The Stillwater Bay Collection (Books 1-4): Stillwater Bay Series Boxed Set Page 11

  “I’m sorry, Charity. But as far as I’m concerned, you should never have to set foot in that school again.”

  “I can’t believe you. This isn’t about you. It’s about me going to my school, seeing my friends, and learning to live life again. Unlike you who doesn’t want to live at all,” Charity mumbled before she ran back up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door.

  Jenn winced as the sound echoed through the house.

  2

  CHARLOTTE STONE

  Sweat dripped down Charlotte’s face as she bent over, hands anchored on her knees while she struggled to breathe. She’d killed it today, and it felt good. Great even. She reached for the towel at her feet and wiped her face and neck before standing up straight and stretching. The sounds of the buff fitness instructor on the television screen congratulated her for an excellent workout as Charlotte reached for her water bottle and gulped it down.

  She needed that. She’d let her workouts slide in the past few weeks, and it showed. Her patience was thin, her energy low, and she was starting to get fidgety. But after this workout, she felt good. Sore, but good. Energized even. As if she could handle anything that came her way.

  She made her way up the stairs, taking two at a time, not ready to let the burn leave her yet, and poured a cup of freshly brewed coffee. She’d bought new beans yesterday and ground some up before heading down for her workout. The aroma of those beans still filled the air, and she knew it would be a good cup of coffee. Exactly what she needed.

  She picked up the mail she’d set to the side yesterday and sorted through the abundance of letters that still came in. Letters from various students and families from Stillwater Public School, and even from people who didn’t live in their town but had been moved by the tragedy, as if it had touched them personally. All letters Jordan rarely opened, let alone read.

  She flipped through all the envelopes and set aside the three addressed to Jordan with childish lettering. She didn’t understand his hesitation when it came to opening them. Stacks of similar letters filled a shoe box in her office, so many letters praising Jordan for his heroic acts and describing how his selflessness saved countless lives. She still teared up when she read the ones from the younger students thanking him and calling him their hero.

  He was a hero. She knew it. The town knew it. The world knew it. But sadly, she didn’t think Jordan realized it.

  The sliding door off the kitchen opened, and a cool breeze wafted around her ankles. Charlotte set the letters down and glanced over her shoulder to see her husband standing at the door, his back to her, while he banged his running shoes together to get rid of the sand. His navy running shirt and shorts were drenched and so was their dog, Buster, who plopped down on their back deck with his tongue hanging out.

  “Looks like you two had a good run.” Charlotte took a sip of the strong coffee before she set her cup down on the counter and poured some for her husband.

  “You should come out sometime with us,” Jordan offered his obligatory request, same as he did every morning.

  “Maybe next time.” The words were automatic, but they both knew she’d never join him. Running was his thing. Not hers.

  Jordan grabbed his coffee, placed a kiss on her cheek, and made his way to the guest bathroom where he always showered off.

  Charlotte hated to clean a trail of sand throughout the house, so when they built the guest addition to their home a few years ago, she made Jordan start cleaning up in there after his runs.

  While he headed downstairs, she went upstairs to their bed- room and had her own shower. Afterward, with her hair still wet, Charlotte took her coffee into her office. She needed to get a head start on today. She planned to go to the public school, where Jordan served as principal, and then spend the day there with the students and any parents unwilling to leave their children alone.

  Not that she blamed them. Her hands shook slightly as she sank down in her desk chair and reached for the Stillwater News, the weekly paper that was little more than a gossip column for the town. She’d been worried about the front-page article and even asked Arnold Lewery, the editor of the paper, to let her take a peek at what he’d written, but ever since the media had swarmed their town and refused to leave, Arnold had become tight-lipped about what he featured in the paper.

  In the beginning, almost every article he wrote, whether it was a piece about one of the families affected by the event or a new development, he’d been scooped by one means or another. Their town had become overrun with media within hours of the shooting, and they still couldn’t walk down Main Street without a microphone being stuck in their faces or the knowledge they might see themselves on the evening news.

  They’d managed to hold a few special town meetings without alerting the media presence, and it became quite evident that everyone, including Arnold, expected her to fix the mess they were in with the media and to shelter them from prying eyes.

  “Staying Strong” read the title on the front page. Charlotte was pleased to see the image she’d submitted via e-mail to Arnold last week. She was glad he used it. There’d been too many images of the school ensconced with police tape, memorial flowers, and weeping parents. This photo, taken last year right before the annual summer parade, featured welcome banners, balloons, and children’s play centers set up at the school for the summer party. Starting at Stillwater Public, the parade always made its way down Second Bridge, across Main Street, and then up First Bridge until everyone joined together back at the school for the festivities. She hoped the image would help the town remember the good things about Stillwater Bay and not the sad, horrific event that had torn them apart.

  She knew not everyone was on board with the school reopening. She’d had more than enough parents complain and demand that the school stay closed, and while she attempted to understand their pain and knew they only spoke out of fear, she had to look past the emotional impact of the school shooting back in May and look to their future.

  She was determined that today would be the first of many steps their town needed to take to move forward past the ugliness of what had happened.

  Charlotte flipped through the paper, reading the letters to the editor and the small-town gossip, and almost missed the short article written about Julia Berry, the mother of the shooter. She set the paper down on her desk and leaned back in her chair. Her heart went out to Julia. If anything, what had happened was as much Charlotte’s fault as anyone else’s, including the mother of the sixteen-year-old shooter.

  From day one, everyone knew Gabriel Berry had bad blood in him. He was that boy who was always in trouble. The moment he stepped foot into a store, all shop owners knew to keep their gaze on him. She’d lost track of the number of times she learned from the town sheriff’s weekly updates that Gabe Berry had been escorted home in the middle of the night after deputies found him hanging around the local cemetery. Who lurked around a graveyard in the middle of the night? It wasn’t natural, people said. No matter what anyone did, how they reached out to him, it never seemed to matter.

  Since the shooting, Charlotte couldn’t shake the feeling that all of them shared responsibility for failing to help Gabriel. The blame couldn’t be directed at any one person, no matter how much the media tried to do just that.

  She glanced down at the article again: “One Bullet, One Boy and One Mother.”

  A shiver ran down her spine as she read the lie in that headline over and over and over.

  3

  JENNIFER

  Jenn tugged the edges of her housecoat tighter as she sat outside on her back deck.

  She felt guilty for not taking Charity to school. Not enough for her to change her decision, but enough that she knew she’d handled the situation wrong. Jenn couldn’t imagine she was the only parent not okay with the school being opened; no doubt there must be others. What were they doing this morning? Had they argued with their kids as well, or had it been a mutual decision?

  It was the beginning of summer. Thanks t
o the spring rain, the grass was a vibrant green, flowers were blooming, and the trees were full of chirping from the birds nested there. Where had the time gone? Maybe she could talk Charity into helping her with some baking today. They could watch a movie together, eat ice cream, and then meet Robert after work for dinner at Fred’s Tavern. No doubt her daughter was up in her room, headphones over her ears as the music blared, anything to pretend her mother wasn’t around. She knew this because it’s how Charity had acted the past few weeks.

  She would either be at her best friend’s home or in her room. Anywhere and everywhere, except with her mom.

  It hurt, but Jenn was trying to give Charity the space she needed. And, if she were to be completely honest, Jenn hadn’t minded the space herself. It meant her life was quiet without any expectations, other than when Robert needed her.

  Hiding, withdrawing inside herself, that was how she was coping. If coping was the right word to use.

  A lone sailboat sat out in the bay today. Alone, engulfed in silence. Jenn wished she could do that, jump on a boat and set sail, away from all the prying eyes, all the mundane words that meant nothing to her. Alone with her thoughts, with the ability to remain numb without the condemnation from her family and friends.

  Life wasn’t fair. God was cruel. And yet, none of that mattered. She was still expected to place one foot in front of the other, to move forward with her life, even when all she wanted to do was bury herself in grief beside the son she’d lost.

  Robert’s voice whispered in her head. You’re still a mother.

  Jenn pushed herself up from her chair and headed back into the house. She refilled her coffee mug, adding an extra shot of Baileys, and noticed that the bottle she had bought only last week was almost empty. She stood there in her kitchen, unsure of which direction to go. Back to bed? Watch a movie? Have a bath?

  Or talk to her daughter.

  Her feet moved toward the steps as her decision was made. Her counselor had told her to take it one moment at a time.

  And in this moment, she needed to be a mother to Charity.

  As she slowly climbed the stairs she thought about what she’d say when she opened the door. How would Charity respond? Would she still be upset? She was a thirteen-year-old with mood swings; for all Jenn knew, she could be asleep already.

  She knocked on Charity’s door and waited. She couldn’t hear anything from behind the closed door, so either she had her headphones on or she was asleep. Jenn knocked again, this time louder, but there was still no response. So she opened the door and peered inside.

  The room was empty. Charity wasn’t in the bathroom either. Jenn ran down the stairs and looked through the house, walking through the rooms, but she was alone. At the front door she realized Charity’s running shoes and schoolbag were gone.

  Her fists clenched at her side as the sudden onslaught of anger filled her. How dare she!

  Jenn grabbed her cell phone and purse, reached for her keys, and called Robert as she made her way to their garage.

  “Do you know what she’s done?” Jenn said the moment Robert answered his phone.

  He sighed on the other end. “I had a feeling she would.”

  “You had a feeling?” Jenn’s words were clipped as she held the phone up to her ear and backed out of her garage. “You had a feeling but didn’t bother to say anything to me about it?”

  “Why should I? You’re the one who is home. I told her not to go to school today, that I’d come home early this afternoon and we could do something together.” Robert’s voice heated in anger. But she didn’t care.

  Then his words hit her.

  “I’m the one who’s home? What do you mean by that? I asked you to stay home this morning.” She paused as something down the street caught her attention. “Crap. I can’t handle this right now.”

  “What’s wrong?” The Bluetooth function took over, and her husband’s voice filled the SUV. Jenn set the phone down and shook her head. She wasn’t ready for this. Not yet.

  Stillwater Bay was a small town. Nine months of the year the population maxed out at just under three thousand, but in the sum- mer months, from June to the Labor Day weekend, their numbers doubled and sometimes tripled in size, thanks to their proximity to the bay and premium real estate. The landscape on top of the cliffs held million-dollar summer cottages with billion-dollar views.

  “The Andersons are here. I don’t have their basket made up or anything,” Jenn muttered as she drove past their house. There were only five houses on their street, with two facing the bay, one facing the island the town of Stillwater sat on, and two backing onto the golf course. Out of all those houses, Jenn and her family were the only ones who lived there year-round.

  “Are they early?”

  “Of course they’re early.” She turned left and headed down First Bridge Street. Two bridges led into their town. The double bridges not only added to the quaintness of their town but also made it special. Ahead of her, in the distance, was her daughter, walking on the sidewalk.

  “Found her.” The tight band across her chest loosened, and she felt like she could breathe again. Her anger drained as she drove toward Charity.

  “You’ll take the basket over later, right?”

  Robert’s words didn’t click at first. Baskets. Andersons. Keeping face despite their mourning.

  “Of course I’ll take over their precious basket. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I overheard your talk with Charity the other night regarding the baskets.” There was doubt in his voice.

  “Then you would have heard my answer.” She hoped the exasperation in her voice was loud and clear.

  Every word she’d spoken that night to Charity about the bas- kets was for Robert’s benefit. She’d already had this discussion with him and even suggested having someone else do the baskets, someone like his secretary for instance, but he wouldn’t hear of it. It wouldn’t be the same, he’d argued. People would think we aren’t coping, he’d said.

  “People expect the baskets. It’s a tradition. From our home to theirs. It’s a small way to let them know they are wanted in this community, that they matter—”

  “It’s your way of saving face,” Jenn had mumbled. But Robert had heard.

  He’d turned to her, placed his hands on her shoulders, and squeezed. “We can either let what happened destroy us or strengthen us.” He had then placed a kiss on her forehead and walked away.

  The other night she’d been in her office going over her lists, making sure she had enough supplies on hand for these baskets. Charity had stood there, in the doorway, not wanting to come in and help.

  “Why do you have to do the baskets? Why can’t someone else?” Charity muttered as Jenn counted the baskets in her cupboard.

  “Like who?” Jenn had responded. “Everyone in this town has been affected by what happened. It wouldn’t be fair of me to ask someone else to take on something I love doing.” Or used to love. She wasn’t ready to be social, to put on her happy face.

  She drove up close to Charity and, with a push of a button, rolled down the passenger window.

  “Need a lift?” The anger she’d felt earlier when she realized Charity had disobeyed her paled thanks to Robert’s inquiry regard- ing the baskets. Which was probably a good thing since this really wasn’t a battle she needed to fight with her daughter.

  “Are you mad?” Charity stepped toward the SUV but didn’t open the door. She hefted her schoolbag over her shoulder and looked around.

  “More like disappointed. Come on, I’ll drop you off.”

  “I’m sorry,” Charity apologized as she got in. She dropped her schoolbag down between her legs and buckled up.

  “It’s not okay to take off without telling me,” Jenn sighed but didn’t drive forward. She wanted to have a talk with Charity about this, and the drive to the school would only take two minutes at the most.

  Thankfully, her daughter had the decency to look contrite.

  “I know. It’s just
that Amanda and I had plans, and we promised Principal Stone that we would help out with the younger grades.”

  “I see.” Jenn wasn’t too happy to hear that last bit. “When did you talk to Principal Stone about this?”

  Charity fiddled with her fingers. “Well, I didn’t, but Amanda did. I think.” She shrugged. “We talked about the idea at least.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier? When I asked?” “Would it have mattered?”

  Silence was Jenn’s only reply.

  As they made their way over the bridge and passed through the downtown area, Jenn kept her attention focused on the road ahead of her and not on the small crowds of people who lined the side- walks, waving at the vehicles as they passed with banners and signs. “Why are they doing that?” Charity scrunched down in her seat as if to hide herself. Jenn understood the feeling. She noticed Samantha Hill, the lone reporter left from the outside world, in the crowd. For over a month, massive throngs of media had swarmed their town. Once the funerals were held and things quieted down, most of the media had left. All but the one reporter from UCN.

  “Mom?”

  “I think they just want to offer you guys support.”

  “That’s kind of nice, right?”

  Jenn nodded. Sure, it was nice.

  “I didn’t expect so many people to be here.” She glanced over at the school parking lot, on the corner of First Bridge Street and Pelican Street, where the only school in town was located.

  “There’s Amanda. Can you drop me off here?”

  Jenn pulled over to the curb and turned her blinker on. She was thankful she didn’t have to drive closer.

  “I’m going to hang with Mandy after school, okay?” Charity unhooked her seat belt and opened the passenger door.

  “That’s fine. Love you,” Jenn called out. She wasn’t sure if Charity had heard her since she slammed the door, but she did give her a small wave. Jenn watched her daughter link arms with her best friend and walk toward the school together.