestal sink on the opposite side.

  “What a beautiful bathtub.”

  River shuddered. “I actually hate taking baths. I’ve never set foot in that thing. Owen put it in after we moved into the main house.”

  Celeste looked from River to the bathtub.

  “I know, I know. My name is River and I hate taking baths. I’ve heard it before. I love water, flowing water, moving water, but still water…” She rubbed her arms. “I don’t like it. You know what one of my foster moms said when I told her? That an aversion to baths had come from the Devil to ensure I’d never be baptized and I’d rot in hell like the rest of the sinners.”

  Celeste’s stomach tightened. “A foster mother told you that?”

  “Yeah.” River’s jaw hardened. “She’s not a foster parent anymore. I made it my mission after I moved to Be Free. I wrote the social services office, the local prosecutor, the governor, and the police about every family who abused me or other kids in their care. I put every detail in those letters. Some of them were darn long.”

  “Were there ever criminal charges against any of the parents?”

  River sighed, rubbed beneath her eyes. “One. A man who used to… do stuff to us girls. He and his wife only fostered girls. He got six months, is already out.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. ‘Trust the system,’ that’s what the social worker told me when they wanted me to testify. So I did and then I spent a year getting terrible phone calls from his wife. When he got out, he showed up at Be Free. I was sixteen. Nothing happened. Clay and several other Be Free guys chased him off. That was years ago, but I still have nightmares about him sometimes. Still, I’m happy I testified. They lost their right to foster kids and he has a record, so it wasn’t a total waste.”

  A bookshelf made from sturdy-looking oak planks stood along one wall. River pulled a folder from between two books. She laid the folder open on a little kitchen table.

  “I don’t have much,” River admitted. “I printed a few things from the ancestry website, but I think the research has to be done there. We don’t have a computer or internet here. We go into town to the library when we need to get online. No cell service even, but we have a landline.”

  “I think I’d go crazy,” Celeste said, sifting through the papers.

  River gazed out the window where Hope was chasing one of the goats in a circle. “It’s not as hard as you’d think. I have enough noise up here without adding to it.” River tapped her temple. “And honestly, neither Owen nor I miss it. The worst thing is when I’m trying to cook something and can’t look up an ingredient replacement.” She laughed. “But I can live with that.”

  “What about scheduling shows and stuff for your music?”

  “Arnie does all that. He’s our de facto manager. He schedules the shows, updates the website, even has several social media accounts. I just show up when and where he tells me to.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “Yeah.” She nodded. “I try to keep my energy here on the farm. It’s either here or it’s with my music. I don’t have much left after that. And I don’t want to give what I do have to a bunch of strangers on the internet.” She looked quickly at Celeste and shook her head. “I can’t believe I just said that. Here you are literally a boat ride from home to help a stranger on the internet. Jesus. I swear sometimes I don’t source my words before I spill ’em out. What you do is extraordinary, Celeste, and I can’t thank you enough.”

  Celeste shook her head. “It’s okay, River. We all have to find our own way. I think what you’ve created here is beautiful. I could use a little more of this. Maybe someday I’ll unplug a bit. God knows I could use it.” She turned her attention back to the paperwork. “I’ll need the login information for your ancestry account, if you’re okay sharing it.”

  “Absolutely. Yeah.” River flipped over one of the pieces of paper and groped through a drawer until she came out with a dull pencil. She wrote a username and password.

  Outside a vehicle bumped down the driveway and stopped. Someone honked their horn.

  “That’s Arnie.”

  Through the window, Celeste saw Hope hobble toward the Jeep where a young man with long black hair tied in a ponytail and ripped jeans stepped out. He picked her up and opened the back door of his Jeep.

  Celeste followed River from the cabin.

  Arnie saw her and waved. “Wait ’til you see what I brought the little bean.”

  He held up a scrawny white kitten, its fur gray with dirt. A single black spot covered one eye.

  “Kippy! Kippy!” Hope shouted, wiggling to get closer to the cat.

  “Good grief, Arnie. Did you really think we needed another animal around here?” River asked.

  “River, this sweet little thing was a quarter mile up the road. Looked like a little hitchhiker trying to get home, and where else could home be but right here in paradise?”

  Owen walked out, a dishrag in his hands. “What have you got there, Arnie?”

  “He’s brought us a kitten,” River announced flatly.

  “I’m allergic to cats,” Owen said, mouth turned down. “I’ll itch my skin right off if I touch that thing. He sure is cute though, isn’t he?”

  River petted the kitten’s head.

  Arnie frowned. “Maybe my mom can take him. She used to have a cat.”

  “I’ll take him,” Celeste blurted.

  8

  Arnie stared at Celeste as if noticing her for the first time.

  “Oh. Sorry. Arnie, this is Celeste,” River said.

  Arnie extended a hand. “Good to meet you. Are you serious about taking him?”

  “You don’t have to,” River insisted. “You already came all this way and⁠—”

  “No. It’s not a burden. I want to.” And Celeste realized as she looked at the kitten with his patch over one eye and his exhausted little body that it was true.

  “Do you have any animal formula?” Celeste asked. “Puppy or something for the goats? I had to bottle-feed my cat Cash as a baby. His mother had been hit and he was abandoned. This little guy looks too young for solid food.”

  “We do,” Owen said. “Puppy formula, and you could use one of Hope’s bottles.”

  “I wonder if there are any motels in town that’d allow cats,” Celeste said.

  “You don’t need to get a motel,” River insisted. “Stay in the cabin. That’s what it’s there for. It’d be perfect and if you’re up for it, we could drive to Be Free tomorrow and get the social work file Cordelia has.”

  Celeste glanced at the cabin. She’d only been at River and Owen’s place for a couple hours, but something about it tugged at a tendon of nostalgia within her. The smell of the fresh earth and grass and a creek somewhere not far off took her back to a place she barely remembered—her childhood home in West Virginia, those distant years when she’d had a mother and a father and brother all together under one roof. “Okay. Yeah. I’d love to.”

  After Celeste bathed and fed the kitten, Hope assisting with gently toweling him off, she put him in a box lined with a blanket and left him in the cabin.

  Hope followed Celeste from the cabin and tugged on the leg of her jeans. “Pick,” she said. “Pick.”

  Celeste looked down where Hope’s arms were extended up. She knelt and lifted the little girl. Hope wrapped her arms tight around Celeste’s neck. The little girl smelled like shampoo and the slightly musky odor of the kitten.

  “We’ll eat on the back porch,” River called. “Do you want me to take her?”

  “No. I’ve got her,” Celeste said. Hope’s weight in her arms, her heartbeat against Celeste’s own, caused a flutter of longing deep in her belly. She’d never given much thought to having children, couldn’t imagine having them now as her and Jonathan’s life had begun to careen out of control, but she inhaled Hope’s scent and felt grateful for the moment.

  Celeste carried her around the back of the house to where Owen and River had arranged platters of food on a wooden table on the porch. A bouquet of wild flowers stuck from a wine bottle in the center.

  “How’s the cat doing?” Arnie asked.

  “Asleep, and he sucked his bottle down in about two minutes, so that’s a good sign.”

  “It sure is,” he agreed. “Thought of a name yet for him?”

  Celeste smiled. “Romeo.” The name had popped into her head while she and Hope bathed him.

  “Hmm… the star-crossed lover, huh? I like it. It suits him. River and Owen said you’re here to help find River’s birth mother. Is that what you do for a living? I’m so curious how it all works.”

  Celeste sat Hope in a chair and took a seat, accepting the glass of wine River handed her. “It’s not what I do. I resigned from my job as a scientist a couple months ago. I worked in a pharmaceutical lab for the previous eight years, but last year I was hit by a car and nearly died. Or I guess I did die and the doctors brought me back. That changed me, changed my focus, my purpose.”

  “You were hit by a car?” River murmured. “How scary.”

  “Did they catch the person who hit you?” Owen asked.

  Celeste shook her head. “No. But… I try not to dwell too much on that. I know it sounds strange, but in retrospect it feels like something I needed to happen. Like my life was off course.”

  “Wow,” Arnie said, heaping food onto his plate. “It’s pretty cool you see it that way.”

  Celeste thought of her near-death experience. No part of her wished it hadn’t happened. It was an odd way to feel, but it was true. “I was really fortunate. Other than some lingering hip and leg pain, I’ve almost fully recovered.”

  “Well, I’ve always told Owen and River an hour in one of their rocking chairs staring at the trees adds a year to your life, so I think you’ve come to the right place.”

  “And the band is playing at Revival tonight,” Owen said. “You can hear River sing. Ain’t nothing more healing than that.”

  After dinner, Celeste and River followed Arnie, Owen and Hope to River’s gig.

  “Is this a church?” Celeste asked, pulling into the parking lot next to Arnie.

  “Used to be, but that’s been decades ago,” River said. “It’s called Revival. It’s a bar and restaurant. We play here quite a bit. Grady Monroe—the owner—is really supportive of local musicians. His is the only place in town you can find live music almost every night of the week.”

  When they walked in, Owen, Hope on his hip, and Arnie headed toward the bar, where a Goliath of a man in a Revival t-shirt stood.

  Chandeliers crafted from old wine barrels hung from the high vaulted ceilings. A massive oak slab bar ran nearly the length of one side of the room. The altar had been converted into a stage. The arched windows held stained glass, likely the same stained glass from its time as a church. Celeste stared at the depictions of religious figures, doves exploding into colored light, holy crosses.

  Faded and scuffed wood planks comprised the floor. For a moment Celeste saw hundreds of feet shuffling along in polished black shoes. The hems of dresses brushed the worn wood. Voices murmured and cried out and a stream of images coursed through her mind—the whispered prayers of former congregants set free in that space, some filled with hope and others with desperation. She heard the sounds of knees hitting the floor, hands slapping the planks.

  “Celeste?”

  Celeste jumped when River touched her elbow. “Sorry. I was…”—she gestured at the space—“just taking it all in.”

  “It’s something, isn’t it? At night after shows, sometimes I like to sit here and just… breathe. Feel it. This place.” River led Celeste to the stage where a group of men, including Arnie, had assembled.

  “Here they are,” River said. “I’d like you to meet the band Grace not Grit. You already met Arnie, our banjo man. Morgan plays the bass and violin. Wayne is our drummer. And we have a few others who come and go depending on the gig. Guys, this is Celeste.”

  Celeste shook the hands of the men. They were a patchwork group of old and young. Arnie, the youngest of the trio, was likely mid-twenties, around River’s age. Morgan looked to be late thirties with a thick blond beard and fluffy blond hair. He wore a deerskin vest over a long-sleeved black shirt and black pants. Wayne was the oldest, mid-fifties, Celeste guessed, clean-shaven, with striking blue eyes and a deep weathered tan as if he’d spent decades in the sun—a farmer, perhaps.

 

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