Whisper Falls (5 page)

But who was the mastermind?

There was no way it would've been Alexis. If she'd plotted revenge, it would've been cleaner, meaner, and more obvious. And she would've never involved Susanna. Alexis didn't like to share the spotlight with other girls.

Keefe? He was as determined as I was to place first in our age division at the race in July. He was capable of trying to weight the odds in his favor. Carlton might've been right. Maybe Keefe hired Susanna. Not that something like this would gain the advantage he hoped for. It would just piss me off enough I'd try even harder to beat him.

However, there were three major problems with Keefe as mastermind that I couldn't overlook.

First, the timing. Two months in advance was insane. It gave me plenty of opportunity to shake off the prank.

Secondly, the girl. Susanna was an odd choice for an actress. She'd been a statue with hardly any change in emotion.

Lastly, no way was Keefe smart enough to figure out the water. That was a great trick—the way it felt pouring over my skin. Slick. Warm. Much warmer than creek water should be. And it had lifted me twice and returned me to the rock wrapped in a tingling cocoon.

The water was
not
faked.

A car whizzed past me, so close its side mirror almost brushed my hand. While I'd been lost in my thoughts, traffic had picked up on the back roads. There were some aggressive drivers today. Without bike lanes, I couldn't afford to be distracted. I had to focus.

Today's goals were endurance
and
avoiding jerk drivers.

Two dangerous close calls later, I circled back toward home. But instead of taking the most direct route, I headed for the greenway and Whisper Falls. Might as well check to see if there were any signs of a prank.

It was quiet this early. A light rain had fallen overnight. I slipped down the muddy trail and locked my bike against a tree. The waterfall looked postcard perfect.

Heart pounding, I edged along the rock bridge behind the falls from my side to hers. Standing in the same spot where my mind imagined she'd stood, I saw nothing unusual. The rocks within the cave were undisturbed, the moss heavy and green. No one had walked here recently, not even a crazy girl with dorky clothes and a rare-but-beautiful smile.

On impulse, I yanked off my gloves, stuffed them into my pocket, and slowly poked a hand through the water. No sparks. No glittery coating. It was wet, transparent, and normal.

I withdrew my hand, feeling stupid. This was Whisper Falls. I'd been here hundreds of times. It was water pouring down. Plain, old, boring water. Not some bizarre portal to the past.

Why had I come here again?

I climbed on my bike and headed home, done with the falls and the girl. The scene hadn't been a prank. And it couldn't have been real.

So what had it been?

This was the first time I could remember wishing a bang to the head had caused hallucinations.

* * *

After showering and changing, I pounded down the stairs to the kitchen. My mother stood at the island, dishing up a plate. She handed it to me. “I made you breakfast.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Two scrambled eggs. Whole wheat toast. Peach jam. Fresh blueberries. It was the perfect balance of protein, carbs, and delicious.

Honestly, this surprised me. I talked about my ideal training breakfast occasionally. I just hadn't realized she listened. Maybe she was emerging from the empty-nest thing, and it was my turn to be adored.

I shoveled it down. She watched from the island.

“Mark?”

Her voice had a hesitant tone, as if she were about to ask me something I wouldn't like. Which meant this breakfast came with strings attached. The question was, how big?

“Yeah?”

“Your grandparents could use some help with their yard.”

That seemed simple enough. Was there more of a catch? I finished a mouthful before answering. “I talked to Granddad yesterday. He didn't mention anything about needing help.”

“He didn't ask. Your grandmother did.”

Maybe Mom wanted me to spy on her parents. She worried they were too old to live at the lake house on their own. It sure didn't seem like it to me. “When should I go over?”

“Soon.”

Vague was good. If she left it up to me, she couldn't get mad if it took me a few days. I definitely couldn't do it today. My schedule included an afternoon training ride. And if there was any daylight left, I might take another look around the falls.

The Granddad Rescue could be Friday, which would give me plenty of time to warn Gran I was coming. Which would give her plenty of time to fix my favorite cake. Yeah.

“Sure, Mom. Mowing and everything else?”

“Just everything else. You'll insult your grandfather if you mow…”

Granddad would be insulted no matter what I did.

“…and don't take any pay.”

I looked up from my plate. She had to be kidding, right? Did she honestly believe her parents wouldn't force cash into my hand? Or that I would refuse to take it? Really, one of the best parts of having grandparents was how much it pissed off my mom when they spoiled me.

I smiled. “I promise not to
ask
for money.”

“Good. If you see anything—” She cut off in mid-sentence when her cell phone rang. She snatched it up, read the caller ID, smiled, and answered. “Hi,” she said in the low, happy tone she used with my dad. She hurried out of the kitchen into the dining room.

While I finished my breakfast, I could hear her going through a pattern of speaking and silence. By the time I put my plate in the dishwasher, she had returned to the kitchen.

“Here,” she said, handing me the phone. “Your father wants to talk to you.”

“Hey,” I said, “what's up?”

Dad's voice was quiet. “Can your mother hear you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Go somewhere else.”

I took the stairs two at a time and went to my bedroom. “Okay, I'm alone.”

“How has your mother seemed recently?”

“A little edgy. Quiet.” Exactly as I would expect without Dad or Marissa around.

“One of her favorite patients died.”

“Wow. She didn't mention that to me.” When my mom took the hospice nursing job, she'd said she was a good fit because she was so calm and objective. Maybe it was turning out to be harder than she anticipated.

“Your mom is pretty upset. Can you take her out to eat somewhere tonight and just hang out?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“Thanks. I'll pay you back.”

“Not necessary.” I hung up and walked back downstairs to hand the phone to my mom. But I didn't ask about dinner right away. Too obvious. I could call her later.

Time to change my plans. Tonight, instead of visiting the falls, I'd investigate the girl online. If she ever showed up again, I'd be ready.

I had not liked losing my break Tuesday evening. Over the next two days, I strived to be the most pleasing servant possible, lest my master find some excuse to deny me more hours of peace.

I made it to supper of yet another day with no corrections.

The Pratts lingered over their meal. Sitting in my corner, I stitched buttons to my master's green waistcoat and swallowed my sighs of impatience. When my master finally retired to the parlor with his family, I collected the dishes and hurried to the kitchen.

It took little time to complete my chores. After scraping the excess stew onto two trenchers, I washed the dishes and swept the floor. Once I gave Hector his half of the supper, I would be free to go. I peered from the back door in the direction of the barn, but there was no sign of him.

I carried the trencher to the slave's shack. It was empty. After setting the wooden dish on a stump inside the door, I strode to the barn.

“Hector?” I called.

“Yes?” He backed out of the horse's stall and latched it behind him.

“I left food in your room.”

He nodded. “Going for a walk in the woods?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?” He smiled, one eyebrow arched.

“Yes. Jedidiah is too busy to follow this evening.”

“Tomorrow, then.” Hector didn't get an evening break, although I had never heard him complain. Perhaps he didn't share my need for solitude. Hector spent most of his time alone already.

I slipped unseen among the trees at the rear of the property and strolled along the banks of Rocky Creek. Would the stranger appear tonight? Would such a gentleman want the company of a girl in the laborers's class?

Spurred on by a mixture of curiosity and excitement, I stopped at the falls and climbed down the cliff. When I reached the cave, I looked across the creek to the other side. Mr. Lewis's side. The woods were dark and dense.

Crouching, I ventured into the cool, shadowy depths of the cave. My heart settled into a gentler pace as I perched on a mossy boulder and waited.

There was much to love about my hideaway. In front of me, the waterfall murmured, lulling me with its song. For a brief while, I could sit without moving, without talking, without doing anything for anyone.

Time passed. He didn't come.

As the light faded, my disappointment grew. I hadn't realized how much I hoped he would come until he did not. It robbed the evening of its pleasure.

It had been the same yesterday. For two evenings now, I had sat alone. I must accept what this meant. His reason for coming the first time had passed, and there was no further purpose to bring him here. Mr. Lewis would not return.

Upon reflection, I had to conclude this to be a fortunate circumstance. Truly, the young man and his odd machine didn't exist. My imagination had taken flight. Or perhaps it had been spoiled chicken.

I rose to leave.

A flicker of movement appeared at the top of the slope. I hesitated, hope blooming.

Mr. Lewis rolled down the path, tied the machine he called a “bike” to a tree, and picked his way across the boulders. As he drew nearer, he peered through the falls.

Today he wore different clothes. Trousers of a heavy, blue fabric. A yellow shirt with a row of buttons and sleeves stopping high about the elbows. He looked fine.

“Susanna?”

I stepped forward, schooling my face into calm welcome. “I am here.”

He smiled. “Hey.”

A simple word.
Hey
. I was unaccustomed to it. Might it be a shorter version of
hello'?
Perhaps it was a new greeting they used in our state capital. “Hey.”

He extended his fingers to the waterfall, but couldn't pierce it. Withdrawing his hand, he met my gaze. “Are you real?”

“I believe so.”

“Will your hand go through the water?”

“I shall try.”

Creeping as close as I dared to the rock's edge, I held my fingers under the flow. It was the same as Monday. A warm glove bubbled around my hand. For yet another meeting, the falls would serve as a barrier between us, as surely as if they were made of liquid glass. It was a reassuring prospect, for now.

“Okay, I have some questions for you.” From his pocket, he drew out a flat piece of black slate, no bigger than a folded letter. He stared at it with a frown. “Who is the current governor of North Carolina?”

“Mr. Ashe.”

“When was North Carolina admitted to the Union?”

“I was eleven. 1789, perhaps.”

He nodded. “How many states are there?”

“Fifteen.”

“Sixteen.” His gaze flicked up to meet mine. “Tennessee was admitted in 1796.”

“I have not heard this news.”

He touched the slate. “Yeah, it was admitted on…June first.”

“And today is June third.”

“Right.” His lips twitched. “News travels much faster in my world.” He slipped the slate into his pocket. “I'm glad you showed up.”

His statement filled me with a pleasant glow, even as I marveled at its honesty. In my village, people rarely spoke so openly. I never did. A frank opinion could become a weapon in the wrong hands.

It must be quite lovely to say whatever he wished without caution. I wanted to try. “Do you truly accept that we are separated by over two hundred years?”

“It's either that, or someone slipped me some really good drugs.” He studied the falls, starting at its top, along its arching path to the creek below. “Nobody I know could've passed that quiz. It was too random. I don't think we have the technology to fake the water—not yet, anyway. And I'm pretty sure I'm not crazy. So I'll just have to go with ‘Whisper Falls is a portal to the past.' For now.”

His words made no sense. This undoubtedly strengthened his case. I gave him a nod. “I want you to be real. Therefore, I shall question no more.”

“I like your logic.” He laughed. “Do you come here every night?”

“As often as my master permits.”

“Your master?” His eyes narrowed. “Are you a slave?”

“Indeed not.” How curious. He knew little about our laborers if he could mistake me for a slave. “I am bound.”

“What does bound mean?”

Even more curious. Perhaps they no longer bound children when he lived. “I'm an indentured servant.”

He looked down, as if to ponder the tips of his odd black shoes. “Indentured? I thought that was only for criminals.”

Did he think me a criminal? The comment prickled. I couldn't let it pass. “No, indeed. Indentures are for anyone who…” I paused. Indentures were a common way for parents to reduce the number of children in their household. My stepfather had had no interest in the expense of feeding me. Five months after their wedding, my mother's husband bound me to the Pratts. It was one of the last things he ever did, for shortly thereafter my stepfather died. It would embarrass me to admit to this gentleman that my mother had married someone who gave me away. “An indenture may be signed for anyone who wishes to learn a trade.”