RIPEN
Harper
MY PHONE BUZZES ON THE nightstand. In my half-conscious state, I decline the call without bothering to check who the caller is.
But that’s fine, because it’s only the most persistent elderly serial killer in existence.
I swipe to receive Arthur’s second attempt and groan a gravelly hello into
my phone.
“Why are you asleep?” Arthur demands.
I check my watch, and then my phone as though the watch could be lying.
“It’s not even six in the morning, Arthur. You’re usually still snoring at this
time.”
“I never snore.”
“Tell that to the Christina Riccis.”
“Harper—” Arthur cuts himself off with a grumble of insults as I hold the phone away from my face and yawn. I catch something about an incompetent wretch as I wipe a hand over my eyes and stretch, then return my phone to my ear. “It’s July seventh. The first round of judging for the gardening competition is today.”
“The judges aren’t coming until one o’clock, Arthur. I already cleaned up the topiaries,” I say. And I did. It had taken me all afternoon. It was no easy feat trying to make every single one of them into reasonably ball-shaped balls. At least they don’t look like dicks anymore, I guess.
“I know that. They’re—”
Lopsided. Hideous. A curse on humanity. I’m prepared for all of the above, but what I’m not prepared for is “Magnificent.”
I sit up and run a hand over my disheveled hair, the shorter cut still foreign to me. “They’re just balls.”
“What are you talking about? I’m looking at them now. The moose—”
“Arthur, I say this with much love, but did you take the wrong medications this morning? Are you still asleep? Lucid dreaming, perhaps?”
“For Chrissakes, Harper. Just come see. And bring coffee. Not one of those watered-down lattes either. Bring the straight espresso.”
With that, he hangs up.
“Jesus Christ.”
I haul myself out of bed and pull on some clothes before heading downstairs to start my morning routine. Nolan’s already set up my stovetop espresso maker, just like he has every morning since he decided he was moving in. And always with a little note.
Good luck for today. Try not to send any foxglove pie to Sarah Winkle. ~N.
I snort a laugh, my smile fading to something more wistful as I run a finger over his simple pen sketch of a cluster of foxglove flowers next to the text. It wasn’t really the easiest night after hearing his concerns about my safety with Arthur. There were times when I wanted to hit back with sharpened barbs. You don’t know him like I do. You’re not from here. This is hard enough already. But the truth is, I do believe that Nolan is doing the best that he can. Even though the tension we didn’t express lies over us like a veil, something warm still blooms in my chest when I look down at his note.
It’s not a stalemate. It’s a push and pull of figuring out how we can all coexist on the same board when we don’t quite understand the game.
I fold the paper and slide it in the drawer next to the spice cupboard with the other notes I’ve stashed away.
Nolan weighs on my thoughts as I go through an abbreviated version of my morning routine while the coffee brews on the stove. When it’s ready, I pour the espresso for Arthur, making a rather shitty instant coffee for myself, then take them both with me to the back garden of the cottage where Arthur waits at the gate.
“You cut your hair?” Arthur asks as we walk toward the main garden of the estate. A little pang of dismay slides between my ribs, knifing me in the heart. He’s seen me multiple times already since I cut it, and I got my hopes up when he didn’t comment on it the last few visits. I thought it was old news. Something he remembered, even later in the day when he struggles with sundowning and his symptoms worsen.
“I did indeed cut my hair.”
“It suits you,” he says with a single nod. “Even though you clearly employed the hedge trimmer for the job.”
“Har har,” I reply as a devious little glint sparks within his cloud-covered eyes. “I see you’re in a spritely mood this morning.”
“Truly, I am. You created this masterpiece.” We stop at the edge of the manor’s garden. Arthur spreads his arms and slowly pivots, the wolf’s head of his cane snarling at the display of woodland creatures. There’s a bear and her cub by the main gate. A swan in the center of the circular drive. A fox sitting among the hydrangeas, watching a squirrel near the fountain. And in front of us, at the top of the hill, a majestic moose, just like Arthur wanted.
“You did an exemplary job, Harper. Truly exemplary.”
“I . . . ” That’s it. That’s all I can manage. A watery film settles over my vision. Arthur watches me as though I’m a malfunctioning machine. I pull my phone from my pocket and start drafting a message. I send a text to Lukas first.
Please tell me you’re the one who fixed all the fucked-up topiaries overnight . . .
And his reply is nearly immediate.
Was I supposed to?
I’m being serious.
So am I . . .
A strained whimper escapes my control, threads of my restraint snapping one by one. I sniff and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand before placing a call next.
“Hey,” Nolan says, picking up on the second ring. “You’re up earl—”
“Did you fix the fucked-up topiaries?” I blurt out.
“Uhh . . . well . . . that one at the top of the hill looked like a couple of cocks, and then after that a pretty sad-looking sack of balls, so I thought it might be best to replace it. Actually, I started working on it a while ago, when the pair of dicks were still in Demon Moose form, but who’s keeping
track?”
“You are.”
“Damn straight I am. My moose is a fucking masterpiece.”
Tears breach my lash line and I turn to face away from Arthur as he says my name like a worried question. “And the squirrel?” I ask.
“Figured it looked better than the melting trapezoid thing you made.”
“The fox?”
“Look, I think we need to work on your hedge-trimming skills. Maybe you can take a class. It looked downright satanic before you made it into another lopsided sphere. Which somehow also looked satanic.”
I laugh, but Nolan still catches the notes of distress buried in the melody.
“How?” I finally manage. “Why . . . ?”
“I roped in the Bobs for a little help. Bobby let me make them at his place, and Bert helped to truck them over. Bob spent the night replacing them with me. Many hands make light work, you know?” I can almost hear the shrug he probably makes on the other end of the line, that practiced nonchalance in his gestures when he tries to make it look like something is no big deal. “As for the why, I know how much the gardening competition means to you. I thought the new topiaries might make you happy.”
The topiaries don’t make me happy. Nolan makes me happy. Not just because he leaves me notes in the morning, or sets up my coffee, or spends however many hours carving a bush into a fucking squirrel because he knows it will mean something to me. It’s not just that he’s willing to have the tough conversations, to put himself on the line for me. It’s everything about him.
The dark. The light. The points at which they intersect. It’s even those goddamn murder dimples. It’s knowing how hard it is to earn his laughter.
The way it feels in my heart when I do.
I look up at that goddamn majestic moose, the morning sun cutting
through its antlers to spill across my tears, and I realize I’m in love with Nolan Rhodes.
“That . . . that was really sweet of you,” I manage, barely in control of my
voice. “I, um . . . th-thank you—”
“You okay?”
“Yep-gotta-go.” I blurt out, and end the call.
I stare down at the phone screen as it goes black. The words were right there, so sweet on my tongue I could taste them. I nearly told him—I wanted to tell him—but if I let them loose, how can I keep what I feel from being stolen? It was so easy once to say “I love you” when I didn’t realize that it was just as easy to be torn apart by losing the people who matter.
Every time I’ve said it out loud, I’ve lost it. I don’t think I can bear to lose him too.
My phone buzzes in my hand, tears dropping on the glass as I read the message.
I love you, Harper. Even if you can never say it back.
I press the phone to my forehead as the fissures in my heart split wider, and then I dissolve into a torrent of tears.
“Harper,” Arthur says, and I turn into the sound of his voice, laying my head on his shoulder as he wraps a frail arm around me and pats my back.
“My dear Harper. What’s wrong?”
I grip onto him, sobbing into his cashmere sweater vest. “I couldn’t stop
it.”
“Stop what?”
“Falling in love with him.”
“Falling in love with who?”
“Nolan,” I say, crying harder.
“Oh, the one from the theater. I was going to cut off his hands,” he says, and I nod against his shoulder. Somehow, it hurts even more knowing that he remembers. “Except, while he was holding you, you were holding on.”
Any control I had over myself spirits away.
He’s right. Nolan may have come into my life like a cyclone, but he’s also the light in the storm. The beacon I’ve held on to in turbulent waters.
“You’re scared,” Arthur says, giving me another fatherly pat after a long moment of letting me cry into his cashmere. “You have every reason to be scared. I was afraid too.”
“You’re not afraid of anything,” I say as I manage to control myself enough to lean back and look into his eyes.
“You know that’s not true. I was afraid of falling in love. I’m afraid of losing those memories. I’m afraid that I failed, that I didn’t do enough to protect innocent people, because I couldn’t find La Plume. I’m afraid that I’m becoming dangerous too. I’m afraid of losing myself every single day.” He lays a warm palm over the streaks of tears on my cheek. His lips thin to a taut line as he tries to control the shine gathering in his eyes. “I was afraid of loving another daughter when I’d already had one taken from me. I am afraid of forgetting you, my Harper.”
I grip onto Arthur’s upper arms. I can feel the bone. There’s hardly any muscle left there at all. I’ve seen the photos of Arthur when he was young. A lean, strong, force of a man. I can’t stop the slow, merciless march of time.
But I do make a promise I know I can keep. “If you do forget me someday, I’ll remind you. And I’ll never forget you.”
Arthur’s unsteady nod jostles a tear free of his lashes, sweeping with it any hold I just regained over my composure as he reels me into another embrace.
Maybe he’s gotten a little bit softer with time and his condition. But only so much. Arthur pulls away after a few moments. He clears his throat, his voice a gravelly rumble when he says, “Let’s get to work.”
With one last pat on my arm, he shuffles away toward the shed, leaving me to gather myself while he takes a minute to do the same. It takes longer than it should for him to rummage in the shed for the basket of gloves and garden clippers that lives by the door. When he returns, I feel like another bond has glued us together. Like something I’ve been missing has suddenly reappeared, though maybe it was always right within my grasp.
And then we do just as Arthur says. We get to work.
Arthur’s definition of “Let’s get to work” is actually more like, “Harper works while Arthur supervises and grumbles complaints.” But I enjoy every minute of having him out in the garden with me. I weed and prune and rake and mulch, and Arthur stays with me the whole time, talking about next
year’s plans and an even grander topiary display. By the time lunch rolls around, I’m confident we’ve done everything we can to secure our spot in the finals.
The first round of judging is always the easiest. It’s only the president of the gardening club, a congenial man named Don who seems to like Arthur, and a couple of the less-influential members of the town council. Really, it’s just to strike off any lackluster candidates so the mayor doesn’t need to judge fifty ugly gardens for the final round in August. Is your garden covered with weeds? No—you’re in. Is there dog shit on your lawn? No—you’re in. Do your topiaries look like penises? No—you’re definitely in, and realistically, you’d probably still be in if they looked like dicks. It’s over in twenty minutes, and when the judges are gone, I bring Arthur back into the house for a much-deserved afternoon nap in his recliner.
“You know,” Arthur says as I settle him into his chair, “I can still kill him if you want.”
I tuck the blanket around his lap and place his phone within reach.
“Who?”
“Mr. Rhodes.”
“I think I’m good, thanks.”
“You seem to like the hands, so I could cut him straight up the belly instead and you can keep them. I’ll even feed his entrails to that horrible vermin you call a pet.” Arthur’s brow lowers into a fierce glare. “Disease- riddled sky rat.”
“You’re a great friend.” I lean in and give him a kiss on the cheek. “Stay
away from my sky rat.”
“Take a shower. You need one.”
I skip away toward the entrance of the room. “Kick my ass with your Christina Riccis, why don’t you?” I say with a wink over my shoulder before I disappear down the hallway.
I’m already halfway to the foyer when he calls back a string of old- fashioned insults, my heart taking up more space in my chest than it did yesterday.
I spend a little time tinkering at the main house, doing things Arthur can’t easily do himself. Sweeping dusty cobwebs from the overhang of the
entrance and the old camera he rarely checks, replacing a light bulb in one of the sconces next to the door, filling a crack at the base of the foyer window.
When I finally get to the back garden, Morpheus is on his bird feeder, peeling a strip from a hunk of meat trapped beneath his claws. He gives me three knocking clucks in greeting, and I approach slowly enough that he lets me run my hand over the shimmering feathers along his head.
“Looks delish, murder bird,” I say as he pulls another bite free of his prize.
“Where’d you find . . . whatever that is?”
“Murder,” he says, my own voice reflecting back to me.
“Makes sense. Enjoy.”
With a final stroke across his feathers, I head into the cottage.
It’s strange, walking into this place now and feeling the absence of Nolan whenever he’s not around. The cottage has felt like home, but not truly my home. I have no claim here. I don’t even pay rent. When Arthur passes away, it could go up for sale for all I know, despite how he has said he’s added me to his will.
But somehow, since Nolan moved in, that changed. It doesn’t feel like someone else’s borrowed home. It feels like our home. Our couch where we sit and watch Surviving Love, Nolan pretending to hate my favorite couples until I use the tickle advantage to force the truth out of him. Our kitchen where we cook together and talk about the search and all the things that scare us. Our bedroom where he fucks me in the dark, tugging on my pierced nipples or slapping my ass or biting my flesh until I’m begging for release.
And every day that passes, the pull to tell him how I really feel only grows.
As I kick off my work boots and start toward the bathroom to take a shower, I think about what it would feel like to say the words out loud. But I hear a sound at the front door. I backtrack and jog to the entrance, unlocking it and whipping it open, expecting to see Nolan on the other side.
But that’s not who it is.
Sheriff Yates is standing on the doorstep, a Leatherman multi-tool clutched in his hand with the screwdriver open and raised toward me.
“Fuck me,” I say, pressing a palm to my chest. “You startled me.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss Harper.” He glances at the tool in his grip, lowering it
before closing the flattened metal spike and sliding the knife into its pouch along his belt. “I noticed your knocker was a little loose. Just thought I’d tighten it before it damaged the door. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
I look toward the brass lion’s head knocker; the ring clutched in the beast’s open mouth. I don’t remember noticing that it was loose. But then again, I never use it, and neither do most visitors. Maybe I just don’t get enough of them, or they feel like it’s too loud and antiquated to use. I give it a little push of my finger, but everything seems tight now.
“Thank you, I appreciate it,” I say with a brittle smile.
“Happy to help.” Yates removes his hat, running a hand over his short, graying hair. “Mind if I come in for a moment?”
“Umm, sure.” I open the door wider and take a step back from the threshold. “Nolan’s out at the search if you’re looking for him, though.”
His smile stretches, as though he’s trying to reassure me, but I get the sense that he somehow enjoys putting me a little on edge. In my four years in Cape Carnage, this is the first time I’ve been alone with Yates. Even though Arthur and I have talked many times about his fortunate incompetence at his job, it’s still unsettling to welcome the town sheriff into my home. “Oh, I know. It’s keeping him pretty busy.” Yates walks inside and assesses the living room. “For now, at least.”
He heads toward the chess set, indifferent to the arrow he’s just shot into my chest. The subject of Nolan’s departure from Cape Carnage crosses my mind often, but we don’t talk about it much, as though the search could just stretch on indefinitely to keep him here. If it doesn’t, what would that make us? A fleeting summer romance? A future long-distance relationship?
Another car crash waiting to take us to our starting point before tearing us apart?
“You play?” Yates asks, not turning my way as he looms over the board with his hands clasped behind his back. I get the sense there’s a point to this unannounced visit, and chess is not it. It’s like I’ve been dropped onto the board with him, and now I’m forced to play.
“I used to.” I swallow the urge to ask him not to touch the pieces when his fingers unlace and he reaches forward. But it’s not the chess pieces he’s after.
He picks up the box of palo santo incense next to the holder and sniffs it. “Do
you?”
Yates casts me a smile over his shoulder. “Once in a while.”
I give him a fleeting smile and nod, fighting the impulse to rip the box from his hands. Maybe he senses my irritation, or maybe it’s just coincidence, but he sets the box down. “Can I get you something to drink? I have coffee, water, a beer?”
“You know, I wouldn’t mind a beer. I’m technically off the clock this afternoon. It’s my anniversary. Gotta get out of this uniform and take Fiona out to dinner.”
“Congrats,” I say, heading to the fridge and taking out two of Nolan’s beloved Blackstone porters. “Heading to Nightfog?”
“You know it.” Yates nods his thanks as I open the bottle and pass it to him. He takes a sip, then holds it away from himself to examine the label.
“It’s good beer. Tennessee brewery, huh?”
“Yeah. Nolan’s favorite.”
“Well,” he says, taking another sip. “Boy’s got good taste.” Yates gives me a brief smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Speaking of Nightfog, I’m sorry if I put you in a tricky spot with Rhodes the other day when I mentioned I thought Jake had taken you there.”
I take a small sip of beer, using the brief reprieve to gather my thoughts.
I’m pretty sure Yates is going to rally around the topic of Jake if he’s bringing up his name again, and unease churns in my guts. “It’s fine, he
wasn’t bothered.”
“You sure?”
No. Not at all. “Yeah.”
“Rhodes seems protective of you . . . ”
I take a seat in the armchair as Yates lowers to Nolan’s favorite spot on the couch. He looks so wrong sitting there. Too official. Too unsettling. But Yates leans back against the cushions like it was his spot all along. “You
think so?”
“You don’t?”
Of course I fucking do—he’s fucking obsessed. And I love it.
I shrug beneath the weight of Yates’s assessing stare. “Never thought about it, I guess.”
Yates nods, but it’s not a nod of agreement. He’s either disappointed by my noncommittal answer, or he doesn’t believe me. Maybe both. “No chance you’ve remembered anything more from your conversation with Jake when you saw him, is there? No idea where he was going, or what he was doing?”
“Nope,” I say, feigning disappointment. “Sorry.”
“Damn boy couldn’t keep himself out of trouble. First the DUIs, then the Peeping Tom shit. What a waste.” Yates’s focus shifts from the chessboard to me. “Did you know about that?”
“I knew about the DUI,” I say, swallowing down any lies I’m tempted to make in a mouthful of bitter bubbles.
“Well, let’s just say I’m glad you wound up with a nice boy like Rhodes.
Still . . . I hope Hornell either magically turns up from a weeks-long bender, or that the search parties find something. I’d like to get at least one thing buttoned up around here.” He sighs deeply, as though this is all just an inconvenience to his summer fishing routine. “Damndest thing, isn’t it?
People falling off cliffs and drowning in the sea. That bloody Meschino wacko stabbing me in the shoulder after killing Mr. Porter. No sign of Evanston, or McMillan, or Hornell. And this Mahoney guy—I’ve been working with the police departments in a few neighboring counties, but nobody can seem to find any trace of him. Other than a criminal record of some creepy behavior with women in a few other states, anyway.”
“Well, at least when it comes to the missing, Nolan is very experienced,” I say as Yates rubs his fingers across the lines etched above his brows. “I’m sure something will turn up soon.”
Yates nods and gives me a faint, exhausted smile. “His boss sure does speak highly of him. He’s been very generous to let Rhodes stick around and help us out. I’m sure they’re eager to get him back to work, given the season and all. We should be getting him on his way home in a few weeks, I hope.”
Yates raises his bottle to me as though in a toast, maybe one to my cracking heart. “You think you’ll stay together once he goes?”
I take a sip of my beer just to keep myself from smashing the bottle over Yates’s head. I want to tell him it’s none of his goddamn business. Of course I don’t, but I do give him another honest answer in reply. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah, I get it. Those long-distance relationships can be a killer.” When I
meet his eyes, Yates gives me the essence of a sympathetic smile. Maybe he knows that his words hit like a knife between my ribs. Maybe he doesn’t. But he twists the blade all the same when he says, “How’s Arthur doing with his Alzheimer’s symptoms? Max mentioned that Lukas is looking at some care home options for him.”
“He’s doing fine, thanks,” I reply. “Better, actually, since his hospital stay.”
Yates gives a low whistle, and he shakes his head before taking a long pull from the bottle. “Can’t imagine Arthur Lancaster in a care home, that’s for sure.” He chuckles, his eyes sliding my way. They look almost the same shade as mine in this light, and for some reason, I find that disquieting. “I imagine he’d keep the other residents and the staff there entertained. He sure would have some stories to tell. He’s seen it all in Cape Carnage.”
“Yeah . . . he’s been around a while.”
Yates grins, and this time, it seems to light up his irises with a spark that often seems absent. “Sure has. Tell him not to worry about these investigator types nosing around here. If they come around again, I’ll keep them busy.”
His expression suddenly turns somber. “Shame about his daughter. Don’t suppose he comes to the cottage much?”
“No.” I put my bottle down on a coaster, watching the condensation pool at its base as I spin it in a slow circle. “He does not.”
“Figured. Probably for the best, seeing as how I don’t think Rhodes is much of a fan of the old man. Well”—Yates sets his bottle down, then slaps his knees and rises before I can ask him what he means—“I’d best be going.
Got a hot date with Mrs. Yates, after all. Thanks for the beer.”
“Any time.”
My heart seems to settle its attempts to jump into my throat as I stand and follow the sheriff to the door. Part of me wishes I could text Nolan to tell him about this exchange. But another part knows the road I would set him down if I did. I doubt Sheriff Yates would survive the night, and then chaos would truly descend on Cape Carnage.
“Say,” Yates says as he pulls the door open. “Is there any chance I could borrow that woodchipper of yours for a few days? I’ve got the hitch on the truck—I could take it now, if you don’t mind.”
My heart redoubles its efforts to crawl out of my mouth. “Uhh . . . it’s PTO-driven, not gas-powered.”
“That’s fine,” he says with an untroubled smile. “I can just borrow Bert’s tractor. Got some deadwood I need to mulch.”
“Sure. Let me just check with Arthur. I think he wanted me to get rid of the failed topiaries we just replaced.” The lie rolls off my tongue, but I’m worried Yates still could have caught every brief hesitation in my voice, every note that seemed out of place. Especially when this entire visit has left me unnerved. He’s seemed more observant than I thought he could be. More . . . sharp, as though he’s a predator that wounds its prey but isn’t ready to kill. Yet. “I can let you know as soon as I’m done.”
Yates puts his hat on and gives me a nod, his lips stretching just a little farther to reveal the blunted points of his canines. “Appreciate you, Harper,” he says.
With a tip of his hat, Yates walks away.
