Falling for You Read online

  “Are you at the inn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll tell him to bring Charlotte there. Thank you so much!”

  They disconnected, and Willow settled behind her mom’s computer at the work alcove situated along a wall of shelves containing cookbooks, platters, cake stands, photos, and tea sets. She’d calm her mind by pulling up the inn’s reservation system and browsing through the upcoming week’s bookings to make sure the scheduled guests had received their confirmation emails.

  Ten years ago her mom had leveraged a great deal of good taste, money, and hard work to turn what had once been Bradfordwood’s dusty old dower house into an inn.

  The two-hundred-acre plot of land that had been in their family for generations had been christened Bradfordwood long, long ago. In all that time, only two structures had been built on the family’s acreage: the historic brick home Willow and her sisters had been raised in, and the flat-fronted, Colonial-style dower house with its glossy olive green door.

  The five-bedroom dower house had been constructed of limestone in 1890 and nestled within deep woods adjacent a creek. This corner of the property was far enough away from the great house that the inn boasted its own separate entrance road.

  When her parents decided to spend two years in Africa as missionaries, Willow had immediately volunteered to run the inn until the manager her mom had hired could relocate his family to Washington. She’d been in control of the inn from early May all the way through to today, September twenty-third, and would continue to manage the inn until Thanksgiving.

  Her parents and sisters had been celebrating her for her generosity, but the truth was that she’d needed a break from the pressures of modeling. And she’d needed the inn.

  Somehow, taking care of this place—making breakfast and afternoon cookies, interacting with the guests, overseeing the reservations and billing—had helped fill a portion of the yawning hole in her life . . . a hole that she’d been wanting and waiting and praying to one day fill with a family of her own.

  Willow popped up from the chair and made her way to the bathroom to check her appearance. She had on her usual fall uniform of jeans and tall boots. Today she’d paired them with an ivory cashmere sweater and wide gold earrings. Peering into the mirror, she swiped a tiny dot of mascara from the skin below one eye. Yeesh, her hair looked flat. She finger-combed the loose waves that fell past her shoulders, then applied a fresh coat of sheer pink lip gloss. Makeup was armor, and if she had to face Corbin, she needed armor.

  Within the inn’s den, she switched on the automatic fireplace that anchored the space. Beams straddled the width of the ceiling, and muted rugs cozied up the ambiance. Four conversation areas filled the large space, two of which were currently occupied by guests.

  In the years since her romance with Corbin, forgetting him had been challenging. Since she’d seen him at Grandma’s party, forgetting him had been excruciatingly challenging. Memories of him intruded with torturous persistence, like bubbles from the bottom of an icy glass of Sprite.

  She struck a match and was using it to light the candle that smelled like mulled cider when a knock sounded at the door. Defensiveness tightened like a fist around her torso.

  She’d tune Corbin out. She’d tune him out and concentrate on the girl. Willow genuinely wanted to help the girl.

  When she opened the inn’s front door, she forced herself to meet Corbin’s gaze. “Hello.”

  “Hello.” His brown eyes were guarded. “I’d like to introduce you to my niece, Charlotte Dixon. Charlotte, this is Willow Bradford.”

  “Hi, Charlotte. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Charlotte gave a muffled squeak. “Wow. It really is you.” She stared at Willow with a painful mix of fear and hope.

  What must it be like to be young enough to wear those emotions like badges for everyone to see? Willow was thirty-one. She’d gone into modeling at the age of nineteen and hadn’t worn an emotion like a badge since that day, except when in front of a photographer.

  Charlotte, who was clasping a polished wooden box, looked very small next to Corbin’s large frame, even though she was probably the same height and maybe slightly heavier than other girls her age. Her body appeared to be gathering mass in order to shoot her upward soon.

  She had murky gray eyes and a soft rectangular face threatened by acne that, mercifully, hadn’t yet decided to get serious. She wore a long-sleeved hoodie with the name of her church across the front and gray leggings stuck into Ugg boots. Her startlingly beautiful hair fell forward over one shoulder.

  Willow led them inside. Almost immediately, the occupants of the den recognized Corbin. She could hear the proof of it in their quiet murmurs and feel it in the weight of their attention. Corbin Stewart drew attention the way light drew moths.

  Corbin took the leather love seat near the window overlooking the front drive. Willow and Charlotte settled in the two overstuffed chairs directly opposite. Charlotte carefully positioned the box on her knees.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Willow asked.

  “Yes—I mean . . .” Charlotte shook her head and giggled self-consciously, flashing a set of silver braces. “No. Please. I mean, thank you. Sorry! I’m a little nervous to . . . to be around you. I didn’t think I would be. But I am.”

  “It’s all right. Corbin? Can I get you anything?” Arsenic perhaps? Willow’s attention flitted to him.

  “No. Thank you.” He wore a navy sweater and jeans. Blunt clothing.

  Willow had seen him in person for the first time years before when he’d sauntered into a Sports Illustrated photo shoot featuring philanthropic pro athletes, models, actors, musicians, and business magnates. She’d been holding a to-go cup of coffee by its protective sleeve in that moment. Golden sunlight had bathed the studio. His legendary status had whisked around him like a spell.

  He’d been very relaxed that day. His sense of humor, charm, and easy confidence had worked like a balm on all of them. He’d won over every person in the place, including cautious her. She’d had no idea then that the quarterback with the irresistible smile would become her downfall.

  His face was leaner and more angular now than it had been then. He still wore his brown hair, which had a tinge of auburn to it, cut close to his scalp.

  Corbin wasn’t fairy-tale prince handsome. No, all six feet three inches of him was uncompromising veteran athlete handsome. He was thirty-five now, and the fact that he’d grown better-looking over the past four years struck her as grossly unfair.

  Charlotte cleared her throat. “Thank you very much, Ms. Bradford, for letting me come over. It’s really nice of you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Everyone in Merryweather and Shore Pine is really proud of you. I’ve followed your, you know, career for years and read everything about you I could find. I like how you’ve been a really good role model for kids.”

  “Thank you. That means a lot to me.” Guilt burned within her as she said the words because she was not as good a role model as she wished she were—as Charlotte, and even Willow’s own family members, believed her to be.

  Charlotte blushed. “Sure. It . . . it’s so cool to know that someone who grew up around here went on to become, you know, famous. You’re the first famous person I’ve ever met.”

  “The second,” Corbin corrected.

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Football players don’t count.”

  “I agree,” Willow said to Charlotte. “Why should football players achieve fame just for running around a field with a ball?”

  “Exactly!” Charlotte said.

  Corbin snorted.

  “Is it okay with you if Uncle Corbin stays and listens?” Charlotte asked. “I didn’t tell my mom what I want to talk to you about, but she knows Corbin brought me here to meet you. He’s the reason I got to come and . . . Anyway!” She dashed a lock of hair behind her ear.

  “I still think you should let a family member in on this, Charlotte,” Co
rbin said.

  Willow maintained eye contact with Charlotte. “It’s up to you.”

  “I’ve decided that I’m cool with him listening,” Charlotte said. “He has good ideas sometimes.”

  “Am I allowed to talk or am I only allowed to listen?” he asked, amusement edging his voice.

  Charlotte giggled. “You can talk a little. I guess.”

  “My sister told me that you’ve discovered a secret you want to tell me about,” Willow said.

  Charlotte nodded.

  “Does the box have something to do with the secret?”

  “Yes. My grandma and grandpa, my mom’s parents, live in Shore Pine like we do. My brothers and I spend the night at their house sometimes. You know, like when my parents decide to go on a date or whatever.”

  Willow nodded.

  “We spent the night with Grandma and Grandpa a few days ago. I couldn’t fall asleep, so I got up and picked out a book. See, Grandma keeps books for me in the closet of the bedroom where I sleep. There was also a quilt on one of the shelves in the closet and I thought, ‘Cool, I’ll read with it in bed.’ When I took down the quilt, I saw this on the shelf behind it.” Charlotte rested a hand on top of the box. She’d painted her short nails pale blue. The polish on two of her nails was starting to chip. “I looked inside and saw that there were letters and pictures and stuff in it. So then I set it on the bed and looked through everything.”

  “And?” Willow asked.

  “Everything inside this box is about a woman who disappeared in 1977. She was twenty-eight back then, and her name was Josephine Blake. She’s my grandma’s older sister. My grandma’s the middle daughter. And then they have a younger sister. But see . . . my grandma and my mom and everyone else in my family have always told me that Josephine died.”

  Willow worked to get the family relationships Charlotte was describing aligned correctly in her mind.

  “I’ve always known about Josephine,” Charlotte continued. “They talk about her, and there are pictures of her around my grandma’s house and stuff. But they said she was killed in a car wreck. Whenever I’ve asked about the car wreck, though, they get really awkward. They never want to talk about what happened to her.” She scrunched up her nose. “I thought it was weird, and now I know why. They were lying. Josephine didn’t die in a car wreck. She’s missing.”

  “Is it possible that she died in a car wreck shortly after she went missing?” Willow asked gently.

  “No. There are articles in this box from, like, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the day she disappeared that talk about how her case has never been solved.”

  “Ah.”

  “And here’s what’s really creepy.” Charlotte’s eyes pleaded with Willow to understand. “My name is Charlotte Josephine. And she looks just like me.” Charlotte opened the box and handed Willow a black-and-white photo.

  The photograph appeared to have been professionally taken, perhaps for Josephine’s college graduation. The woman in the image wore an off-the-shoulder black shirt and pearl earrings. She’d parted her long, dark hair on the side and teased it up at the crown. Her eyes danced. Her wide smile spoke of adventure and confidence and optimism.

  Just looking at this picture was drawing Willow in against her will. She had no connection to Josephine—

  No, that wasn’t quite true. Willow was also the oldest of three sisters, just as Josephine had been. They had that in common.

  What had happened to this young, beautiful woman? Did Charlotte’s mother and grandmother know the answer? Had they decided to keep Josephine’s fate from Charlotte because it was too tragic to share with a child? Or had Josephine’s disappearance remained unsolved for more than forty years, as Charlotte seemed to think?

  Willow glanced at Charlotte. The girl was caught squarely in that tenuous tween stage. However, she could glimpse Charlotte’s adult face playing hide and seek beneath the layers of youth. One day Charlotte would have strong, pretty features very much like those in the picture. Charlotte and Josephine had the same dark hair, the same nose, the same face shape.

  “You’re right.” Willow passed back the picture. “I think you will look a lot like her when you grow up.”

  Charlotte extended the photo to Corbin. Willow deliberately avoided looking at him as the two made the exchange, though avoiding him didn’t seem to be helping. He was taking up a disproportionate amount of the room’s air and space and heat. She’d been talking with Charlotte and gazing at Charlotte, and still Willow was unbearably aware of his presence.

  So much for her plan to tune him out.

  “I’m, like, obsessed with all the stuff that’s in this box,” Charlotte told Willow. “There are pictures and newspaper articles and letters. I’ve read and looked at everything in here about six hundred times.”

  “Have you talked to your grandmother about this?” Willow asked.

  “No. I put the box in my sleepover bag and brought it home with me. I haven’t even told her I have it yet.”

  “What about your mom and dad? Have you talked to them?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “They’ve all been lying to me. I wanted to talk to you first. So you could give me your advice because I know that your family has, you know, been through something sad, too.”

  Willow’s stepmother had been raped and murdered when Willow was only two. The Bradford family had been living with the reverberations of that ever since. “My family’s experience has taught me that it’s important to have all your questions answered, so that you can understand what happened and then move on from there. So my advice to you is to sit down with your mom and grandmother and have a long talk with them about Josephine. Your grandmother probably knows all there is to know about what happened to her older sister. How does that sound?”

  “Kind of okay.”

  Willow waited. She could tell the girl was trying to work up the courage to say more.

  “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I’ve decided that I’m going to find Josephine.” Charlotte’s words rang with the determination only people who’ve yet to be knocked around by life possess. “I wanted to ask you if you’d be willing . . . I know this is a lot to ask . . . but I wondered if you would help me, Ms. Bradford. Find Josephine.”

  Willow’s heart sank. She didn’t want to disappoint Charlotte, but that’s exactly what she was going to have to do.

  Willow was a caretaker at heart. Thoughtful and measured. Even back in elementary school, she’d been an old soul. Nowadays, she was more than mature enough to say no when necessary, to have forthright conversations, to deal with personal and professional disagreements, to set boundaries, and to make difficult choices. That didn’t mean, however, that she enjoyed doing those things. She didn’t.

  She enjoyed harmony. She loved it when she could answer another person’s request with an unqualified yes. “I don’t have any experience at finding missing people,” she said.

  “That’s okay. You don’t need experience. Um, I don’t know a lot about missing people and disappearances and stuff like that, either. But I know that I’m supposed to find her, and when I saw the date that Josephine went missing, I knew for sure that God wanted you to help me.”

  “When did she go missing?”

  “On April twelfth,” Charlotte said. “Your birthday.”

  Goose bumps rose like a fated chill, like a tingling whisper, on Willow’s skin.

  Charlotte plucked the topmost newspaper article from the box. “There. Look at the date.”

  Shore Pine resident Josephine Howard Blake hasn’t been seen since the morning of Saturday, April 12, Willow read. Josephine had indeed vanished on Willow’s birthday, years before Willow’s birth.

  The yellowed newspaper clipping included a photo of Josephine wearing a strapless white terry cloth romper. She stood near a picnic table with a river and hills in the background. Her head was tilted slightly to the side and her lips rounded up at the edges. With her curvy body and lustrous hair, she looked like a poste
r child for good health.

  Willow scanned the rest of the article. “I wish that I could help you with this, but I can’t. I’m so sorry. I’m sure that the police, who are trained to handle cases like Josephine’s, have already done everything that could be done to find her. I don’t think there’s anything I could add.”

  Charlotte’s shoulders slumped.

  “I’m only in Washington,” Willow continued, “to run the inn for a few more months, I’m afraid. I’ll be leaving right after Thanksgiving.”

  Charlotte peered at her with beseeching confusion.

  Willow groaned inwardly. Devastating the hopes of a child had not been on today’s agenda. Or any day’s agenda.

  “I understand,” Charlotte said at length. “Do you think . . . Would it be all right if we—you and me—keep in touch? ’Cause what if I need to ask you a question or something?”

  “Charlotte,” Corbin warned.

  “I’d be happy to give you my email address.” Willow had three email addresses, all used for different purposes, all with varying levels of privacy attached. “Will that work?”

  “Yes! Please. That would be great.”

  “I’ll go to the kitchen and jot it down for you.” Willow pressed to her feet.

  Corbin immediately stood. “May I have a word with you?” he asked.

  No! Not a single word.

  Charlotte, who’d remained seated, looked back and forth between them.

  Willow inclined her head in acquiescence because she didn’t want to shoot him down in front of Charlotte. No doubt Corbin had anticipated that, which is why he’d asked in front of the girl. Cad.

  “Wait for us here?” Corbin asked Charlotte.

  “Sure.”

  “You can do whatever it is girls your age do when they’re alone for a few minutes. Play patty-cake?” he teased. “Jump rope?”

  “We watch YouTube videos on our phones,” she informed him.

  “Bold choice, puppy. Way to be different.”

  Willow could feel Corbin behind her as he followed her down the inn’s central hall to the kitchen. Once they reached the space, she steeled herself and faced him. An audience of modern appliances, granite countertops, and the scent of allspice surrounded them. The two yards or so of hardwood floor separating her position from his may as well have been a continent.