More Than a Memory

Jo surprised herself by saying, “This isn’t my first visit to the valley.” When it seemed as if Kendra was waiting for her to elaborate, Jo added, “But I was here so long ago everything seems brand-new.”

Kendra put down the flowered pillow she’d been plumping. “White Oak Valley seems stuck in slow motion to me. But given the changes we’ve made to this house, it probably looks a lot different from when you were last here. Well, I’ll let you get settled in. If you need anything, just let me know.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. I may hike into town for dinner and make it an early night. The mountain air has sapped my energy.”

Kendra nodded. “If you’d rather not walk to town, Jim can fix you a sandwich. We have lemonade or iced tea. You can eat on the veranda, in the breakfast room or up here. Our hope is that guests will consider Buttercup Cottage a temporary home.”

“No need to put your husband out. I know there’s a café on Main Street. Is that the extent of places to eat in White Oak Valley?” Jo hoped not. She wasn’t looking forward to a second encounter with Mildred.

“There’s Logan’s Pub, but you’d have to drive there. It’s at the opposite end of town from us. They serve steak, chicken and great burgers, which all come with their signature coleslaw and steak fries.”

Wasn’t that just her luck? “That seems like more food than I had in mind. I think I’ll accept your offer of a sandwich and iced tea. I’ll bring in my suitcase and then come down and enjoy a peaceful evening on the veranda.”

Kendra beamed. “Jim will be thrilled to serve our first customer. Anytime you want breakfast tomorrow, poke your head in the kitchen. Once we get full up we’ll set more structured meal times. Until then, we’ll operate on a looser schedule. I’ll hear if you go out. I’ll freshen your towels and make up your room then. Eventually we’ll hire staff, but for now it’s just us.”

“That sounds fine to me.” Jo left to collect her things from her car. Two vehicles, a car and a pickup, passed as she retrieved her bag and her violin from the trunk. It seemed to her that both drivers slowed and were staring at her. But maybe she was paranoid. Buttercup Cottage did sit on a sharp curve. It was why she’d slowed for a closer look. Yep, she was paranoid.

Kendra met her at the door and held it open for her. “Let me run your things upstairs. Jim said if you’ll take a seat at the wicker table, he’ll bring a tray right out. Ohh, do you play the fiddle?” Kendra asked excitedly when Jo passed her the case. “Logan’s Pub features a bluegrass band on weekends.We go every chance we get.”

“I play violin,” Jo corrected. “I’m a concert violinist. As a matter of fact, if it won’t disturb you, I should do a little practicing. I won’t if other guests check in.”

“You go right ahead. Practice to your heart’s content. Did you notice the piano in the sitting room? Jim plays when I beg him. We want guests to feel free to use it, too. Maybe you guys could knock out a duet while you’re here.”

Jo smiled, thinking how much more appealing that sounded than Jerrold’s proposed solo European tour. In the past her practice schedule hadn’t allowed her to cultivate friendships. She almost wished she could stay in White Oak Valley and be friends with Kendra Rowan. Then Jo remembered the stir she’d caused at Logan’s Pub. That put a damper on any thoughts of staying.

Jim Rowan wheeled onto the porch through a sliding door Jo hadn’t noticed when she sat down. “Kendra didn’t ask if you preferred roast beef or a tuna sandwich,” he said. “So I made you a half of each.”

“I like both. Thank you so much,” Jo said, watching him unload the metal tray neatly clamped over the arms of his wheelchair. “It’s a lovely place you have here.”

“Yeah. There were times I didn’t think it would ever come to pass. I’m happy to break in easy with one guest to start. Don’t know how you feel about being my guinea pig.” He grinned and his white teeth flashed in his freckled face. His sandy hair was still cut military short, giving him a boyish look. In reality he was probably a few years older than Jo’s twenty-five, she thought as she joined in his laughter.

“If this is homemade bread, I’ll gladly be your guinea pig,” she said, taking her first bite.

He appeared more than satisfied with her response, and whistled as he motored off, leaving Jo to eat in solitude. She lingered over a refill of tea, watching fireflies dance above a gurgling creek that flowed past the side of the cottage. When mosquitoes found her, she carried her empty plate and glass into the kitchen. She retreated to her room, where the unfamiliar silence threatened to overwhelm her. Taking Kendra at her word, Jo pulled out her violin and tuned the strings. Her mother said this well-used instrument had been Joe Drake’s sixteenth-birthday gift to his daughter. It bothered Jo that she had no recollection of that birthday or any other. No holidays or special events before coming to in the hospital. She’d missed celebrating her nineteenth birthday because she’d been in the coma.

Settling the violin under her chin, Jo tested the bow, tightened it, then plunged into Tchaikovsky’s “Serenade for Strings.”When life got too complicated, she tended to lose herself in the mellow, flowing sounds. Still, she was shocked to see the bedside clock showing midnight when she stopped playing because of aching wrists. Jo couldn’t have named all of the pieces she played after Tchaikovsky’s “Serenade.” One had blurred into another. However, she felt calmer and knew she would sleep.

The next morning, Kendra glanced up shyly when Jo peered into the kitchen as instructed.

“You play like an angel,” Kendra said with awe. “I’m not well versed in chamber music, but I cried listening to you play. You make your violin weep.”

She ushered Jo to a table in the dining room set for one. Gleaming white china and polished silver graced snowy linens. A single red rose in a slender bud vase added formality to the setting.

“You should have said you were famous,” Kendra went on. “After we heard you play, Jim searched your name on the Internet. Mercy, you let me go on and on about Jim’s injury, when you had your own recent tragedy…losing your mother so suddenly.”

Jo’s stomach tumbled. “Where did you read about me?”

“An article in yesterday’s Boston Globe had an interview with a patron of the philharmonic orchestra, Jerrold somebody, who called you the best violinist of this decade. He said you’re touring with a prestigious European orchestra this summer, but you’ve taken time off from performing in Boston to grieve for your mother. Shut me up, but why White Oak Valley? We’re so the back of beyond.” Kendra dropped her voice. “Is it a man? Has to be, to make you play such heartstopping songs. Your music last night sounded sadder than sad.”

Her host’s fluttering about made Jo nervous. “My coming to Tennessee is nothing so cloak-and-dagger. And I’m not that famous,” she added dryly.

Jim Rowan motored out of the kitchen. He slid two delicious-looking strawberry crêpes onto Jo’s plate. From his tray, he unloaded a small bowl of whipped cream and a steaming pot of tea. “Pay Kendra no mind. My wife has a vivid imagination. She’s hooked on romantic suspense novels, so she’s always looking for love and intrigue. We’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything,” he said, pointedly grabbing his wife’s hand to drag her away.

Jo let them go before she tucked into the rich breakfast. She could strangle Jerrold. She’d dumped dozens of his calls from her cell last night. Her story was newsworthy and might make a good book, she conceded, but he had no right to speak about her without permission. Kendra would be disappointed that there was no romance involved. Jo’d never had time to cultivate a man’s friendship, let alone think of romance.

The front door opened as she sipped her tea. Her seat gave her an unobstructed view of the woman who entered the foyer. She was of medium height and her light brown hair curved artfully around her narrow face. Jo noticed the dour expression, because the woman’s hazel eyes narrowed on her. Feeling a bit as if she’d been caught with food on her face, Jo reached for the napkin she’d had draped across the knees of her oldest jeans. Another reason to feel uneasy. The woman studying her like a bug under a microscope was impeccably dressed in heels and a flowery spring dress.

Gripping an envelope purse, the newcomer hurried across the floor until she stood in front of Jo. “So the rumor’s true. You are back. There’s a lot of speculation as to why, Colleen. I’m happy to see you didn’t die, but if you’ve had second thoughts about dumping Garret, forget it. You had your chance with him, and you screwed up. Now it’s my turn. In fact—” she wiggled her left hand “—I intend to be wearing Garret’s ring by the end of the arts and crafts fair. We’ll be on our honeymoon by the start of the Mountain Music Festival—if that’s what’s brought you back to the valley.”

“What…who…?” Jo was too stunned to do more than croak. A tiny window in her brain cracked open long enough for her to know this wasn’t the first time she’d met the brunette. Then the window closed with a snap, leaving Jo gaping after a total stranger. A stranger who departed as quickly as she’d come.

Jo half rose, but the screen door shut before she could get to her feet. She sat again and heard an expulsion of breath that she knew hadn’t come from her. Glancing up, Jo saw Kendra and Jim hovering in the kitchen doorway.

“Who…was that?” Jo asked.

“Jaclyn Richmond,” Kendra said. “A local artist. She came by the day Jim’s dad put up our outdoor sign, asking if we’d display some of her paintings in our rooms. I guess she wanted us to sell them. But her work was too modern for our Victorian decor. Mrs. Applegate at the corner grocery store said Jaclyn used to be married to a football player, but the marriage fell apart. Now I hear she’s running after Garret Logan.”

“She seemed to know you,” Jim said, interrupting Kendra’s prattle.

Kendra wasn’t done, however. “Why did she call you Colleen? You signed our register as Jo Carroll, and that’s the name we used to find you on the Internet.”

Sighing, Jo folded her napkin, and decided it was time to trust them. “It’s a long story, or a short one, depending on how you view it. I can’t answer your question, Kendra.” Jo stood up. “I was in an auto accident seven years ago and have holes in my memory. Jaclyn Richmond and others in town may know more about me than I do. I came here hoping to learn about my past. It seems not everyone seems happy to see me.”

Kendra slid a hand onto her husband’s shoulder and studied their guest with troubled eyes. “If you need friends you can count on Jim and me. This is a very tight community and it can be hard to break in. There are somewho consider us outsiders even though Jim’s grandparents lived here a long time and his dadwas born here.”

“Thanks. But I should probably check out and find a room somewhere outside White Oak Valley.”

“We want you to stay, don’t we, Jim?” Kendra nudged him.

The man in the wheelchair caught and kissed his wife’s hand. “Kendra’s very stubborn when it comes to getting through tough times. She says stay, and I agree with her.”

“I will, then,” Jo said. “I appreciate your generosity. I really hope to straighten everything out in a day or two. With your blessing, I’ll get right to it.”

Chapter Three

ON THE OTHER SIDE of town from the Rowans’ B and B, Clare Logan knocked on her son Garret’s kitchen door. His dog, Domino, a black-and-white spotted hound, barked and jumped up to bat the glass, but there was no response from Garret. Clare shifted the load she carried and, after a sharp command for the dog to sit, let herself in. “There’s a good boy,” she murmured as the hound sniffed her shoes, whined, then padded over to his empty food dish and gave her a pathetic look. “I see your master has fallen down on the job this morning. Let me check on him, then I’ll get you some kibble.”

“Garret,” she called again, “it’s Mom. I’ve brought homemade breakfast rolls and black coffee.” Clare set the still-warm rolls and the thermos on the granite counter. She tsked over the lack of any sign that Garret had eaten the night before.

Making her way to the living room, she wasn’t surprised to find her youngest son passed out on his leather couch, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. His left hand was wrapped limply around a half-empty bottle of Bushmills that rested on the floor. Grimacing, she took away the bottle, capped it and unceremoniously rolled Garret off the couch onto the hardwood floor.

“Cripes,” he yelped, coming alive. “Can’t a man get peace and quiet in his own home?” He tried levering himself up on both elbows, but groaned and fell back flat. He flung an arm over his eyes to protect them from the bright morning sunlight as his mother threw open his drapes.

“Dad and I heard from all three of your brothers last night. They said you tossed them out of here so you could wallow in self-pity. I was willing to let you mope for one night. Now it’s time to buck up and display a little Logan pride.”

Clare stowed the whiskey bottle in an otherwise empty portable bar, spun back toward her son and settled her hands on her hips.

“Go away,” he groaned. “Can’t you all see I just want to be left alone?”